Unspoken

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23

At the next day’s morning meeting everyone was talking about the discovery of the murder weapon. It was a breakthrough in the investigation, of course. By all accounts, the blotches on the hammer were blood. The hammer had been sent to the Swedish Crime Lab for DNA analysis. But there were no fingerprints.

Most of them had seen on the evening news how the hammer was discovered. Naturally Kihlgard made jokes about the police officers’ comments that were caught on tape, and he drew a good deal of laughter from the others. Knutas was only moderately amused. He was annoyed by the extent of the information presented in the news story. At the same time, he understood that the reporter was just doing his job. It was so typical that Johan should end up right in the thick of things. He had an incredible talent for showing up exactly when things were happening. Everything had gone so fast out there that no one had thought of reining him in before it was too late. Yet, once again Johan had provided new facts that would benefit the investigation, even though the police didn’t know the source of his report about the witness at the harbor. After the case with the serial killer that past summer, Knutas had learned to trust the persistent TV reporter, although Johan could drive him crazy with all the information he managed to dig up. How he did it was a mystery. If he hadn’t become a journalist, he would have made an excellent police detective.

The news program had started off with a long segment about the murder, the latest developments in the investigation, the payments Dahlstrom had received under the table, and the witness who had seen Dahlstrom with an unidentified man down at the harbor.

“Why don’t we start with the unreported carpentry work?” said Norrby. “We’ve interviewed four people who hired Dahlstrom in addition to Mr and Mrs Persson. Two of them are members of the same folklore society as the Perssons. They all said more or less the same thing. Dahlstrom did a number of minor jobs for them. They paid him for the work, and that was that. Evidently he conducted himself in an exemplary manner, showed up when he was supposed to, and so on. They knew, of course, that he was an alcoholic, but he had been referred to them by friends.”

“So it was through a referral from others that they got in touch with him?” asked Wittberg.

“Yes, and none of them had any complaints about his work. We’re going to keep questioning people.”

“The murder weapon wasn’t the only thing we found yesterday. We also found his camera. Sohlman?”

“It’s a professional camera, a Hasselblad. Dahlstrom’s fingerprints were found on it, so we’re confident that it did in fact belong to him. There was no film in it, and the lens was broken, so someone had treated it rather roughly.”

“Maybe the murderer took the film,” Jacobsson put in. “The darkroom had been searched, which indicates that the murder possibly had something to do with Dahlstrom’s photography.”

“ Possibly. At the same time, we’ve received reports from SCL on the samples that were taken from Dahlstrom’s apartment and darkroom. SCL have really outdone themselves-we’ve never received such quick results before,” Sohlman murmured to himself as he leafed through the documents. “All the prints from glasses, bottles, and other objects have been analyzed. Many are from Dahlstrom’s buddies who visited his apartment. But there are also prints that can’t be ascribed to any of them. They may be from the perpetrator.”

“Okay,” said Knutas. “At least we know that much. As if the information about Dahlstrom’s unreported carpentry work wasn’t enough, Johan Berg has also found a witness claiming to have seen Dahlstrom with a man down at the harbor last summer. Unfortunately, this witness does not want to talk to the police.”

From his notes he rattled off the description of the man at the harbor.

“They were standing in a narrow passageway between two containers and talking, around five in the morning. The witness recognized Dahlstrom and knew that this was far away from the places where he usually hung out. What do you think?”

“If there’s one witness, there could be more,” said Wittberg. “When exactly did this happen?”

“We don’t know. Only that it was supposedly in the middle of the summer.”

“Why was the witness down at the harbor so early in the morning?” asked Kihlgard.

“He was there with a girl who was going to take the morning ferry to Nynashamn.”

“So we’re talking about a younger man. It might be one of Dahlstrom’s neighbors. Wasn’t there a young guy living in the building?”

“You’re right about that. I think he lives on the floor upstairs.”

Knutas glanced down at his papers.

“His name is Niklas Appelqvist. A student.”

“If the witness, whoever he is, could at least tell us the name of the girl, then we could find out what day she left by looking at the passenger lists of Destination Gotland,” said Jacobsson. “I think they keep the lists for three months.”

“But how are we going to proceed if the witness doesn’t want to talk to the police?” asked Norrby.

“Maybe the reporter would have better luck getting the information out of him than we would,” said Jacobsson. “I think we should first ask Johan Berg for help. Maybe the witness is one of those types who’s extremely hostile toward the police. For some inexplicable reason, those sorts of people do exist,” she added sarcastically.

She turned to Knutas, giving him a big smile.

“So we’re going to have to suck up to the reporter,” she said gleefully. “And you’re so good at that kind of thing, Anders.”

Jacobsson gave him a friendly poke in the side. Kihlgard looked equally amused.

Knutas was annoyed, but he had to admit that she was right. Legally, he couldn’t investigate the young man, but there was nothing to prevent him from asking Johan to find out the name of the girl. So the police were at the mercy of the journalist’s goodwill. And that was a pisser.

Just as Johan entered the editorial offices of Regional News, his cell phone rang. It was Knutas.

“I wonder if you’d be willing to help us with something.”

“What is it?”

“Do you think the witness would remember the name of the girl he was with when he saw Dahlstrom and another man down at the harbor?”

“I don’t know. It sounded as if she was someone he spent only that one evening with.”

“Could you ask him?”

“Sure. But it’ll have to wait awhile. I just arrived at the newsroom.”

The police wanted his help. How nice. This was a switch from the normal situation when, as a journalist, he had to beg, plead, and cajole to get any information. He would keep Knutas waiting for just a bit.

A pleasantly drowsy Friday mood had settled over the newsroom. Fridays often had a slower pace than usual because half of the evening news program was devoted to a longer story.

Grenfors was sitting alone at the big table in the middle of the room, the so-called news desk. It was the workplace for editors, anchormen, and broadcast producers-all the key people whose job it was to put together the programs, make decisions, and assign the stories. At this time of day the anchormen and producers hadn’t yet put in an appearance. Most of the reporters were sitting at their own desks with phones pressed to their ears. In the morning they did their research and made appointments for interviews. The day often started off at a leisurely pace, which then accelerated and finally reached a crescendo of stress right before the broadcast. That’s when they had to deal with stories that weren’t finished in time, something in a report that had to be changed at the last minute because the editor wasn’t happy with it, computers that crashed, video-editing machines that broke so that certain images couldn’t be transmitted, and all sorts of other problems. Time was short, and they always worked up until the very last second. Everyone was used to that; it was their normal work tempo.

“Hi, there,” Grenfors greeted Johan. “That was a good report yesterday. Great that we’ve got the story now. It feels like it’s going to get bigger. We’ll have to wait and see how it develops. Meanwhile… something else has come up.”

The editor shuffled through the documents and newspapers that were heaped in a big, messy pile on the table.

“The police seized a record amount of Rohypnol in Kapellskar this morning. Could you look into it?”

Oh, right, look into it, thought Johan. That sounded easy enough, but he knew what Grenfors expected. A substantial story that he could use at the top of the broadcast, containing information that was a Regional News exclusive. He had strong doubts that it was a record amount. He had lost count of all the drug busts that had been made over the past year.

“Isn’t National News doing the story?” he asked wearily. He had been hoping to go home early.

“Sure, but you know how they are. They do their report and we do ours. Besides, you have better contacts than all their reporters put together.”

“Okay.”

Johan went back to his desk. Before he got started, he called Niklas Appelqvist in Grabo.

He answered at once. Yes, he had kept in touch with the girl for a short time. He might still have her last name and phone number somewhere. He recalled only that her first name was Elin and she lived in Uppsala. He promised to call back as soon as possible. Before Johan could pick up the receiver to call the Customs Agency, the phone rang. He heard his mother’s voice.

“Hi, my dear boy. How are you? How was it on Gotland?”

“It was fine.”

“Did you see Emma?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

He was close to his mother, and by this time she knew almost everything about his complicated relationship with Emma. She listened and offered advice without expecting that he would follow it. She never judged him, and he appreciated that.

Johan’s relationship with his mother had deepened after his father died of cancer almost two years ago now. There were four brothers, but Johan was the oldest, and he was closest to his mother. They had a need for each other. During the past year his mother had needed him more, and they had spent a great deal of time together, talking about his father and how life had changed. Especially for her, of course. She now lived alone in the big house in the suburb of Bromma. He had tried to persuade her to move so that she wouldn’t have to take care of all the practical matters by herself. Her sons did help out quite a bit, but they also had their own lives.

She had now recovered from the worst of her grief. She had even started seeing a man who belonged to the same bowling club. He was a widower, and she seemed to enjoy his company. Whether there was anything romantic going on between them she had never mentioned, and Johan didn’t want to ask. The fact that his mother was seeing this man took a lot of the pressure off because he no longer had to worry as much about her being alone.

Fanny was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the reflection of her face in the window. She was alone. Her mother was at work, as usual. The neighbors across the courtyard had hung up their Advent stars already. In another month it would be Christmas Eve. Yet another Christmas alone with her mother. Other people got together with family and friends to celebrate with Christmas trees and presents. The coziest thing of all must be to sit around a big table and eat Christmas dinner together. A warm apartment, candles, and good company. But she and her mother had only each other. And Spot, of course. They never went to visit relatives. Fanny had begun to realize why. The relatives were afraid that her mother would either get drunk or have one of her outbursts. She was so unpredictable that no one could ever relax when she was around. They never knew what might happen. If someone said or did something that her mother took as a criticism, the rest of the evening would be ruined. That’s why she and her mother were always alone. Not even her maternal grandmother was around anymore; she was senile and lived in a retirement home.

They never bought a real tree for Christmas, either. They just set up a dreary-looking plastic tree on the table, as if they were a couple of old retired people. They usually ate Christmas dinner in front of the TV. Store-bought meatballs, beet salad, and ready-made Jansson’s Temptation, the traditional casserole of herring, potatoes, and onions in a cream sauce. All they had to do was heat it up in the microwave. Her mother would drink aquavit and wine and get more and more tipsy as the evening wore on. There was always some movie on TV that she wanted to see, but before long she would fall asleep on the sofa. Fanny would have to take Spot out for his evening walk. She hated Christmas. The fact that it was also her birthday didn’t make matters any better. She was going to turn fifteen-that meant she was practically grown up. She felt like a child in an adult’s body. She didn’t want to get any older; she had nothing to look forward to. She leaned her head on her hands, inhaling the scent of her newly washed hair. In some strange way she found that comforting. She looked down at the curve of her breasts. They had caused all the problems; her body had ruined everything. If she hadn’t gotten older, this whole thing would never have happened. Her body was a weapon that could be used both against others and against herself.

And him. Now she mostly felt sick whenever she thought of him. His sweaty hands would paw at her, wanting to get under her clothes; he whimpered and whined like a baby. He wanted to do all sorts of strange things with her, and she didn’t dare protest. She felt disgusted with herself, revolted. He told her that now they were both involved, and she had to keep quiet about what they did together. He talked as if they shared a secret agreement, a pact. But that’s not how it was. Deep in her heart, she knew that. He said that he needed her, that she was important to him, and he gave her presents, which she had a hard time resisting. And that made her feel guilty. She was equally at fault, and she had only herself to blame. But now she didn’t want to go on. She wanted to get away from him, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine how to do that. In her day-dreams she wished that someone would come around the corner and rescue her from everything. But no one ever showed up. She wondered what her father would say if he knew.

She went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Spot followed and looked up at her with his sweet eyes. She took out the green box of razor blades and sat down on the toilet seat. Carefully she took out a blade and held it between her fingers. Tears welled up, hot and salty, and rolled down her cheeks to land on her lap. She held out one hand and studied her fingers. What use was this hand? The blue veins ran from her wrist and into her palm filled with her blood, which pumped through her body. How meaningless. Why was she born? To take care of her mother? So that some disgusting old man could paw at her?

She looked at Spot, and that was enough to make him wag his tail hesitantly. You’re the only one who likes me, she thought. But I can’t keep on living just for the sake of my dog.

She took a firm grip on the razor blade and pressed it against her leg, almost level with her kneecap. She wanted to watch it pierce her skin. She pressed harder and harder. It hurt. At the same time, it felt good, almost liberating. All her fear and pain collected there, in her leg instead of in her whole body. In one place. Finally the blood began to flow, running down her leg and onto the floor.

He saw Emma at once, as soon as she came through the door. He watched her for several seconds while she looked around. The restaurant was small, intimate, and very crowded. He was sitting in a corner at the back, and it was hard to see him from the entrance. Then she noticed him, and her face lit up. To think it was possible to be so beautiful. She was wearing a moss green jacket, and her hair was wet from the rain. It was unusual to see her in a restaurant in Stockholm, and he liked it.

They kissed. Her lips tasted of salty licorice, and she laughed into his mouth.

“What a day! I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I didn’t hear a thing they said. All I wanted was to get out of there. The course I was taking had absolutely nothing to say to me.”

“Were the speakers boring?”

He could feel that his whole face was smiling.

She threw out her hands. “I’m sure they were brilliant, inspiring, and super-charismatic. Everybody else was very pleased. But for me, none of that mattered. I just sat there thinking about you and longing to get away.”

Their hands met across the table, and Johan couldn’t get his fill of looking at her.

This is how it should always be, he thought. On the ring finger of her left hand her wedding band gleamed, a reminder that he only had her on loan. Just as their food arrived, her cell phone rang. Johan could tell at once that it was her husband, Olle, calling.

“It was good,” she said. “Interesting speakers. Mmm. I’m sitting here having a glass of wine with Viveka. Mmm. We’re leaving soon. The banquet doesn’t start until eight.”

She glanced at Johan. Then she got a worried look on her face.

“What? He does? That’s too bad. When did it start? Hmm. How high is his temperature? Oh no. Try to get him to drink some fluids… Is he throwing up, too? How typical that he should get sick when I’m not home. Aren’t you supposed to play a match early tomorrow morning? Uh-huh. Okay. You and Sara aren’t sick, too, are you? If he keeps on like that, you should probably give him some fluid-replacement mixture. Do we have any in the house? Hmm. I hope you get some sleep tonight.”

“That was Olle,” she explained unnecessarily. “Filip has the stomach flu. He’s been throwing up all afternoon.”

She took a sip of her wine and looked out the window. Just a quick glance, but enough for Johan to realize that everything was much more complicated than he wanted to believe. She had children that she shared with her husband and she always would. He had watched her as she talked on the phone, and he understood how much of an outsider he was. What did he know about childhood illnesses? He didn’t even know Emma’s children. They had no relationship to him.

After dinner he wanted to show her around. It had stopped raining, and they strolled down to Hornstull beach, past Reimersholme, and out to Langholmen. Even though it was dark, they walked across the Bridge of Sighs, along the path past the old Malarvarvet, and over to the other side. The lights from Gamla Stan, the city hall, and Norr Malarstrand were reflected in the water.

They sat down on a bench.

“Stockholm is so damn beautiful,” said Emma with a sigh. “The water makes it seem like it’s not a big city, even though there are so many people. I could see myself living here.”

“You could?”

“Yes. I’m always so jealous when you tell me about everything going on here. All the people, the theater, the cultural events. It makes me really think about what I’m missing when I’m on Gotland. It’s nice there, but nothing ever happens. And just the idea that I could be anonymous. I could sit here in a cafe and no one would recognize me. Just blend in with everyone else. Watch people and be entertained. And I don’t really think the traffic is so bad. It must be the water,” she said, looking out across the dark mirror of Riddarfjarden.

“Yes, I love this city. I always will.”

“And yet you would be willing to move to Gotland?” she said, looking at him.

“For your sake, I would do anything. Anything at all.”

When they went back to his apartment and got into bed like an ordinary married couple, Johan was struck by a feeling of unreality mixed with joy. They should be able to go to bed like this every night.