The Shadow Woman

by Ake Edwardson

  “I’d just parked,” Jakobsson said.

  Winter wondered how the man had managed to drive a car around for months without getting stopped. He’d never had a driver’s license. The car belonged to his brother, who seldom drove.

  “When was that?”

  “When was it I parked? Last month. Unless it was the end of the month before that. At the same spot in the parking lot where I was standing this time. Maybe a luck—”

  “What were you going to do?”

  “Do? I was going to do some shopping.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Terningen supermarket. My brother wanted some snus, so did I, and a loaf of bread and some potatoes.”

  “Okay,” Winter said. “You’ve just locked the car and are about to walk away from it. What happens then?”

  “She comes up to me after I’ve turned around and maybe taken a step or two.”

  “You didn’t see her before?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see this woman after you parked but before you got out of the car?”

  “No. Not that I remember.”

  “So you got out of the car and took a few steps. What happened then?”

  “Like I said. She came up to me with that damn envelope.”

  “She had an envelope?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “What are you asking about that for? You already have it for Christ’s sake. You took it from the glove compartment.”

  “Did it look like this?” Winter held up a white A5 envelope. “Go ahead and take it.”

  Jakobsson held it in front of him. “It’s the same size, but this one was brown.”

  “She came up to you, you say. You say she had the envelope. Could you see it? Was she holding it out in the open?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “She asked me if I wanted to make a little cash. Well, she didn’t say ‘a little,’ come to think of it—she just asked if I wanted to make some cash.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I guess I must have just stared at her.”

  “Describe what she looked like.”

  “There wasn’t a lot you could see. Black sunglasses and a hat, so I couldn’t see any hair, but she wore a shirt and pants. That’s what I remember.”

  “Was she white?”

  “What do you mean, white?”

  “What color skin did she have? Was she white or black?”

  “Well, she wasn’t a black person, if that’s what you’re asking. She had a tan, I guess, but the shades were so big they covered almost her whole face.”

  We’ll have to return to this later, Winter thought. He’s got more to tell us about her appearance. “What did she say?”

  “I just told you, she asked if I wanted to make some cash.”

  “What did you answer?”

  “Nothing. I stared at her like a fucking idiot. It’s fucking creepy, someone just popping up out of nowhere like that and handing you an envelope.”

  “What did she say then?”

  “She said that I could make some cash if I did her a little favor, and then she told me what it was—that I was to go to the post office at the end of every month and pay this rent and write down the number of the apartment. That was it.”

  “What was the envelope for?”

  “That’s where the money was, for Christ’s sake. And a paper with the depo—direct deposit number and the other number.”

  “Where’s that slip of paper now?”

  “I threw it away.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I remembered the number. I have a good memory for numbers, see. And of course I wasn’t so stupid as not to realize that it had to be something a little shady. In which case you shouldn’t hang on to any little slips of paper. Never keep slips of paper—that’s my motto.”

  Jakobsson looked as if he was going to smirk, and Winter felt the skin tighten around his scalp. He was full of impatience, but he kept it suppressed beneath the calm that was necessary for him to be able to make it through the interrogation.

  “Say the number,” Winter said. “The direct deposit number.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a good memory for numbers, right. You said earlier that you had to pay two rents and that you had received five thousand for your trouble. Then you must remember the number.”

  “Three rents,” Jakobsson said, “and I got ten thousand. Talk about a memory for numbers, huh?” He looked at Cohen, who nodded. “This guy doesn’t even remember if it was two or three rents.” Cohen nodded again.

  “Okay,” Winter said. “Let’s hear the direct deposit number, then.”

  Jakobsson stared at the tape recorder. The air-conditioning droned, and finally he cleared his throat. “Damn it, it’s this interrogation. It makes me nervous. It’s not so strange. You don’t even remember how many rents it was.”

  “You don’t remember the number?”

  “Sure I do, just not right now. I have to pay another rent, don’t I? Then I gotta remember.”

  “Where is the money?” Winter asked, well aware of the answer.

  “Are you kidding me? You think I’ve got it in the bank?”

  “So where, then?”

  “Spent, Mr. Chief Inspector. Consumed, you might say. And a long time ago.”

  “What was the number you were supposed to write on the payment slip at the post office?”

  “What?”

  “You were supposed to write another number too. What was it?”

  “I’ll know it when I’m standing there.”

  “You won’t be standing there anymore.”

  “No. But you know what I mean. When I have to remember, I do. It’s kind of like this motto I’ve got.”

  “Do you have any idea what this is about?” Winter said, edging closer to the table.

  “Nobody tells me anything.”

  “This is about murder and kidnapping.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “You’re involved.”

  “How the hell can I be involved? What did you say—kidnapping? Murder? What the f—You guys know me, well, not you maybe, but ask some of the other officers in the building. Go on! How the hell can anyone think that Oskar Jakobsson would be involved? Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Where’s the slip of paper?”

  “I told you I threw it away.”

  “Where?”

  “In the garbage, for fuck’s sake. At home.”

  “When?”

  “When? Ages ago. When I got the stuff from the woman.”

  Winter decided to reveal something else to him about the reason for their interest, and at this Cohen stood up and went to get some coffee. Jakobsson then said he was dying for a smoke, and Winter took out the pack of Princes he had bought and handed it to him, lighting Jakobsson’s cigarette and a Corps for himself.

  “I might have it at home,” Jakobsson said.

  “So you didn’t take it with you when you were going to pay the rent at the post office? You’ve got to help me out here a little,” Winter said.

  “Okay, okay. I threw it away afterward.”

  “You threw it away? When?”

  “After I paid it. There was a wastebasket in that room you walk through before you get to the section with the service windows. I threw it away in there.”

  “Why did you throw it away? You had another rent to pay.”

  Jakobsson exhaled and gazed at the smoke rising to the ceiling.

  “Why did you throw it away?” Winter repeated.

  “Okay, okay. I didn’t have to pay any more rents.”

  “You didn’t have to pay any more rents?”

  “I said, no. You were right before, although you didn’t know it. I only had to pay two rents.”

  “Are you telling me the truth now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should we believe
you now?”

  Jakobsson shrugged his shoulders.

  “I guess ’cause of what you told me,” he said. “That’s some heavy shit. That’s not something you want to be involved in, hell no.” He looked around for an ashtray, and when Cohen nodded to a plate where some buns had been, Jakobsson flicked off a long pillar of ash. “I’m not involved. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Why are you lying about this woman, then?”

  “What the fuck is this now? I’m not lying, am I?”

  “You told us that she came up to you when you got out of your car. Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You stood there facing each other, and she handed you the envelope and made you this offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Oh for Chri—How many times do I have to tell you? She asked if I wanted to make some cash and do them a favor at the same time.”

  “Them?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘them’ now. What do you mean by that?”

  “I did? I don’t mean anything.”

  “You don’t want to help us, Oskar. Should we break it off here and continue when you’ve had a chance to think it over?”

  “I don’t need to think it over.”

  “You want to continue?”

  “You’re asking and I’m answering. That’s how it always is. Ask me a good question and I’ll give you a good answer.”

  “This isn’t a game,” Winter said. “There’s a four-year-old girl somewhere out there who may still be alive, and we’ve already wasted a lot of time.”

  She wasn’t five. They’d been able to establish that Jennie was four and a half.

  Jakobsson was silent. The cigarette butt lay crumpled in the dish. Winter held his extinguished cigarillo in his hand.

  “How this ends might depend on you,” Winter said. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Can I have another cigarette?”

  Winter handed Jakobsson the pack and let him light one himself.

  “Everybody knows that I would never have anything to do with murder,” Jakobsson said. “Everybody knows.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill the woman?”

  “What the fu—”

  “Just tell us and you’ll be doing us both a favor.”

  “Oskar Jakobsson a murderer? People would laugh—”

  “Where did you meet this woman?”

  “What?”

  “The woman you say made you the offer. Where did you meet her?”

  “Christ, you guys are too much. I told you, the parking lot.”

  “I don’t think you’re telling the truth. Unless you tell us where it was, I can’t believe anything else you say.”

  Jakobsson looked at Cohen, who nodded encouragingly.

  “Okay, okay. Fuck! There was this coffee shop there, and I got a call beforehand.”

  “A call? A phone call?”

  “Yes.”

  “From whom?”

  “From her. The woman I met later in the coffee shop.”

  “She called you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you then?”

  “Where was I? At home, of course. I don’t have a cell phone.”

  “Were you alone at home?”

  “When I got the call? Well, my brother may have been out. I can’t remember.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she had a proposal and that I could do her a favor and . . . For Christ’s sake, we’ve been over this a thousand times.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said what I said she said, only it was someplace else. At the coffee shop.”

  “Which coffee shop?”

  “Jacky’s Pub.”

  “That’s a coffee shop?”

  “To me it’s a coffee shop. Coffee’s the only thing I drink there. The beer’s too damn expensive, and anyways I’ve quit.”

  “Who suggested that you meet there?”

  “I did.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Nah. Maybe it was her. It’s so . . . Can we take that break soon? This is tiring me out.”

  “We’ll break soon,” Winter said. “Try to remember who suggested that you meet there.”

  “It was her.”

  “What was the first thing she said?”

  “I can’t remember a damn thing anymore.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “No idea. I told you several times before we sat down here. I’d never seen her before.”

  “You know her.”

  “No way.”

  “Why else would she get in touch with you?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  “You said before that you’re happy to lend a hand.”

  “I said that? Well, maybe that’s why she got in touch.”

  “Are you known for lending a hand?”

  “Don’t ask me. But that could be the reason, like I said. She heard from somebody that I’m a good guy and she called me.”

  “Who might she have heard that from?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re a good guy?”

  “A hundred people at least,” Jakobsson said.

  “List them,” Winter said, and took out a fresh notepad from his inside pocket, along with a stubby pencil.

  “You’re out of your . . . I gotta go to the toilet.”

  “In a minute.”

  “You don’t get it. If I don’t get to a toilet in one minute, it won’t be much fun for anyone to sit in here.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I said I don’t know. You can continue questioning me in the toilet if you want to but I can’t—”

  “Give me a name.”

  “I don’t know for fuck’s sake!”

  “Who might have tipped her off that you’re ready to lend a hand?”

  Jakobsson didn’t answer. He’d risen up to a half-standing position, and they could tell from the dark spot spreading out across his jeans that perhaps for the first time during the interview he had spoken the truth.

  40

  RINGMAR READ THE TRANSCRIPTS FROM THE SESSION WITH Jakobsson. He too was struck by its significance, by the possibility that they were suddenly making progress. It was like catching a whiff of something you knew would smell a lot worse when you got closer.

  “I don’t think he knows what he’s involved in,” Ringmar said.

  “He’s a pretty tough character.”

  “Not that tough,” Ringmar said. “Not for this. Jakobsson is small time.”

  “Möllerström is working on his circle of associates.”

  “There must be a lot of them,” Ringmar said.

  “Not as many as you might expect.”

  “That all depends. Did you know that Oskar used to ride a motorbike?”

  “Yes,” Winter said, “but it’s hard to believe.”

  “He was in a biker gang. Some local chapter of the Hells Angels, but even they kicked him out, I think.”

  “I can hear the rumbling throughout this investigation,” Winter said.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. The sky’s rumbling.”

  Ringmar sized up his younger superior. Winter had dark circles under his eyes, and in certain lighting he almost looked as if he were wearing war paint. His long hair reached his shoulders.

  “Maybe I’m reading too much into it,” Winter said. “Maybe Jakobsson is just an innocent bystander.”

  “Innocent messenger,” Ringmar said. “But there are no innocent messengers.”

  Winter flipped through the printouts. The words struck at him from the paper. Over the last two or three years, he’d come to read interrogation transcripts with a vague feeling of dread, as if they were fiction taken from a reality he couldn’t penetrate. The exchanges were fiction and sport at the same time, and both parties knew it.

  “H
e says that the woman could have been forty or twenty-five.”

  “That may be because of the sunglasses,” Ringmar said. “That is, if she was wearing any. Or if she even exists.”

  “It’s not unusual to have a proxy,” Winter said. “Someone like Jakobsson gets an assignment from someone who got it from someone else who in turn was contacted by the prime mover. The murderer.”

  “Yeah, standard criminal procedure,” Ringmar said.

  “So we have to work our way backward along the chain,” Winter said.

  “If all he did was that one service, and didn’t think any more about it, then he would have said so straight off.”

  “Yes.”

  “That means he knows whoever it was that gave him the job. The woman, if it is a woman.”

  “Could be.”

  “We can’t even say for sure that there was any money involved.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to put the screws to him again,” Ringmar said. “But let him go empty his bladder this time.”

  The nationwide APB had been issued. Wellman defended the delay and did a good job of it. Winter might see Wellman in a different light after this.

  Everything from the past month came back. Winter could see his own investigation described in different varieties of newspaper prose. He read the newspapers and set them aside. Bülow’s article was fairly well informed, but that wasn’t so strange given that Winter had provided the facts. It was an agreement of sorts.

  Winter had agreed to take part in a press conference the next morning. Tomorrow, not earlier.

  Sitting alone in his office, he reached for the drawings, but first he closed his eyes so his mind would be as dark and still as possible.

  They dragged Delsjö Lake. They walked through the forested areas along the water’s edge again. They were able to be more candid when they questioned the neighbors.

  Photographs of Helene Andersén’s apartment had been disseminated through the media and printed on posters. They went through the census register. Helene Andersén had lived in the apartment at North Biskopsgården and before that in an apartment in Backa. Jennie had been born at Östra Hospital. The father had been listed as unknown. Helene had taken care of her child on her own from the start.