Unspoken

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21

Pia Dahlstrom was a tall, dark, and very beautiful woman. Completely unlike her parents, both in appearance and demeanor. She was wearing a jacket, black pants, and high heels. Her hair was pinned up in a knot. She had arrived early because she had to leave that same morning. It was only 7:00 a.m., and police headquarters was still deserted.

Knutas had offered her coffee, which he had taken the trouble to make himself. It was rare that anyone bothered to make real coffee, even though the coffeemaker stood right next to the dreary office coffee machine. They chatted while they waited for the coffee to brew. She reminded him of Audrey Hepburn in the old movies from the fifties. Her big, dark eyes were rimmed with dark eyeliner, just like the movie star’s eyes.

When the coffee was done brewing, she sat down on his visitor’s sofa.

“Could you describe your relationship with your father?” Knutas asked, thinking that he sounded like a psychiatrist.

“We weren’t close at all. His alcoholism prevented that. He started drinking more and more the older I got, or maybe I just noticed it more as I grew up.”

She gave her beautiful head a slight shake. Not a strand of hair was out of place.

“He didn’t care about me,” she went on. “He never came to watch any of my riding lessons or gymnastics routines. Mamma was always the one who went to the PTA meetings and the quarterly teacher conferences. I can’t remember him ever making a single sacrifice or doing anything for my sake. No, I really couldn’t care less about him.”

“I can understand that,” said Knutas.

“You speak Gotland Swedish, but you sound like a Dane,” she said with a smile.

“I’m married to a Dane, so I guess some of it has rubbed off. How did you react when you heard about your father’s death?”

“I just felt empty inside. If he hadn’t been murdered, he probably would have ended up drinking himself to death. When I was younger I was angry at him, but that feeling is long gone. He chose the life he was living. He used to have everything: a stimulating job, a family, and a house. But he chose booze over me and my mother.”

“When did you last have contact with him?”

“The same day I passed my school exams,” she said without changing expression.

“But that must be more than fifteen years ago,” exclaimed Knutas in surprise.

“Seventeen, to be exact.”

“How could it be that the two of you haven’t had any contact since then?”

“It’s very simple. He never called, and I never did, either.”

“And you didn’t have any contact with him after the divorce?”

“Sometimes I would spend the weekends with him, but it wasn’t much fun. The fact that I was there didn’t stop him from drinking. He never had any ideas about what we should do except stay in his apartment, and then his buddies would come over. They’d drink without paying any attention to me. Watch the races and soccer games on TV, or sometimes they’d sit there and look at girlie magazines. It was disgusting. Usually I’d end up going back home after an hour. Then I stopped going there at all.”

“What about your relationship with your mother?”

“It’s fine. I suppose it could be better, but I think it’s at an acceptable level,” she said, sounding as if she were talking about stocks and bonds.

She scratched her collarbone and her bra strap was visible for a moment. It was a glossy gold with a nice embroidered edge.

She’s undoubtedly just as perfect underneath, thought Knutas, and then he was annoyed with himself for letting her femininity affect him.

“So how are you doing now?” he asked, to change the subject.

“Fine, thanks. I work at the municipal library in Malmo, and I like my job. I have lots of friends, both in Malmo and in Copenhagen.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if your father had any enemies? You haven’t had contact with him in so many years, but something from the distant past might also be important.”

A frown appeared on her face. “Not that I can think of.”

Not much more came out of the conversation. When Pia Dahlstrom left, a faint trace of her perfume lingered.

Several Months Earlier

“Are we going to eat here?”

She couldn’t hide her disappointment. She had thought that they were going to a restaurant.

“That’s right. I borrowed an apartment from a friend. The food is ready upstairs. Come on.”

He led the way through the front entrance. The building was located on one of those posh streets near Sodertorg, inside the ring wall. There was no elevator, so they had to trudge their way up to the fifth floor. When they reached the top landing, she was out of breath and had a growing sense of uneasiness in her chest. She looked at his trousers with the sharp creases. He suddenly seemed so old. What did he want with her here, anyway?

She had an urge to turn around and run back down the stairs, but then he took her hand.

“Wait till you see how nice it is.”

He fumbled with the keys.

The apartment was the biggest one she had ever seen. It was on the top floor, with thick beams in the ceiling and a view of the sea. The living room was enormous, with a polished hardwood floor and big, colorful paintings on the walls. In one corner stood a table that was set with plates and glasses. He hurried over to light the candles in a candelabra.

“Come on,” he said eagerly. “Come over here and have a look.”

They went out on the balcony, which had a panoramic view. She could see the water and part of the harbor, the town, with its labyrinth of buildings, and the tower of the cathedral.

“Let’s have some champagne.”

He made it sound so natural that she felt very grown up. He came back with a bottle and two glasses. He eagerly filled them.

“Cheers.”

She didn’t dare refuse. Cautiously she took a sip. It tickled her nose but didn’t taste very good. She hadn’t tried much alcohol before. Just a couple of times when her mother had urged her to have some wine on a Saturday evening so that she wouldn’t have to drink alone. Red wine tasted horrible. This was better. She took another sip.

“So, what do you think? Isn’t this grand?” he said, putting his arm around her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t know how to react.

He drank another toast with her.

“Drink up, little lady. Then we’ll go in and eat.”

For dinner they first had toast with some kind of topping. She ate carefully, watching him to see what he did. He poured the rest of the champagne and clinked glasses with her again and again. She took small sips but soon began to feel dizzy. The conversation kept stalling. He asked her a number of questions but mostly talked about himself. Boasted about all the amazing trips he had made to exotic places in the world. As if he wanted to impress her.

She listened but said very little. Reluctantly she began to relax. It was wonderful to be sitting in such a beautiful room, feeling the warmth from the candles. To be eating such an elegant dinner with muted music in the background. The main course was pork tenderloin with saffron rice. And red wine with the food, much better than the wine she’d tasted at home. She drank the whole glass. He kept on talking as Fanny devoted herself to studying the movements of his lips. She started getting the giggles.

“Did you enjoy the food?” he asked as he stood up and started clearing away the plates.

“Yes, thank you. It was great.” She snickered.

“That’s good.”

He looked so satisfied that she started laughing even more. To think he could be so pleased just because she was happy.

“Would you like some coffee? Or maybe you don’t drink coffee?”

She shook her head.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“It’s out in the hall, to the right. It says ‘WC’ on the door.”

He pointed, eager to show her the way. She was in such a hurry to pee that she felt as if she would burst.

The bathroom was just as elegant as the rest of the apartment. It had a light dimmer. She played with the light switch, moving it back and forth. The bathroom was sparkling clean, and it smelled nice. Everything looked new and unused. The toilet paper had a pattern, and it was softer than what she was used to. She smiled at herself in the mirror, then giggled. To think she was allowed to enjoy all this luxury.

When she went back, he had dimmed the lights and was sitting on the sofa. On the low coffee table stood two glasses of wine and a tray with candles of varying sizes.

“Come here,” he said softly.

She felt wary, didn’t really know what he wanted. She sat down cautiously, some distance away from him.

“You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?” he said gently.

He moved closer. Took her hand and played with her fingers. She hardly dared look at him. He put one hand on her leg. It felt warm and heavy through her jeans.

He left it there, not moving.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Cautiously he tugged at a strand of her hair.

“And you have such lovely hair, black and shiny and thick.”

He leaned back and stared at her.

“Your body… it’s perfect. Do you know how sexy you are?”

She felt anxious and uncomfortable but couldn’t utter a sound. No one had ever said anything like that to her before.

Suddenly he pulled her close and kissed her. She didn’t know what to do, just sat there, motionless. Her head was spinning from the wine. His mouth pressed harder against hers, and he tried to open her lips with his tongue. She let him do it. His hands began groping under her shirt, sliding up toward her breasts. She felt his weight as he bent over her. Then his hand reached one of her breasts. She was frightened by his reaction. He moaned and whimpered. Started getting rough, tugging and pulling at her bra. His tongue whisked around in her mouth. Suddenly her thoughts were crystal clear. The only thing she knew was that she had to get away.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

He didn’t seem to hear but just kept tearing at her clothes.

“Wait a minute. I have to go to the bathroom,” she added to make him stop.

“But I just want to touch you a little,” he cajoled.

“Please, wait.”

He put his hands on her back. They were sweaty now, he was sweaty all over. They sat motionless for a moment, and she listened to him breathing hard.

Then he loosened his grip. It seemed as if he were giving up.

He held her away from him and fixed his eyes on her breasts.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

He began groping her again. Even rougher than before.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to.”

“Just a little. You can just give me a little.”

He pushed her down onto the sofa, pulled down her zipper, and took a firm grip on her jeans, pulling them off with a jerk. They were so tight that her panties came off with them. She was completely exposed and realized that she didn’t have a chance. She stopped struggling and lay still. He pushed her thighs apart.

Then she started to cry.

“I don’t want to,” she screamed. “Stop it! Stop it! ”

All of a sudden he seemed to come to his senses. He let go of her.

When he drove her home, he didn’t say a word the whole way. She didn’t, either.

Against all odds, Emma had agreed to meet him for lunch. Johan had finished the interview with the county governor, which meant that he was free for the rest of the day. He was supposed to fly home in the morning.

They had agreed to meet at his hotel room. She didn’t dare go anywhere else.

Grenfors had called to talk about the story Johan had been assigned to do back in Stockholm; it sounded totally uninteresting.

After the phone conversation, he sat in an armchair and looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes until Emma arrived. Should he order lunch now, to get that out of the way? It was probably a good idea. If the food was delivered faster, they would have more time to themselves. He grabbed the menu and scanned the selections: toast, Caesar salad, sole on a bed of spinach for two hundred and forty kronor-scandalous. Hamburgers with pommes frites-couldn’t they just write French fries for once?

What would Emma like? What did she eat? Shrimp, shellfish-no, not shrimp soup. Pasta Bolognese-a fancy way of saying ordinary spaghetti with meat sauce. Something light, but not too light. But maybe she was super-hungry. How about an omelet?

He started to sweat. He would have to take a shower. Without making up his mind, he punched the number for room service. What did they recommend? What’s fast, good, not too heavy, and not too expensive? Meatballs with cream sauce and lingonberries-sure, maybe not very elegant, but what the hell.

He ordered two portions and then tore off his clothes. Fifteen minutes left. Would the food come on time, or would they be interrupted in the midst of this longed-for rendezvous? At least he had been longing for it-as for her, he had no idea. What if she had agreed to meet him just to tell him that it was over?

As he got out of the shower, there was a knock on the door. No, it couldn’t be… He needed to get dressed, comb his hair, and put on some aftershave. He stopped. Or was it their food? He crept over to the door with water dripping all over.

“Yes?”

“Room service,” said a voice on the other side of the door. Relief flooded over him. Why did everything feel as if it were a matter of life and death?

The waiter started setting the table. No, no, that wasn’t necessary, thanks. He couldn’t offer him a tip, standing there like that in his underwear with a meager towel held up in front of him as a shield. Two minutes left. He threw on some pants and a clean shirt. Then it was twelve ten and she hadn’t arrived. Time for a panic attack. What if she didn’t come? Had he missed a text message on his cell phone? It was on the table. No, no messages. She had to come, damn it. He looked at himself in the mirror-pale, helpless, at the mercy of his stormy emotions and the despair that would inevitably flood over him if it turned out that she had changed her mind.

There was a knock on the door. He took such a deep breath that he saw stars. He shook his head. To think he couldn’t take control of his own life.

It was unreal seeing her standing there in the corridor. With her dark eyes and rosy cheeks, she looked shamelessly perky and healthy. She smiled at him, and that was enough to make the floor disappear from under his feet.

“Mmmm… that smells good. Meatballs,” she said without much enthusiasm.

How could he be so hopelessly stupid? Offering a teacher meatballs. That’s what they probably had every day at school. What an idiot. They sat down at the table.

“Would you like a beer?”

“Sure, thanks.”

What an absurd situation. Here they sat, each of them with a plate of food on the table, in a hotel room with cloudy skies outside, and it was the first time they had seen each other in almost a month. She had put on a little weight, he noticed. It suited her.

“How are you?”

The question sounded as artificial as the flowers on the table.

“Fine, thanks,” she replied without looking up from the food. “What about you?”

“Not too bad.”

The meatballs felt like cardboard in his mouth.

Silence.

They looked up from their plates at the same time and finished chewing with their eyes fixed on each other.

“Actually, I feel like hell,” said Johan.

“Me, too.”

“Miserable, in fact. I feel sick all the time.”

“Same here. I keep feeling as if I’m going to throw up.”

“The whole situation is rotten.”

“Rotten to the core,” she said, and her eyes danced.

They burst out laughing, but stopped abruptly. She took another bite of her food.

Johan leaned toward her, earnest now.

“I feel as if I’m only half alive. You know-I do all the usual things that I’m supposed to do. Get out of bed in the morning, have breakfast, go to work, but nothing is real. Everything seems to be happening somewhere else. I keep thinking that it’s going to get better, but that’ll never happen.”

She carefully wiped her mouth with the napkin and got up from the table. She had a solemn look on her face. The only thing he could do was sit still. Quietly she pulled him up from his chair. They were almost the same height. She put her arms around him, kissed him on the neck. He felt her warm breath in his ear.

Her strong, hard body against his. They tumbled onto the bed, and she pressed herself against him, their legs intertwined, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Her lips were soft and warm, her hair smelled like apple. He felt tears stinging his eyelids. Embracing her was like coming home.

He didn’t really know what he did, or what she did; he knew only that he didn’t want it to end.

It turned out that Martin Kihlgard from the national police did come after all. He was accompanied by Hans Hansson, who was a gaunt and unobtrusive man, compared with his boisterous colleague. Everyone in the criminal division welcomed Kihlgard with open arms. He was a big man whose clothes were always in disarray, but he was a respected and capable detective. There was much backslapping and handshaking all around. Karin Jacobsson gave him such a long hug that Knutas felt a pang of the same irritation he had felt last summer. Those two had gotten along so well that Knutas was jealous, even though he would never admit it out loud. Kihlgard was a big lug, but it was obvious that Jacobsson appreciated his outgoing personality.

When he caught sight of Knutas, Kihlgard’s jovial smile got even bigger.

“Well, hello, Knutie,” he shouted heartily, slapping him on the back. “How’s it going, old boy?”

He sounds like Captain Haddock in the Tintin comics, thought Knutas as he returned the smile. He found it very annoying that Kihlgard had suddenly decided to call him Knutie.

They sat down in Knutas’s office and started reviewing the case. No more than ten minutes passed before Kihlgard began grumbling about food.

“Aren’t we going to have lunch?”

“Of course, it’s almost time for it,” said Jacobsson promptly. “Why don’t we go to the Cloister? Anders’s friend owns the place, and they have great food,” she explained, turning to both officers from National.

“That sounds excellent,” growled Kihlgard. “You get us a good table, okay, Knutie?”

Lunch was pleasant, in any event. Leif gave them a window table with a view of Saint Per’s Ruin. Hans Hansson had never been to Gotland before, and he was impressed.

“It’s even more beautiful than in the pictures we see. You live in a regular fairy tale city over here. I hope you appreciate it.”

“Normally we don’t think much about it,” said Jacobsson with a smile. “But a trip to the mainland is always a good reminder. Then I realize how beautiful it is when I come back home.”

“Same here,” Knutas agreed. “I’d have a hard time living anywhere else.”

They ate the grilled lamb and root-vegetable casserole with gusto. Kihlgard had no time to talk while he was eating, except once when he asked for more bread. Knutas was reminded that his colleague apparently had an insatiable appetite. The man was always eating, at all times of the day and night.

The restaurant was furnished in an old-fashioned style, with lighted candles and linen tablecloths on all the tables. The cozy atmosphere was particularly welcome now that it was overcast and cold outdoors. Leif surprised them with the restaurant’s specialty, a homemade chocolate cake, with their coffee. Then he sat down to join them for a moment.

“How nice to have new lunch customers. Are you staying for a while?”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” said Kihlgard. “This is an amazingly delicious cake.”

“Please come again, anytime. We’re always happy to see all of our customers.”

“I suppose it must be difficult in the wintertime.”

“Yes, it’s tough running a restaurant here that’s open all year round. But we’ve managed to do all right, at least so far. Well, don’t let me disturb you anymore.”

Leif stood up and left.

“We’ve gone over the details of Dahlstrom’s life, but what’s the situation with alcoholics here on the island, in general?” asked Kihlgard. “For instance, how many are there?”

“I would estimate there are about thirty or so truly hard-core alcoholics, meaning individuals who drink all the time and have no job,” replied Jacobsson.

“So they’re homeless?”

“We actually don’t have any homeless here, like you do in the city. Most of them have their own apartment or else they live in municipal housing for addicts scattered here and there.”

“What about violent crime among this sort of people?”

“Occasionally they kill each other when they’re drunk. We have a couple of murders a year, on average, that are drug or alcohol related. But usually that happens among the drug addicts. The alcoholics are generally harmless.”

It was about time to go back to the office. Knutas waved to Leif to get the bill. The wonderful chocolate cake was on the house.

After seeing Emma again, Johan had a longing for fresh air. He took a walk to distract his thoughts.

Almedalen Park was quiet and deserted. The wet asphalt of the public footpath through the grass glittered in the glow of the streetlights, and he could hear the low quacking of the ducks in the pond, even though they were barely visible in the dark. He turned onto the shoreline pathway that ran from Visby all the way out to Snackgards Beach, two miles north. Here the wind picked up, and he turned up the collar of his jacket against the chill. Not a soul was in sight. The waves rolled in to shore, and seagulls shrieked. A large passenger ferry with its navigation lights shining through the darkness was approaching Visby Harbor.

He thought about Emma and couldn’t comprehend how he had managed without her for so long. All his feelings had now been reawakened, and he realized that it would be rough to go on waiting. Even though their relationship had now entered a new phase. The anxious waiting was over, and he knew how she felt about him. And knowing this made him feel both calm and strong.

What he needed to do now was to come up with some good story ideas so that he could come back to the island as soon as possible. It was harder for Emma to find an excuse to go to Stockholm.

He passed the Maiden Tower, one of the ring wall’s many defensive structures. There was an old legend about this particular tower. In the fourteenth century, King Valdemar Atterdag of Denmark was attempting to capture Visby and strip the city of its riches. A young woman helped him to gain access through one of the gates in the ring wall. The woman had fallen in love with the king, and he had promised to marry her and take her back to Denmark if she opened the gate for him and his men. She did as he asked, and the Danes then plundered Visby. But the king broke his promise and left the young woman to her fate after she had done what he asked. When her role was discovered, the townspeople punished her by walling her alive in the Maiden Tower. According to legend, her cries for help can still be heard. As Johan walked past in the dark, he could easily imagine her inside. The wind was howling, and perhaps it was her desperate cries that he heard in the wind. Even though he was freezing, he was enjoying the weather.

As he passed the Botanical Gardens, the rocks of Strandgardet appeared, and in the distance shone the lights from the hospital.

Suddenly he heard a shout. A very real shout.

He stepped forward into the darkness and discovered an elderly woman lying on an embankment with a yapping terrier at her side.

“What happened?”

“I fell down and can’t get up,” complained the woman, her voice quavering. “My foot hurts terribly.”

“Wait, let me help you,” Johan reassured her, taking a firm grip on her arm. “Careful now, stand up slowly.”

“Thank you so much. That was awful,” moaned the woman as she got to her feet.

“Are you hurt? Can you put any weight on your foot?”

“Yes, it’ll be fine. You’re not the kind of man who mugs old women, are you?”

Johan couldn’t help smiling. He wondered how he must look, in his black jacket, unshaven, and with his hair disheveled.

“You don’t have to worry. My name is Johan Berg,” he said.

“Thank goodness. I’ve had enough drama for one day. My name is Astrid Persson. Do you think you could walk me home? I live over on Backgatan, up there across from the hospital.”

She pointed with a gloved finger.

“Of course,” said Johan, taking her by the arm. In his other hand he held the little terrier’s leash, and together they set off toward Backgatan.

Astrid Persson absolutely insisted on inviting him in for a cup of cocoa. Her husband, Bertil, had started to get worried, and he thanked Johan warmly for his help.

“You’re not from Gotland, are you?”

“No, I’m here on an assignment. I’m a journalist for Swedish TV in Stockholm.”

“Is that right? Are you here to report on the murder?”

“You mean the murder of Henry Dahlstrom?”

“Yes, exactly. Do you know anything about who did it?”

“No, we hardly know anything at all about the case. The police aren’t saying much. At least so far.”

“Ah, so that’s how it is.”

Bertil slurped his cocoa.

“He was a nice guy, that Dahlstrom.”

“Did you know him?”

“Sure, of course I did. He helped me with some carpentry. He built our carport, and he did a really good job.”

“He also did some work on the dormer window,” his wife added. “He worked as a carpenter in his younger days, you know. Before he became a photographer.”

“Is that right? And he managed to do carpentry work, in spite of his alcohol problem?”

“Oh yes, he did fine. It was as if he pulled himself together while he was working. I did notice that he smelled of liquor one time, but it didn’t affect his work. He did the job he was supposed to do, showed up when he promised he would, and so on. Yes, he did an excellent job. And he was pleasant, too, not much of a talker but nice.”

Astrid nodded in agreement. Her husband had carefully taped up her foot, which she was now resting on a stool.

“How long ago was this?” asked Johan.

“Well, let’s see. We had the carport built several years ago. When was it?”

He looked at his wife.

“Four, maybe five years ago? And the dormer window was done last year.”

“Did he help other people with this sort of work?”

“Sure he did. I heard about him from a friend in the local folklore society.”

“Have you told the police about this?”

Bertil Persson looked embarrassed. He set his cocoa cup on the table.

“No, why should we? What does it matter that he was here and did a bit of carpentry work? Why would the police care about that?”

He leaned toward Johan and lowered his voice to speak confidentially.

“And besides, we paid him under the table. He was living on welfare and that’s how he wanted it. You won’t say anything, will you?”

“I hardly think the police would care about how he was paid, given the situation. They’re conducting a murder investigation, and this would be important information for them to have. I can’t keep it to myself.”

Bertil raised his eyebrows.

“Really? But then we risk getting caught for hiring an illegal worker.”

He looked upset. Astrid Persson put her hand on his arm.

“As I said, I don’t think the police will take that very seriously,” said Johan.

He stood up. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“But I told you this in confidence,” exclaimed Bertil Persson, looking as if he thought his days were numbered.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

The man grabbed Johan’s arm, and his voice took on an ingratiating tone.

“But it can’t be that important, can it? My wife and I are members of the church-it would be embarrassing if this got out. Can’t we forget about the whole thing?”

“I’m sorry, but no,” snapped Johan, pulling his arm away, a bit more brusquely than he intended.

He hurried out of the building after saying a rather strained good-bye.

Knutas sank onto his desk chair, holding what he hoped was his last cup of coffee for the day-at least if his stomach had anything to say about the matter. The preliminary autopsy report from the ME showed, exactly as expected, that Henry Dahlstrom had died as the result of contusions to the back of his head caused by a hammer. The perpetrator had delivered a series of blows, using both the blunt and claw end of the hammer.

The time of death was probably late on Monday night, November 12, or possibly early Tuesday morning. This coincided well with the circumstances known to the police. All indications were that the murder had occurred after 10:30 p.m., when Dahlstrom’s neighbor heard him go down to the basement.

Knutas started meticulously filling his pipe as he continued studying the photos and reading the description of the victim’s wounds.

Solving a homicide was like solving a crossword puzzle. Rarely was the solution discovered through direct means. Instead, it required leaving certain details alone for a day while concentrating on others. When he later returned to what he had set aside, new patterns would often emerge. And the same thing happened when he did crossword puzzles: He frequently found it very surprising that a particular problem had caused him so much trouble. When he looked at it again, the solution seemed crystal clear.

Knutas went over to the window, opened it slightly, and lit his pipe.

Then there were the witnesses. Dahlstrom’s friends had nothing of any direct value to report. They had largely just confirmed what the police already knew. Nor had anything new emerged that might reinforce their suspicions about Johnsson, so the prosecutor had decided to release the man. He was still going to be charged with theft, but there was no reason to keep him in custody.

Knutas had practically ruled out the idea that Johnsson was the guilty party. On the other hand, he was giving a good deal of thought to the man named Orjan. An unpleasant type. He’d been in jail for aggravated assault and battery. And he seemed capable of murder.

When Orjan was interviewed he had denied it, of course, claiming that he hardly knew Dahlstrom. And this had been confirmed by others in their circle. But that didn’t preclude the possibility that he might have killed Dahlstrom.

Arne Haukas, the PE teacher who lived in the same section of the building as Dahlstrom, had been questioned about his whereabouts on the night of the murder. He claimed that he had simply gone out jogging, as usual. He explained the late hour by saying that he’d been watching a movie on TV, and so he had postponed his run. There was a lighted ski trail nearby, so there was no problem with running at night. He hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual.

Knutas’s ruminations were interrupted by the phone ringing. It was Johan Berg, who told him about the carpentry work that Dahlstrom had done for Bertil and Astrid Persson on Backgatan. Knutas was surprised.

“Strange that we didn’t hear about this before. Do you have the names of anyone else he did work for?”

“No, the old man wasn’t happy when I said that I’d have to tell the police. But you could check with the local folklore society-that’s where he heard about Dahlstrom.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Thanks for calling.”

“You’re welcome.”

Knutas put down the phone, thinking about what he’d learned. So Dahlstrom had done work for people in their homes. The information opened a whole new avenue. In his mind he sent Johan words of gratitude.

Fanny went straight home from school. At the door she met her mother’s boyfriend, Jack. He glanced at her but didn’t even bother to say hi. He just hurried past. The door to the apartment wasn’t locked, and Fanny realized at once that something was wrong. She peeked in the kitchen, but it was empty.

She found her mother stretched out on the sofa under a blanket. The blanket had slipped to one side, revealing that she was naked. On the table stood empty beer and wine bottles next to an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

“Mamma,” said Fanny, shaking her by the shoulder. “Wake up!”

Not a hint of life.

“Mamma,” Fanny repeated with a sob rising in her throat. She shook her harder. “Mamma, please wake up.”

Finally her mother opened her eyes and said in a slurred voice, “I have to throw up. Get me a bucket.”

“Which one?”

“Bring the one under the kitchen counter. The red one.”

Fanny dashed out to the kitchen to get the bucket, but she didn’t find it in time. Her mother threw up all over the rug.

She helped her mother into the bedroom, pulled the covers over her, and set the bucket next to the bed. Spot had started licking up the vomit. She chased him away and then used some paper towels to wipe up the worst of it. But she could see that the rug would have to be washed. She ran hot water in the bathtub, poured in some laundry soap, and then lowered the rug into the water. She left it to soak in the tub while she cleaned up the living room, collecting all the bottles, emptying the ashtray, and airing out the place. When she was finished, she sank onto the sofa.

Spot whimpered. The poor thing needed to go out. She seriously considered calling her mother’s sister to tell her that she couldn’t handle things anymore. But she decided that she didn’t dare; her mother would be furious. Yet what would happen if she kept on drinking like this? She risked losing her job, and then what?

Fanny didn’t have the energy to think about that. Soon she wouldn’t have the energy for anything at all.