Unspoken (11 page)

“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.”

Örjan Broström’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 Broström 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.”

Broström 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 Dahlström?”

“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 Örjan 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. Örjan 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 Dahlström’s apartment?” asked Jacobsson.

“No.”

“How about his darkroom?”

Örjan 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 Dahlström 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, Örjan, Hugo is getting restless. We’re going to take him out for a walk.”

Örjan 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 Örjan Broström 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 Dahlström’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 Dahlström 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 Dahlström’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 Dahlström 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 Dahlström 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 Kihlgård, who had helped them with the investigation in the summer, but his relationship with the man did have its complications. Kihlgård 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 Kihlgård 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 Dahlström’s account. The bank was quite crowded because it was the lunch hour. This particular branch was centrally located in Östercentrum, 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 Dahlström.

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 Dahlström.

“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 Dahlström’s account? If he was so afraid of being discovered, it must have been an even bigger risk for him to meet Dahlström 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. Dahlström 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 Dahlström 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.