“She disappeared twenty-five years ago.”
“That shouldn’t make her much more difficult to find.”
“Really?”
“People tend to leave traces behind. Especially if they’ve been together with Sven Johansson.”
“You’d better tell me everything you know.”
“Will that be enough to satisfy you?”
“I have a few more names,” Winter said.
44
A child’s shoe lay in the grass along the water’s edge. The shoe was filled with rocks, as if the intention was to make it sink. It could have been lying in the water for a month or more, or less. It could belong to anyone and no one, but Winter knew.
They had found a lot, but nothing belonging to a child until now. The discovery had been made north of the promontory that narrowed into a finger that pointed out the spot where they should look.
Winter felt a dread, frozen sensation that took partial control of his faculties. They ought to break off the dragging before they all went insane. What would the shoe be followed by? He saw the faces of the men and women, and they all said the same thing: that the girl lay down below.
Louise Keijser was sixty but looked older.
“I’m grateful you could come, Mrs. Keijser,” Winter said.
“It was the least I could do. If I had known…”
Winter said nothing. He waited for her to sit down in the chair.
“If I had known. I’m almost glad that Johannes isn’t alive.” She took out a handkerchief and dried the corners of her eyes. “I was so sad on the train.”
“How old was Helene when she moved out?” Winter asked.
“Eighteen. When she came of age. We didn’t want her to go, but what could we do?”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“It was-it was several years ago. Before she had a child.” She took out her handkerchief again. “I didn’t know about it. But perhaps I already mentioned that.” She blew her nose cautiously. “The little girl looks like Helene. Not the same hair, but otherwise you can see that it’s the sa-How awful. You know nothing more? About the girl?”
“No,” Winter said. “We can talk about that later, but right now I’d just like to ask you about Helene. Is that all right?”
“Yes. Certainly. Excuse me.”
“How long did she live with you, as part of the family?”
“It was just Johannes and I-but nearly three years. I’ve brought records with me, if you’d like to see them. From social services and the like.”
“Three years,” Winter repeated. “And not much contact after?” He made his voice stable, calm. “You said it’s been a number of years since you last heard from her.”
“Yes. It sounds strange, of course-awful-but that’s how it was. We tried but she, she didn’t want anything to do with us.” She raised her handkerchief to her face again. Winter could see small specks of black in the corner of her eyes where the thin mascara was being dissolved by her tears.
“Can you describe your relationship with Helene when she was living with you? How did you get along?”
“Well, I always thought she was a very special girl, with her background and everything. But we always got along well. She was very quiet, of course, and sometimes Johannes tried to bring up, well, what had happened, but she wasn’t up for it, really. It was mostly Johannes who tried. For me it worked better to have that silence in the house.”
“First she moved to Malmo,” Winter said. “That much we know.”
“Yes. It’s not that far away, and we saw each other a few times. But it was never very good. We tried to invite her over, but she didn’t want to come. She came once, but it was as if she had never been in the house. It was strange-or it sounds strange anyway-but somehow that sort of fit in with how she was.”
“She then moved here, to Gothenburg,” Winter said. “She lived at three different addresses in Gothenburg.”
“We never received a moving card. Not when she moved away from Malmo. We tried to call her, but she didn’t have a telephone.”
“No.”
“She didn’t like telephones. She didn’t want to speak on the phone. Don’t ask me why, I’m no psychologist, but you might find something about it in the files there.”
“What files?” Winter asked.
“The evaluation that the child psychologists carried out on her, or, rather, that they started to. I don’t think they ever really followed through with it.”
“We’re waiting for that material.”
“You won’t find it under Andersen,” Louise Keijser said.
“No.”
“Her name was Dellmar back then. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Her name was Dellmar when she lived with us too. I don’t know when she suddenly became Andersen. Do you know? Do the police know?”
“A few years ago. She changed her name four years ago.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Maybe when she had her baby? Is the father’s name Andersen? I mean the father of Helene’s little girl. Her name’s Jennie, isn’t it?”
“We don’t know that either,” Winter said. “That’s why we’re asking so many questions.”
“The father’s unknown? How awful. And he hasn’t been in touch with you?”
“Not yet.”
“How terrible. That’s just what happened with Helene. She had to grow up without knowing who her father was.”
“Did you talk to her about it?”
“About her father? No. She didn’t want to, or else she couldn’t. I don’t know how much you know about her problems-her clinical picture or whatever you call it.”
“I’m listening,” Winter said.
“As I recall, Johannes and I were the third foster family. I’m suddenly a little unclear on that point. But she had gaps in her memory from when she was little, and when she would recall something it would cause her a great deal of distress, and then it would disappear again, as if it had never been there. She was very much alone in that sense. Alone with herself, or however you want to put it. We tried to help her, but it was as if she was surrounded by gauze.”
“Didn’t she ever talk about what had happened to her when she was little?”
“Never. And nothing about what happened afterward either-that is, after she ended up in the care of others.”
“She never asked about her mother?”
“Never. Not that I heard, or Johannes either. Of course, you can ask someone else, but we never spoke about it. I don’t know if she knew.”
