Free The Shadow Woman by Åke Edwardson Page A

were missing women who bore some resemblance to the dead woman, but the similarities weren’t enough.
    A courier arrived with the photographs from Beier’s forensics department. Winter studied the marking painted on the bark. He tried to associate movements with the images. Closing his eyes, he thought about messages: a whole collection of them on file. Sometimes somebody wants to tell us something. Or just mislead us.
    Someone knocked, and Winter said come in, and a young detective stepped through the door with a report in hand.
    “What is it?” Winter asked.
    “I’ve spoken to the municipal authority and that mark—”
    “Thanks.” Winter stood up. He recognized the boy but couldn’t remember his name, only that he’d joined the unit a month or two ago. This must be his first murder investigation, Winter thought.
    The detective held out the report.
    “Tell me yourself instead. Have a seat.”
    The boy sat down in front of the desk and tried to look unperturbed. His forehead was all sweaty and he knew it. The blazer he sported was thin and looked cool but was insane to wear in this weather.
    Winter wondered what the boy thought about his vacation-wear cutoffs and T-shirt, his customary dress code having so obviously rubbed off on even the youngest member of the unit. “Can you think in that blazer?” he asked.
    “What?”
    “Take off your jacket and untuck your shirt. You look hot.”
    The detective smiled as you might to a joke you didn’t understand. He crossed his legs.
    “I mean it,” Winter said. “One of the perks of working as a detective is that you can dress however you want.”
    The boy looked like he had decided to be a little tough after all. “That all depends on the assignment, doesn’t it? On the investigation?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Sometimes you’ve got to blend in.”
    “Then you’re doing a good job of that now.”
    The boy smiled and took off his jacket. “It’s damn hot out there.”
    “So, what do the authorities and agencies say?”
    “They haven’t been there—at the dump site. Nobody’s marked any trees lately. The land belongs to the municipality.”
    “What do they mean by that?”
    “By what?”
    “ Lately . When were they last there?” Winter bent down and lifted the two sheets of paper his rookie detective had laid on the desk. “What’s your name again?”
    “Uh, Börjesson. Erik Börjesson.”
    “Yes, that’s right,” Winter said, as he scanned the report for the answer he’d just sought. “A month ago. They haven’t carried out any forest maintenance around Delsjö for a month.”
    “No,” Börjesson said. “No work like that.”
    “Have you thought about what it might be, then?”
    Winter noticed the boy was surprised by the question.
    “Who might have put it there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Fishermen? The fishing club?”
    “Have you had a chance to check it out?”
    “No, not yet.”
    “Any other ideas?”
    “You mean something that could provide a natural explanation?”
    “Something that isn’t associated with the murder.”
    “Kids?”
    “Is there anything to suggest that?”
    “I, I don’t know, actually.”
    “It could be worth checking out.”
    “Could have been a couple of lovebirds.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “People who carve their names in the bark and all that,” Börjesson said.
    “The area is popular among people in search of intimate seclusion,” Winter said.
    “It could be that kind of sign,” Börjesson said.
    “Then what would it mean?” He slid a photo over to Börjesson. He looks proud to be here, Winter thought. He’s most actively involved in the investigation when brainstorming with the boss. I should do this more often. “What does this inscription or marking, or whatever it is, mean?”
    “Aren’t they working on that in forensics?”
    “I want to know what you think,” Winter said. He heard a helicopter whirring outside, caught its shadow as it lifted from the helipad to the west of them and flew past