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 Malmö,” 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 Malmö. 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 Andersén,” 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 Andersén. 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 Andersén? 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.”
“Excuse me?”
“Did she know? What did she know? Do you know that?”
“No. Not yet.”
“And now it’s not possible anymore,” Louise Keijser said, and covered her eyes with her handkerchief. “It’s too late.”
“Maybe we can uncover a few answers,” Winter said.
“Just so long as you find the little girl,” Louise Keijser said. “I feel somehow like a grandmother.” She looked straight at Winter. “Is it wrong of me to feel like that?”
“My God,” Ringmar said. “You mean to say that Brigitta Dellmar’s name has come up in connection with this case?”
“Yes. Möllerström dug up everything there is on her, and an APB was put out on her back then,” Winter said.
“Sven Johansson too?”
“He was questioned but they couldn’t tie him to it in any way. He had a watertight alibi.”
“But her name was in there?”
“Several witnesses were able to identify her from the photographs. A few of the robbers were Swedes—that much they knew. And one of the employees had seen a child.”
“What the hell are you saying? You mean they brought a kid along? For the actual robbery?”
“I don’t know for sure, but several witnesses testified to that fact. It’s all in there.”
“Good Lord. Where’s this taking us?”
“To a solution,” Winter said. “It’s yet another complication that will lead to a solution.”
“Or a dissolution,” Ringmar said. “She had the child with her?”
“It’s possible.”
“It boggles the mind,” Ringmar said.
“Do you remember the case?”
“Yes, but only vaguely. Now that you mention it. An officer was killed, if I remember correctly. That’s probably why I remember it at all.”
“An officer and two of the robbers.”
“Jesus Christ. Yeah, that’s right.”
“At least three of them got away. Along with the child, if the information is correct.”
Ringmar shook his head and picked up the incident report but held it without reading it. “You don’t bring a child along on an armed robbery.”
“Maybe something went wrong,” Winter said
. “Could have been anything. Maybe the mother was supposed to be the driver and had to go anyway when nobody came to look after the child. I don’t know.”
“Danske Bank in Ålborg,” Ringmar read. “Monday October 2, 1972. Danske Bank, on the corner of Østerågade and Bispensgade. At five past five in the afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Winter said. “No customers but plenty of staff inside the bank, working with money.”
“Plenty of money.”
“Seven million.”
“A big haul in Ålborg.”
“Big anywhere. And there’s more.”
“What?”
“Helene was there.”
“What?”
“At about the same time we learned all this stuff, we also got everything else connected to the name Brigitta Dellmar.”
“Obviously.”
“It was the name that suddenly opened everything up for us. We had nothing on Helene Andersén, but we do on Helene Dellmar.”
“What do you mean, she’s been here? Helene has been here?”
“She was prepped for questioning and then questioned, when she was Helene Dellmar.” Winter fixed his gaze on Ringmar. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Bertil.”
“Just heard about a ghost, more like.”
“It’s just that I learned about this a few minutes before you did.”
“What did you get to know, for Christ’s sake?”
“We’ve got the files here. When the girl ended up at Sahlgrenska Hospital, or afterward, I’m talking about the four-year-old Helene now, right? There were suspicions coming from Denmark and they managed to tie her to her mother—who may have disappeared in connection with the robbery.”
“How did they identify her?” Ringmar asked. “At the hospital, I mean, or afterward, when she was questioned, or whatever. How could they make the connection with her mother?”
“They put out a description. And it appears some neighbors got in touch.”
“We’ll have to get that confirmed. Anyway, so they spoke to the girl here, at this station? Who was the interrogating officer?”
“Sven-Anders Borg, it says.”
“He went into retirement about five years ago.”
“But he’s still alive, right?”
“Still clear in the head, as far as I know. But he could hardly have been expected to sound the alarm about this.”
“If we had gotten a name earlier.”
“I’ll give him a call,” Ringmar said.
“Ask him to get down here as soon as he can.” Winter read the file while Ringmar dialed, but he was distracted by the call.
Ringmar covered the receiver and turned to Winter. “He’s got a pain in his leg, but we’re welcome to come by and see him. He lives in Påvelund.”
The light over the river was stronger than ever. They drove along Oskarsleden, and the cranes on the other side were ablaze in the glare from the Kattegat. Two ferries met out at sea, and Winter thought about Denmark.
“She drew a Danish flag,” he said to Ringmar.
“Who? Helene?”
“Yes. And her daughter, Jennie. They drew Danish flags.”
The distance between the ferries was growing. The larger one continued out across the sea.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Winter described the two different signatures.
“Have you sent them in for analysis?” Ringmar asked.
“On their way.”
“Christ.”
Winter followed the ferry’s westward progress. It grew ever smaller.
“Maybe they went there,” Ringmar said. “To Denmark. Anything’s possible now.”
Aneta Djanali introduced herself and Halders, and the man in the doorway invited them in. The house looked a hundred years old. Through the windows she saw the forest and beyond it a field. Two horses walked along the edge of the clearing with their heads bowed down to the ground. They were chestnut and sleek. There was a serenity in what she saw.
“Nice view,” she said.
The man followed her gaze as if it were the first time he had seen the forest and the field. They knew from their search at the Swedish Road Administration that he was sixty-nine years old. They had names, addresses, and personal identity numbers. According to the vehicle registration database, he owned a white Ford Escort with plates that began with the letter H. That was what they knew about this man. But he looked like a nice old man. Georg Bremer’s head was as bare as Fredrik Halders’s, but he had a mustache that was dark and didn’t look dyed. His shirt was light blue and open to a neck wizened with age. He wore black trousers held up by a brown belt.
He seems almost withered, Djanali thought.
Bremer continued to look out through the window, and his profile hardened suddenly when the sun disappeared. Seconds later the sun reemerged from behind a cloud and the light softened his face again.
That was strange, thought Djanali. The shadow sort of sliced off his jaw. How silly. I’ve become obsessed with jawlines since getting my own smashed.
“We’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” Halders said. “Don’t you listen to your answering machine?”
“I’ve been away for a while. Got home yesterday and just haven’t gotten round to it.”
Damn courteousness, thought Halders. We shouldn’t bother calling ahead. We ought to come barging in just when the family is sitting down to dinner and ask what the hell Daddy or Mommy’s car was doing in the vicinity of Delsjö Lake in the dead of night. Make people choke. On their shame if nothing else.
“It’s about your car,” Halders said. “It’s just routine, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Don’t you want to take a seat?”
“Thank you,” Djanali said.
She sat down on a couch that was green and worn. Halders remained standing, as did their host.
“What about my car?” Bremer asked.
“You drive a white ’92 Ford Escort?”
“A ’92? Is that when it’s from? I really don’t know. I’ll have to look at the registration.”
“See, we’re checking up on the owners of a certain type of car, who might be able to help us solve a case.”
“What case is that?”
“A murder.”
“And a Ford Escort is involved?”
“One was seen close to where the body was found on the night in question. We’re hoping that the driver of that car may have seen something.”
“Like what? And where?”
Halders looked at Djanali, who sat in the couch with her notepad.
“The night we’re talking about was August 18,” Halders said. “Back when it was still hot summer.”
“That’s not something you forget. I sweated half to death out here.”
“Guess we pretty much all did, every man jack of us.” Halders eyed Aneta again. “And woman.”
“I was here then anyway,” Bremer said. “And so was the car.”
“Okay,” Halders said.
“I didn’t see any car out front,” Djanali said.
“It’s been at the shop since last Friday. Started leaking oil like a sieve. You can probably see for yourselves out there on the driveway.”
“When did you take it in to get fixed?”
“Day before yesterday. I tried to have a look at it myself, but it’s probably the oil pan. And I get dizzy if I spend too much time under the car.”
“But you said you were away yesterday?”
“Yeah, so? What is this, an interrogation?”
“No no. I was just wondering since it’s a little out of the way—you need some kind of vehicle to get out here, don’t you?”
“Well, you sure don’t walk all the way from the bus. But I have a motorbike that I dust off from time to time. It’s out in the barn, if you want to have a look-see.”
“Where is the car?” Djanali asked.
Bremer named the repair shop.
Djanali wrote down the address. “That�
��s pretty far away from here,” she said.
“That’s how it is sometimes. You gotta go to the ones that offer the best prices.”
“So you’ve checked around?” Halders asked.
“Well, you pick up on these things. Found it through a friend of a friend, you might say.”
“How far is your closest neighbor?”
“You gonna ask me about their cars too?”
“We didn’t see any houses on the way here.”
“I guess there are a few out in the forest at the end of the road, but I’m pretty much on my own out here. There’s a farm to the right a few miles up the road. I think it’s more of a summerhouse. I knew the last owner, but the new ones I only wave to a few times a year when I see them.”
45
SVEN-ANDERS BORG OPENED THE DOOR, PROPPED UP ON A crutch.
“Been playing football?” Ringmar asked.
“I wish. Bad circulation. If it continues like this, they’ll probably have to take it off.” He looked down at his left leg.
“It’s not that bad, is it, Sven?”
The retired homicide detective shrugged. “And now I’m back in horrible reality. Guess you better come in.”
They walked through the hall and into a room lit up from the garden out back. Unwashed windows couldn’t block out the sunlight, only dampen it. Dust swirled in the air. It smelled of tobacco and fried onions. A radio was speaking in some other part of the house.
Borg sat down heavily on one of the armchairs and waved to the couch opposite. “Have a seat, guys.”
They sat and Ringmar started to speak.
“I was thinking about it,” Borg cut in. “It’s one hell of a case. A real nightmare investigation. Nothing at first, then everything all at once. You don’t even have time to sort through all the stuff.”
“No,” Ringmar said. “We were talking about that on the way out here.”
“Had I known before, I would have gotten in touch. Maybe I would have made the connection between the name, Helene, and that last name. What was it again? Dellmer?”
“Dellmar.”
“Dellmar. Right. But you haven’t released it.”
“We haven’t had the chance,” Winter said. “We’re busy sorting through everything, like you said.”
Borg sounded like he sighed, then looked up at the ceiling and then at Ringmar. “Here’s more or less how the whole thing went down. We heard about the kid being left at the hospital—well, and then we got the name of the mother. Dellmar, that is. And she had a record. Once we had her name we started looking, but she wasn’t at the apartment out in Frölunda and nowhere else either. Vanished into thin air.”
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