Unspoken

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 20

The morning dawned with a pale white sun that barely managed to rise above the horizon. The sea was still relatively warm, and from the surface a mist slowly lifted upward. The water merged with the sky, and in the haze it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. A seagull shrieked between Visby’s medieval merchant buildings on Strandgatan. The rugged ring wall from the thirteenth century that surrounded the town was the best preserved in all of Europe.

From the harbor came the sound of a small fishing boat chugging its way into port with its nighttime catch of cod.

Knutas had just dropped off Lina at the hospital where she worked as a midwife. She started work at seven thirty in the morning, which suited him fine. He could drive her there and still arrive in time for the morning meeting.

They had been married for fourteen years, and he didn’t regret a single day of it. They met when he was attending a police conference in Copenhagen. One evening he went to a restaurant on Grabrodretorv with a colleague. Lina was working there as a waitress while she was studying. It was a warm summer evening, and she had on a short-sleeved blouse and black skirt. She had tried to bring some order to her unruly red hair by fastening it with a barrette, but stray locks kept on escaping and falling into her eyes. She had more freckles than anyone Knutas had ever seen. The tiny spots reached all the way to the tips of her milky-white fingers. She smelled of almonds, and when she leaned over the table, her arm brushed against his.

The next evening they had dinner together, and that was the beginning of a love the likes of which he had never even come close to before. The year that followed was filled with passionate encounters, exhausting good-byes, long nightly phone conversations, an aching sense of longing, and an ever-growing mutual feeling that they had found their partner in life. Lina finished her training, and without further ado she agreed to marry him and move to Gotland. He had just been promoted to head of the criminal division, and that was why they had decided to try living on Gotland.

It had turned out to be a good decision. Lina had no trouble adapting. With her open and cheerful manner she quickly made new friends and created her own life for herself. After only a couple of months she had found a temporary position at Visby hospital. They bought a house, and then it wasn’t long before the twins were on their way. Knutas was thirty-five when they met, and he’d had a couple of previous long-term relationships, but he had never known how natural everything could feel. With Lina at his side, he was prepared for anything.

Of course they’d had their crises and arguments, just like everyone else. Lina had a quick temper, and when she started yelling in a strong Danish accent, he had a hard time understanding what she meant. He often couldn’t help laughing, which only made her more furious. Even so, their arguments usually ended amicably. There was no sense of competition between the two of them.

Now her birthday was coming up, and he was feeling stressed. She was going to be forty-seven next Saturday, but this year he had no clue what to buy her.

And right now, he had other things on his mind. He was looking forward to the interview with Bengt Johnsson. The man had been drunk out of his mind when they took him in, so the interview had been postponed.

Smittenberg had decided to arrest him, having good reason to suspect him of murder, or at least man-slaughter. That was the lowest degree of suspicion, and the evidence against Johnsson would have to be stronger for him actually to be arraigned. The prosecutor had three days to do that. He based the arrest on the argument that there was a risk Johnsson might obstruct the investigation if he was released. He had no alibi for the night of the murder, and he also had a great deal of money in his possession, although he couldn’t explain where it had come from. Ten thousand kronor-money they assumed was part of Dahlstrom’s winnings at the track. The fingerprints on the bills were being examined by the Fingerprint Center in Stockholm, and they expected to have an answer by morning. If it turned out that Dahlstrom’s prints were on the bills, then things didn’t look good for Johnsson.

Emma pedaled toward Roma, cursing herself for deciding to ride her bike to work. It was crazy how the cold and wind had picked up as she left the schoolyard and made her way out to the main road. The Kyrk School was located some distance from town. She started biking faster to get warm. On Tuesdays she finished teaching by twelve fifteen. She usually stayed at school to put in a couple more hours of work, but today she was planning to visit a friend. Then she was going to take the children into town to go shopping and stop at the pastry shop, as she had promised. They were in desperate need of new wardrobes.

The main road was quiet and deserted, with very little traffic at this time of year. She passed the lane that led to the cloister ruins where plays by Shakespeare were performed every summer. Then past Roma School and the public baths. Farther along, on the other side of the road, were the ramshackle buildings from the Roma sugar mill, which had been shut down. The windows in the yellow brick buildings gaped darkly at her. The sugar mill had been founded more than a hundred years earlier, but it was closed when profits began to plummet. The now deserted mill stood there as a sad reminder of how times had changed.

She lifted her face to the sky, closed her eyes, and inhaled the air deep into her lungs. Emma belonged to those who appreciated November. It was an in-between month without demands, unlike the summer, with its expectations of barbecue evenings, swimming excursions, and all the visits of friends and relatives. And God have mercy on anyone who wasn’t outdoors when the sun was shining.

When the autumn darkness descended, she could retreat inside without a guilty conscience, and watch TV in the middle of the day if she felt like it, or read a good book. She could forget about putting on makeup and shuffle around wearing an old, nubby bathrobe.

In December, new demands appeared as Advent was celebrated, and preparations had to be made for Saint Lucia and Christmas Eve, with all the cooking, baking, buying Christmas presents, and putting up decorations.

For thirty-five years she had outwardly lived a good life. She was married and had two children; she had a teaching job and a great house in the middle of Roma. She had lots of friends and a good relationship with her parents and parents-in-law. Outwardly everything seemed fine, but her emotional life was in chaos. She would never have imagined how much her longing for Johan could hurt. It made her anxious, and it kept her awake at night. She had thought that her feelings for him would diminish with time. Oh, how she had deceived herself. They had seen each other only once in almost two months, and they had known each other for barely six months. By all rights their love ought to be dead. From a logical point of view, at least. But emotions and logic had nothing to do with each other.

She had tried to forget and to move on. She could see an uneasiness in the eyes of her children. Sara was only eight, and Filip was a year younger. Yet sometimes she imagined that they knew what was going on. More than Olle did. He carried on as usual. He seemed to think that they could go on forever, side by side, without touching each other. They were now like a couple of old friends. He seemed to have come to terms with the situation. Once she asked him how he could seem so content, in spite of everything. He replied that he wanted to give her time. Time after the trauma of Helena’s death and everything else that followed. Olle was still under the illusion that all this had to do with the aftermath of the events of the past summer. And it was true that she thought often about Helena’s horrible death. And she missed her terribly.

At first she had thought that the whole drama was the reason why she had fallen in love with Johan. That she had gone through some sort of emotional shock. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

She seemed to see his face everywhere she turned-at the Konsum grocery store, in the schoolyard, when she went into town.

Her guilty conscience tormented her. To think she was capable of betraying Olle in such a dreadful way. The phone conversation with Johan had made her even more confused. Of course she wanted nothing more than to see him. But the consequences of such a meeting scared her to death.

When she looked at Olle she tried to conjure up the image of the man who had once sparked her love. The man to whom she had said yes in front of the altar. He was still the same person, after all. The same now as back then. They were supposed to grow old together, damn it. That’s what they had decided long ago.

The throbbing above his temples started as soon as Johan disembarked from the plane. Shit. The last thing he needed right now was a headache. Accompanied by his colleague, cameraman Peter Bylund, he rented a car at the airport and drove straight to the old TV newsroom that was still at their disposal. It was next to the Radio Gotland building, in the middle of Visby.

It smelled musty. Dust bunnies as big as balls of yarn lay in all the corners, and the computers were also covered with a fine layer of dust. It had been a while since anyone had been inside.

The story that was their priority for the day had to do with the future of the Bjorkhaga campground. It was a classic camping area from the late forties, idyllically located near a sandy beach on the west side of the island. During the summer months it was filled with tourists and Gotlanders alike. Many were regular visitors, who came back year after year because they appreciated a quieter campground, without all the facilities. Now the municipal grounds had been leased to a private individual. The plan was to transform the Bjorkhaga campground into a modern resort area. Protests from campers and the local inhabitants came quickly.

The story had all the makings of a good TV report: photos from the deserted campground that had given so many families and their children great pleasure over the years, and a fierce conflict in the form of outraged local residents versus a business-minded entrepreneur who had the municipal bigwigs behind him.

An easy job. From Stockholm, Johan had already scheduled the interviews, so it was just a matter of getting started. The biggest challenge for him was to keep away from Emma. Right now there were only a few miles between them.

The interrogation room was sparsely furnished with a table and four chairs. The tape recorder was as new as the furniture. This was the first time it would be put to use.

Bengt Johnsson didn’t look as relaxed as he had the night before. Dressed in blue prison garb, he sat hunched on a chair, glaring at Jacobsson and Knutas, who were seated across from him. His dark hair was pulled back into a skimpy ponytail, and his mustache drooped, as did the corners of his mouth.

After the preliminary formalities were taken care of, Knutas leaned back and studied the man who was suspected of killing Henry Dahlstrom. Every interview had great significance for the investigative work. Establishing trust between the suspect and the interrogator was of the utmost importance. That was why Knutas took pains to proceed cautiously.

“How are you feeling?” he began. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, damn it. A beer would taste good right now.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not something we can offer you.” Knutas gave him a little smile. “How about a soda or some coffee?”

“I’ll have a Coke.”

Knutas rang for a soda.

“Am I allowed to smoke?”

“Sure.”

“Great.”

Johnsson shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack of John Silvers and lit it with a slight tremor in his hand.

“Can you tell us when you last saw Henry?”

“It was the day after he won at the track. Or rather, the evening after. I was in town with a pal and Flash came over to see us. I was drunk, so I don’t really remember much.”

He was interrupted by the door opening. A police officer came in with the soda.

“What happened?”

“We just talked for a while.”

“Who was your friend?”

“His name is Orjan. Orjan Brostrom.”

“What did you do then?”

“Flash didn’t stay long.”

“Was he on foot when he left?”

“He went to catch a bus.”

“And you didn’t see him after that?”

“Nope.”

“And this was on Monday, November twelfth, the day after you were at the track?”

“Yup.”

“What time?”

“I’m not really sure, but most of the stores were closed and it was dark. There were hardly any people around, so I think it was pretty late.”

“What do you mean by that? Ten or eleven at night?”

“No, no, damn it. It wasn’t that late. Maybe seven or eight.”

“And you didn’t see Henry again after that night?”

“No, not until we found him in the darkroom, that is.”

“The building superintendent says that you rang his doorbell. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you want to talk to him?”

“I hadn’t seen Flash for a while. I get a little worried when a buddy suddenly isn’t around.”

“Why did you take off after you found him?”

Johnsson was silent for a moment before he resumed talking.

“Well, you see… I’d done something really stupid, something damn stupid.”

“Okay,” said Knutas. “What was it?”

“The whole gang was at the racetrack on Sunday, the last race day of the season, so it was extra festive. I was there with Flash and Kjelle, and two broads: Gunsan and Monica. We went over to Flash’s place beforehand to have a bite to eat. And then when he won, he wanted to celebrate and we did, too. So we went back to his apartment afterward. We had a party there that night.”

He fell silent. Knutas clearly sensed that this was a turning point in the interrogation. Now it was starting to get interesting.

“Well, Flash had won all this money at the track, eighty thousand big ones, in thousand-kronor bills. He showed me where he hid the money, in a box in the broom closet. Later, when the others were all in the living room, I just couldn’t resist. I thought he wouldn’t notice if I took a few thousand. I’ve been going through a real cash crunch, and Flash seemed to be really flush lately, so I thought that… well.”

He paused and gave the officers a pleading look.

“But damn it, I didn’t kill him. No, I didn’t. I could never do anything like that. But I did take some of his money.”

“How much?”

“I guess about twenty thousand,” said Johnsson quietly.

“You only had ten thousand in the cabin. What happened to the rest of it?”

“I spent it. On a lot of booze. This thing with Flash really upset me.”

“But why did you run away from the darkroom?” Knutas asked again.

“I was scared that you’d think I killed Flash because I stole his money.”

“What were you doing on the evening of November twelfth?”

“What day was that?”

“Last Monday, when you saw Henry at the bus station.”

“Like I told you, we were there until maybe eight or nine o’clock. Then I went home with Orjan. We spent the night drinking until I passed out on his sofa.”

“What time was it then?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where does he live?”

“On Styrmansgatan, number fourteen.”

“Okay. Then he should be able to back up your story.”

“Sure, although we were both pretty far gone.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was about the results from the Fingerprint Center. They took a short break and the officers left the room. Johnsson wanted to use the toilet.

Dahlstrom’s fingerprints had been found on the bills. This finding was of little consequence if the police chose to believe Johnsson’s story. Many other prints were also found, but none that matched any in police records.

“What do we do now?” asked Jacobsson as they got coffee from the office coffee machine.

“I don’t know. Do you believe him?”

“Yes, actually, I do,” she said, looking up at Knutas. “I think he sounds very convincing.”

“I do, too. If only there was someone who could corroborate his story, we could release him right away. I think we can disregard the theft of the money for the time being.”

“His pal, this Orjan, seems to keep popping up. We need to get hold of him,” said Jacobsson.

“I’ll talk to Birger about whether we should hold Bengt Johnsson any longer or not. I think we’ll stop the interview here. Would you like some lunch?”

The choice of lunch restaurants in Visby during the wintertime was limited. Most of the pubs were open only in the evening, and so they usually ended up at the same place if they wanted a change from the meager offerings in the police department’s cafeteria. Of course the lunch was more expensive, but it was worth every ore. The Cloister was furnished in classic inn style and had a well-respected chef. The owner, Leif Almlov, was one of Knutas’s best friends. When Knutas and Jacobsson stepped through the door, they were met by a great bustle and clatter and plenty of hurrying waitresses. All the tables were taken.

Leif caught sight of them and waved.

“Hi, how are things going?”

He gave Jacobsson a hug and shook hands with Knutas as he kept an eye on everything going on around them.

“Good. It’s sure crowded in here today,” said Knutas.

“There’s a convention in town. It was like this yesterday, too. Total hysteria. What would you like to eat?”

“Looks like we’re going to have to settle for hot dogs instead.”

“No, no, don’t even think of it. Of course I’ll get you a table. Just wait here. Have a seat at the bar for the time being.”

He called to the bartender to give them something to drink, on the house. As they sat down with glasses of light beer in front of them, Jacobsson lit a cigarette.

“Have you started smoking?” exclaimed Knutas in surprise.

“No, not at all. I only smoke when I go to a party or if I’m having problems.”

“I see, and what would you call this?”

“The latter. I’m having some personal difficulties.”

“Is it something you’d like to talk about?”

“No. Leif is waving to us-we have a table.”

Sometimes Jacobsson could really drive Knutas crazy. She was overly secretive about her private life. She might tell him something about her travels, her relatives, or some social event that she had gone to, but he seldom found out anything important.

They didn’t meet socially, except infrequently at a party. He had been to her place only a few times. She lived on Mellangatan, in a big three-room apartment with a view of the sea. The only male companion she ever talked about at any length was her large cockatoo named Vincent, who was the center of attention in his cage in the living room. The stories about him were legion: for one thing, he was a whiz at playing Ping-Pong with his beak, and he could scare off unwelcome visitors by growling like a dog.

Knutas didn’t actually know very much about Karin Jacobsson except that she was interested in sports. She played soccer in Division Three and was by all accounts very good at it. She could always talk about soccer. She was a midfielder on the Visby P18 team that played in the mainland league, which meant that she often played matches off the island. Knutas imagined that if she operated on the same level as she did on the job, she was undoubtedly a tough player to tackle, in spite of her small size. She shared her interest in sports with Erik Sohlman. They were always talking about soccer.

Jacobsson was from Tingstade parish in the north of the island. Her parents still lived in the same house on the edge of Tingstade swamp, practically right across from the church. Knutas knew that she had a younger brother, but she never talked about him or her parents.

Many times he had wondered why she still lived alone. Karin was both charming and nice, and when she first started working with the Visby police, he had been slightly attracted to her. But that was just when he happened to meet Lina, so he had never fully examined his feelings. He didn’t dare ask Karin about her love life; her sense of privacy blocked all attempts of that sort. Yet Knutas never held back from telling her about his own problems. She knew just about everything about him, and he considered her to be his best female friend.

Their food arrived, and they hungrily focused their attention on eating as they discussed the investigation. They both agreed that they believed Bengt Johnsson’s story.

“Maybe the murder has nothing to do with the money Dahlstrom won at the track,” said Jacobsson. “The perp could have stolen the cash as a diversion. He wants us to think that the murder was the result of a burglary. But then the question is: What was the real motive?”

“Do you know whether he was seeing anyone?”

“Well, that Monica who was at the track with him told us that they sometimes slept together, but it was nothing serious.”

“What about in the past? Maybe there’s a story farther back and none of his current friends knows anything about it.”

“That’s conceivable,” said Jacobsson, drinking the last of the light beer she was having with her fish. “Do you think it might be about an ex-girlfriend who wanted revenge, or a jealous husband whose wife was sleeping with Dahlstrom, or some neighbor who got tired of all the coming and going in the stairwell?”

“I think the explanation could be even simpler than that. The most obvious motive is the track money-someone killed Dahlstrom for the money, plain and simple.”

“Maybe.” Jacobsson stood up. “I’ve got to run. We’re going to track down Orjan Brostrom-Bengt’s buddy.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

Most of the lunch guests had left the restaurant, and Leif sat down on the chair that Jacobsson had vacated.

He opened a frosty bottle of beer and took several long gulps.

“What an ordeal. Practically every customer wanted to order a la carte instead of choosing the daily special. The kitchen was an inferno, and the chef has been yelling at everyone. I had to console one of the waitresses who started sobbing.”

“You poor guy,” said Knutas with a laugh. “Is she cute?”

Leif made a wry face.

“Not much fun when you have to play nanny to every single person. Sometimes this place seems just like a day-care center. But never mind that, a lot of people means money in the bank, and that’s what we need during the long, cold winter. How are things with you?”

“Lots of work-just like you. The difference is that the profits are scanty.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“We’ve got someone under arrest, although between you and me, I doubt he’s the guy. But I’m sure we’ll solve this case, too.”

“Wasn’t it one of his drinking buddies who did it?”

“That seems the most likely, but we’ll have to wait and see,” said Knutas.

Even though he and Leif were close friends, he didn’t like to discuss an investigation when he was in the middle of it. Leif was fully aware of this and respected his reticence.

“How are Ingrid and the kids?” asked Knutas.

“They’re all fine. This morning I went out and bought tickets to Paris. I’m thinking of surprising Ingrid with a week of romance right after New Year’s. We’re celebrating our fifteenth wedding anniversary.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Incredible but true.”

“You always manage to come up with such good ideas. I can’t think of what to buy Lina for her birthday. Do you have any suggestions?”

“No, you’re going to have to think of something yourself. I’ve filled my quota when it comes to your wife’s birthdays. At least until it’s time for her fiftieth.”

Knutas smiled with embarrassment. When Lina had turned forty they were going through a rough period financially. So the Almlovs had provided the place and the wait staff for the big celebration. Leif also happened to know the members of a band, and they had agreed to play for free. Leif was truly a thoughtful and generous friend. The entire Knutas family had been invited to the Almlov mountain cabin and to their time-share apartment on the Costa del Sol in Spain.

The two families belonged to completely different economic brackets. This had bothered Knutas at first, but over time he had accepted this difference. Leif and Ingrid had a relaxed attitude toward their wealth, and they never talked about it.

Knutas asked for the bill, but Leif refused to let his friend pay for lunch. Every time Knutas came to the restaurant they had the same argument.

Johan was standing in front of the ATM on Adelsgatan when he noticed her. She came walking from Soderport, holding the hand of a child on either side. She was talking to them and laughing. Tall and slender, with her sand-colored hair hanging straight down to her shoulders. He saw the contours of her high cheek-bones as she turned her head. She was wearing jeans and a short, lion-yellow quilted jacket. A striped scarf was wrapped around her neck. And she had on mocha-colored boots with fringe.

His mouth went dry and he turned his back to peer down at the ATM. “Receipt requested?” Should he turn around and say hello? Last night’s conversation complicated matters. He didn’t know whether she was still angry.

He had never met the children, just seen them from a distance. Would she notice him, or would she just walk past? There was hardly anyone on the street, which meant that she was bound to see him. He felt a slight panic and turned around.

She had stopped to look in a window a short distance away. He gathered his courage.

“Hi!” He looked right into her shining eyes.

“Hi, Johan.”

The children looked up at him inquisitively, their cheeks red under brightly colored caps. One of them was slightly taller than the other.

“You must be Sara and Filip,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Johan.”

“How do you know our names?” asked the girl in her lilting Gotland accent.

She bore a striking resemblance to her mother. A mini-version of Emma.

“Your mother told me.”

Emma’s presence made him feel weak in the knees.

“Johan is sort of a friend of mine,” Emma told the children. “He’s a TV journalist and lives in Stockholm.”

“Do you work for a TV station?” asked the girl, wide-eyed.

“I’ve seen you on TV,” said the boy, who was smaller and blonder.

Johan was used to having children claim they had seen him, even though he knew it was very unlikely. He made an appearance only on those rare occasions when he did a stand-up, when reporters explain something with live video for the viewers.

But he didn’t let on.

“Is that right?”

“Yes,” said the boy solemnly.

“Next time don’t forget to wave, okay?”

The boy nodded.

“How are things going?” Emma’s question sounded rather indifferent.

“Fine, thanks. I’m here with Peter. We’re doing a story on the Bjorkhaga campground.”

“I see,” she said without interest.

“What about you?”

“I’m good. Fine. Just fine.”

She glanced quickly around, as if she were afraid that someone might notice them.

“I’m teaching, as usual. I’ve been really busy.”

Johan felt a growing sense of irritation.

“How long are you staying?” she asked.

“I’m going home tomorrow or Thursday. It hasn’t been decided yet. It depends.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence settled between them.

“Come on, Mamma.”

Filip was tugging at her arm.

“Okay, sweetie, I’m coming.”

“Could we meet?”

He was forced to ask the question, even though she had already said no.

“No, I can’t.”

Her gaze shifted away from him. He tried to catch her eye.

The children were tugging at her. They didn’t care about him anymore. They wanted to move on.

“Mamma,” they both called.

Suddenly she looked him straight in the eye. And deep inside. For a second he felt everything stand still. Then she said exactly what he was hoping to hear.

“Call me.”

Orjan Brostrom’s apartment was on the fourth floor with windows facing Styrmansgatan. When they rang the doorbell, a dog started barking wildly. The barking was interspersed with a deep growl. They automatically took a step back.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice said from the other side of the door.

“The police. Open up,” ordered Wittberg.

“Just a minute,” the voice said.

It turned out that Brostrom was not alone. Two beefy men with shaved heads were sitting in the kitchen playing cards, drinking beer, and smoking. They spoke an Eastern European language. Estonian, guessed Jacobsson.

“Who are your friends?” she asked as they sat down in the living room.

“Some of my buddies from Stockholm.”

“From Stockholm?”

“That’s right.”

Brostrom gave her a sullen look. He was wearing a black vest that accentuated both his muscular arms and his chalk white skin. Not to mention all the tattoos. To her horror, Jacobsson noted that he had something resembling a swastika tattooed on his shoulder. He had greasy dark hair and a hard expression on his face. He kept one hand on the collar of the snarling attack dog as he lit a cigarette. In silence he peered at them through the smoke. An old trick among criminals was to let the cops speak first.

“Do you know Henry Dahlstrom?”

“I can’t say that I really knew him. But I knew who he was.”

“So you know what happened to him?”

“I know that he’s dead.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Think about it. We can always take you down to the station if that might help your memory,” Wittberg suggested.

“Hell, that doesn’t really seem necessary.”

He made a face that might have been intended as a smile.

“Then you’d better start cooperating. You can begin by trying to recall when you last saw him.”

“It must have been in town. That’s the only place I ever saw him. We weren’t really pals.”

“Why not?”

“With that guy? An old drunk? Why would I want to hang out with him?”

“I have no idea, do you?”

Wittberg turned to Jacobsson, who shook her head. She was having a hard time relaxing in the cramped apartment with the dog on the other side of the table. The animal kept staring at her. The fact that he growled every once in a while didn’t make things any better, nor did the hair standing up on his back or his stiff tail. She felt a strong urge to light a cigarette herself.

“Could you get rid of the dog?” she asked.

“What? Hugo?”

“Is that his name? It sounds a little too sweet for a dog like that.”

“He has a sister named Josephine,” muttered Orjan as he took the dog out to the men in the kitchen.

They heard the men exchange a few words and then burst out in raucous laughter. The kitchen door closed. Orjan came back, casting an amused glance in Jacobsson’s direction. That’s the first real sign of life in his eyes, she thought.

“When did you last see him?” Wittberg asked again.

“I guess it was one night a week ago when Bengan and I were at the bus station. Flash came over to talk to us.”

“Then what did you do?”

“We just sat and drank.”

“For how long?”

“Don’t know. Maybe half an hour.”

“What time was it?”

“Around eight, I think.”

“Can you possibly remember what day that was?”

“It must have been last Monday, because on Tuesday I was busy with something else.”

“What?”

“It’s private.”

Neither of the police officers felt like asking any more questions about that matter.

“Have you ever been to Henry Dahlstrom’s apartment?” asked Jacobsson.

“No.”

“How about his darkroom?”

Orjan shook his head.

“But he and Bengan were good pals, and you hang out with Bengan. How come you never went to his place?”

“It just never happened. I just moved here, damn it. I’ve only lived here for three months.”

“Okay. So what did you do after that on Monday night, after Dahlstrom went home?”

“Bengan and I sat there for a while longer, even though it was fucking cold out, and then we came back here to my place.”

“What did you do here?”

“We just sat and talked, watched TV, and drank a lot.”

“Were the two of you here alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“I think we both crashed on the sofa. In the middle of the night I woke up and got into bed.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm that what you’re saying is true?”

“Don’t think so, no.”

“Did anyone call you during that time?”

“No.”

“Was Bengan with you all night?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure about that? You were asleep, weren’t you?”

“He passed out before I did.”

“So what did you do?”

“Flipped through the TV channels.”

“What did you watch?”

“Can’t remember.”

They were interrupted by one of the skinheads.

“Hey, Orjan, Hugo is getting restless. We’re going to take him out for a walk.”

Orjan looked at his watch.

“Good, he probably needs to go out. His leash is hanging on a hook in the hallway. And make sure he doesn’t eat any leaves-they’re not good for his stomach.”

Amazing, thought Jacobsson. How considerate.

They left Orjan Brostrom without making any further progress. He was not someone they looked forward to meeting again.

When Knutas was back in his office after lunch, someone knocked on the door. Norrby’s demeanor, which he normally kept under tight control, had now been shattered by an excitement that Knutas hadn’t seen in his colleague for a long time.

“You won’t believe this,” Norrby gasped as he waved a sheaf of papers.

He dropped into one of the visitor’s chairs.

“These are printouts from the bank, from Henry Dahlstrom’s bank account. For years he had only one account, and that’s where his disability pension was always deposited. See here?” said Norrby, pointing to the numbers on the page.

“Four months ago he opened a new account. Two deposits were made, both of them for the same large amount. The first was made on July twentieth, when the sum of twenty-five thousand kronor was deposited. The second was as late as October thirtieth, and for the same amount of twenty-five thousand.”

“Where did the money come from?”

“It’s a mystery to me.”

Norrby leaned back in his chair and threw out his hands in a dramatic gesture.

“We now have a new lead!”

“So Dahlstrom was mixed up in some kind of monkey business. I’ve always had the feeling that this wasn’t an ordinary robbery homicide. We need to call everyone in for another meeting.”

Knutas looked at his watch.

“It’s one forty-five. Shall we say two thirty? Will you tell the others?”

“Sure.”

“In the meantime I’ll call the prosecutor. Birger should be here, too.”

When the investigative team had gathered, Norrby began by telling them about the deposits made to Dahlstrom’s account.

The sense of focus in the room sharpened tangibly. Everyone automatically leaned forward, and Wittberg gave a long whistle.

“Jesus. Can we find out where the money came from?”

“Whoever made the deposit used an ordinary deposit slip. It doesn’t give any information about the person. On the other hand, we do have the date of the deposit.”

“What about the bank surveillance cameras?” Jacobsson suggested.

“We’ve already thought of that. The bank saves the tapes from the cameras for a month. The first bank tape from July is gone, but we have the one from October. If we’re in luck, we can use it to trace the individual who made the deposits. We’re picking it up right now.”

“I’ve talked with the Swedish Forensic Lab. They’re working hard on the evidence taken from the darkroom and apartment, and if we’re lucky we’ll have answers by the end of the week,” Sohlman informed the others. “There are also palm prints and fingerprints from the basement window that we checked against the criminal records. We didn’t come up with a match, so if they belong to the perp, he doesn’t have a police record.”

“What about the murder weapon?” asked Wittberg.

Sohlman shook his head.

“So far we haven’t found it, but all indications are that it was a hammer, the ordinary kind that you can buy in any hardware store.”

“All right. We need to proceed with the investigation as usual, but let’s concentrate on finding out what Dahlstrom was up to. Who else among his acquaintances might know something? What about the building superintendent? Or the daughter? We still haven’t had a proper interview with her. We’re going to expand the interview process to include anyone who had contact with Dahlstrom or who may have seen him on the night of the murder-the bus driver, employees in kiosks and stores, more neighbors in the area.”

“And the racetrack,” Jacobsson interjected. “We should contact people at the track.”

“But it’s closed for the season,” objected Wittberg.

“All the stables are still in operation. The horses have to be exercised, the stable personnel are working, and the drivers are there. It was at the track that he won all that money, after all.”

“Absolutely,” said Knutas. “All suggestions are welcome. One more thing before we adjourn-this has to do with how we’re going to handle the media. So far, thank God, no journalist has published any details-as you know, we never allow that when it’s a matter of a drunken brawl. But their interest in the case is going to grow if the news about the money gets out. So let’s keep it under wraps; don’t say a word to anyone. You know how easily word can spread. If any reporter starts asking you questions about the investigation, refer them to me or to Lars. I also think it’s time for us to call in the National Criminal Police. I’ve asked for their assistance. Two officers will be arriving tomorrow.”

“I hope Martin is one of them,” said Jacobsson. “That would be great.”

A murmur of agreement was heard.

Knutas shared their positive view of Martin Kihlgard, who had helped them with the investigation in the summer, but his relationship with the man did have its complications. Kihlgard was a cheerful and congenial person who was quite domineering and had an opinion about almost everything. Deep inside, Knutas was aware that his touchiness when it came to Kihlgard might have to do with a little-brother complex in relation to the gentleman from National. The fact that Karin Jacobsson had such an openly high opinion of his colleague didn’t make the situation any better.

With a whir and a click the tape slipped into the VCR. Knutas and Jacobsson were alone in Knutas’s office. A few seconds of grainy gray flickering, and then the inside of the bank appeared in black and white. They had to fast-forward a bit before they reached the time in question.

The clock in the upper-right-hand corner showed 12:23, and the date was October 30. Almost five minutes passed before anyone made the deposit in Dahlstrom’s account. The bank was quite crowded because it was the lunch hour. This particular branch was centrally located in Ostercentrum, and many people liked to take care of their banking at lunchtime. Two windows were open, with a female and a male teller behind the glass. On chairs near the window facing the street sat four people: an elderly man with a cane, a girl with long blond hair, a fat middle-aged woman, and a young man wearing a suit.

Knutas thought to himself that right now he might be looking at the very person who had murdered Henry Dahlstrom.

The door opened and two more people came into the bank. They didn’t seem to be together. First a man who appeared to be in his fifties. He was wearing a gray jacket and checked cap with dark slacks and shoes. He walked forward without hesitation and took a number.

Behind him came another man, very tall and of slight build. He stooped a bit. He apparently already had a number, and he went to stand in front of the teller’s window, as if he were next in line.

When he turned and glanced around the bank, Knutas saw that he had a camera hanging around his neck.

They recognized him at once. The man was Henry Dahlstrom.

“Damn it,” groaned Knutas. “He deposited the money himself.”

“There goes that possibility. How typical. It was too easy.”

Jacobsson turned on the ceiling light.

“He got the money and then put it in the bank himself,” she said. “Impossible to trace, in other words.”

“Damned rotten luck. But why didn’t the person just transfer the money directly into Dahlstrom’s account? If he was so afraid of being discovered, it must have been an even bigger risk for him to meet Dahlstrom to give him the money than if he had transferred the sum directly.”

“It certainly seems strange,” Jacobsson agreed. “I wonder what the money was for. I’m convinced the story about the racetrack is true. Dahlstrom gambled regularly, and the track has always attracted a shady clientele. Something underhanded could have been going on there, maybe a dispute between two criminal elements. Maybe Dahlstrom was hired to spy for someone and take pictures, so that the person could keep tabs on his rivals.”

“You’ve been watching too many movies,” said Knutas.

“Shit,” cried Jacobsson as she glanced at her watch. “Speaking of movies, I’ve got to get going.”

“What are you going to see?”

“We’re going to the Roxy to see a Turkish black comedy. It’s a special showing.”

“Who are you going with?”

“You’d really like to know, wouldn’t you?”

She gave Knutas an annoying wink and disappeared into the hallway.

“Why are you always so secretive?” he shouted after her.

Several Months Earlier

Fanny had come home from school to an empty apartment.

Her feeling of relief was mixed with a dose of guilt. The less she saw of her mother lately, the better she felt. At the same time, she didn’t think it was right to feel this way. You were supposed to like your mother. And besides, she was Fanny’s only parent.

She opened the refrigerator and her mood sank. Her mother hadn’t gone grocery shopping today, either.

Never mind. Right now she was going to do her homework. She was worried about Thursday’s math test; math had never been her strong suit. She had just taken out her books and sharpened her pencils when the phone rang. The sound gave her a start. The phone hardly ever rang in their apartment.

To her astonishment it was him, and he wanted to invite her to dinner. She was both surprised and uncertain. She didn’t know what to say.

“Hello, are you still there?” His smooth voice in the receiver.

“Yes,” she managed to say, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

“Can you? Do you want to?”

“I’ve got homework to do. We’re having a test.”

“But you still have to eat, don’t you?”

“Sure, of course I do,” she said hesitantly.

“Is your mother home?”

“No, I’m here alone.”

He sounded even more determined.

“Well then, it should be fine. If you study for the test now like a good girl, I can pick you up around seven. Then we’ll have dinner together and I’ll drive you straight home afterward. Surely there can’t be any harm in that. And you’ll have time to study, too.”

He sounded so anxious that she felt compelled to say yes. But what were they going to talk about? At the same time, the invitation to go out to a restaurant was tempting. She could count on one hand the number of times she had gone out to eat. The last time was during a disastrous vacation the previous summer. Her mother had rented a car for a week and they took the boat to Oskarshamn so they could drive around Skane and stay in youth hostels. It poured the whole time, and her mother drank every single day. On the last evening they went to a Chinese restaurant, and her mother got to talking to a group of Danish tourists. They drank a lot and started making a ruckus. Her mother got so drunk that she fell off her chair and pulled the whole tablecloth down with her. Fanny wanted to sink right through the floor.

She sat down at the kitchen table with her math books, wondering which restaurant they would go to. As long as it wasn’t too fancy. What was she going to wear? Now she really couldn’t concentrate on her math homework. Why had she said yes? Why was he inviting her out? Even though these thoughts were whirling around in her mind, she couldn’t help feeling flattered.

Suddenly she heard keys rattling in the lock and then her mother’s voice in the entryway.

“All right, Spot. Good dog. What dirty paws you have! Where’s the towel?”

Fanny stayed where she was at the table without saying a word. She counted off the seconds: 1, 2, 3, 4…

Then it came. Four seconds this time.

“Fanny. Fanny! ”

Slowly she stood up.

“What is it?” she called.

“Could you come and help me, please? My back hurts. Could you rinse off Spot? He’s so filthy.”

Fanny took the dog by the scruff of his neck and led him to the bathroom.

Her mother kept on chattering. She was clearly having one of her “up” days.

“We walked all the way out to Strandgardet. I met a nice lady with a poodle. They just moved in. The dog’s name is Salomon-can you imagine that? Spot really liked him. We took off their leashes, and they both went into the water, even though it’s so cold. That’s why he’s so filthy, from rolling in the dirt afterward. God, I’m hungry. Did you go grocery shopping?”

“No, Mamma. I just got home from school. We have a math test, and I need to study.”

As usual, her mother wasn’t listening. Fanny heard her opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen.

“Don’t we have anything in the freezer? Oh, look, this is great: fish casserole. I need to eat. How long does it have to be in the oven? Forty minutes. Good God, I’ll starve to death. Oh, I really have to pee. Oooh.”

She came rushing into the bathroom and sat down to pee while Fanny resolutely rinsed off the dog’s dirty paws. Why did her mother always have to announce all her needs loud and clear so that everyone would know how she felt at every second? Her head was pounding with irritation.

“Make sure you dry him off properly so he won’t catch cold,” said her mother as she wiped off her crotch.

“Yes, Mamma.”

How wonderful it would be if her mother showed the same concern for her daughter once in a while.

When Fanny came out of the bathroom, her mother was lying on the sofa with her eyes closed.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes, I need to rest for a while before going to work. Could you put the casserole in the oven when it’s preheated?”

“Okay.”

She sat down in the kitchen. Her mother seemed to have fallen asleep. She acts like a big baby, thought Fanny as she set the table. It was four o’clock. She now had three hours left. Two to study, she hoped, and one to get ready.

“What are you going to eat?” asked her mother when Fanny put the casserole on the table.

“Nothing. I’m not hungry yet. I’ll fix something later.”

“All right,” said her mother, who already seemed to be thinking about something else.

Fanny was on the verge of telling her about the fun theater performance they had seen at school, but she could see that her mother wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to listen. Just as well to keep quiet.

His disappointment over the tape was still bothering Knutas as he drove the short distance home in the evening.

He shivered in the ice-cold car. Lina was always complaining about the fact that he stubbornly insisted on keeping the old Benz, even though they could afford a new car. So far he had managed to fend off her ideas about buying a new one. It was too expensive and too much trouble to have two cars, and besides, there wasn’t room for more than one outside their house. And he would have a hard time giving up his Mercedes-there were too many memories and experiences attached to these comfortable old seats. It was as if he and the car felt a mutual affection for each other.

When he parked outside their house, he saw lights on in all the windows. A good sign; it meant that everyone was home. He was looking forward to a peaceful evening at home, but he found anything but an idyllic family scene when he opened the front door.

“Like hell I will! I don’t give a shit about what she says!”

Nils pounded up the stairs and slammed his door. Petra was sitting at the kitchen table. Lina was standing at the stove with her back turned, clattering the pots and pans. He could see from the way she stood that she was angry.

“What’s going on?”

Knutas asked the question even before he took off his coat.

His wife turned around. Her throat was flushed, and her hair was sticking out in all directions.

“Don’t talk to me. It’s been a hell of a day.”

“So what have you two been up to?” asked Knutas, patting his daughter on the head. She instantly leapt up from her chair.

“What have the two of us been up to?” she shot back at him. “You should be asking what he’s been up to. My so-called brother!”

And then she also pounded up the stairs.

“I had an awful day at work, and this is more than I can stand,” said Lina. “You’re going to have to deal with it.”

“Did something bad happen?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

He hung up his coat, took off his shoes, and then took the stairs in a couple of bounds. He summoned both children to the bedroom and sat down on the bed with them.

“Okay, tell me what’s going on.”

“Well, we were supposed to help set the table, but first we had to empty the dishwasher while Mamma cooked,” said Nils. “I took out the silverware basket and started emptying it. But then Petra came and said that she wanted to do it.”

“That’s not what happened!”

“Quiet! I’m talking right now. That is what happened. You yanked it out of my hands even though I had already started.”

Petra began to cry.

“Is that true?” asked Knutas patiently, turning to his daughter.

“Yes, but he always gets to do the silverware basket, just because it’s easier. I thought it was my turn. I wanted to trade jobs, but he wouldn’t. Then Mamma got mad and said that we should stop fighting and then Nils said that I was stupid.”

Nils’s face flushed with indignation.

“Yes, but I’d already started! You can’t just come and yank it away from me! And then Mamma started yelling at me that it was all my fault!”

Knutas turned to his daughter.

“I agree that you can’t just come and take away the silverware basket if Nils has already started to empty it. At the same time, Nils, you need to take turns when you empty the dishwasher from now on. And keep in mind that your mother is tired, and it’s not much fun for her to listen to you fighting when she’s trying to cook. And don’t call your sister stupid, Nils.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he said sullenly.

Knutas put his arms around both children and gave them a hug. Petra relented, but Nils was still mad and pulled away.

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Leave me alone,” snapped Nils, giving his father an angry glare.

Knutas took Nils aside, and after some persuasion, his son reluctantly agreed to come downstairs for dinner.

Lina looked tired and worn out.

“So what happened?” asked Knutas when peace had once again settled over the household.

“Oh, we had a problem at work. I’ll tell you later.”

“But we want to hear about it, too,” objected Petra.

“I don’t know… It’s such an awful story,” cautioned Lina.

“Please, Mamma. Tell us.”

“Well, okay. A woman who was supposed to give birth to her first child came in this morning with labor pains. Everything looked fine, but when she started to push, we couldn’t get the baby out. Anita thought we should give the mother an epidural to ease the contractions, but I wanted to wait.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she talked. Knutas reached for her hand under the table.

“Then the baby’s heartbeat suddenly got fainter, so we had to do an emergency cesarean. But it was too late. The baby died. I feel like it was my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. You did the best you could,” Knutas assured her.

“Oh, that’s so sad. Poor Mamma,” said Petra, trying to console her.

“I’m not the one you should feel sorry for. I’m going upstairs to lie down for a while.” Lina gave a big sigh and got up from the table.

“Shall I come with you?” asked Knutas.

“No, I’d rather be alone.”

Usually her work was a source of great joy for Lina, but when things went wrong, she was very hard on herself. She would go over and over everything that had happened, brooding about what they could have done differently, whether they could have done this instead of that.

It wasn’t really so strange, thought Knutas. She had to deal with life and death all day long. Just as he did.