Unspoken (16 page)

“Hi, we’re from Regional News in Stockholm. We’d like to know something about the man who lived downstairs, the one who was murdered.”

“Come on in.”

He showed them to the living room and motioned for them to have a seat on the couch, while he sat down on a Windsor chair.

“A horrible thing, that murder,” he said.

“What was your opinion of Dahlström?” asked Johan.

“A decent old guy. Nothing wrong with him. It didn’t bother me that he was an alcoholic, at least. Besides, he had periods when he didn’t drink as much, and then he spent a lot of time working on his photos.”

“Was that something everybody knew about? The fact that he took photographs?”

“Sure. He used that old bicycle storage room as his darkroom. He’s had it for the six years that I’ve lived here.”

The guy looked as if he had just graduated from high school. Johan asked him how old he was.

“Twenty-three,” he replied. He had moved away from home when he turned seventeen.

“What kind of contact did you have with Dahlström?”

“We said hello to each other if we met, of course, and sometimes he’d knock and ask if I had anything to drink. That’s about all.”

“Have you noticed anyone new visiting Dahlström lately? Anyone who was different in some way?”

He gave them a wry smile.

“Are you kidding? Just about anyone who came to visit him was different. Recently I saw a chick peeing in the flower bed.”

“Did any of the neighbors complain?”

“I don’t think it ever got that bad. Most people probably thought he was a pretty decent guy. But in the summer some did complain when he had parties outside, in back of the building.”

“What are people around here saying about the murder?”

“Everyone’s saying that the killer must have been someone that Flash knew, someone who had a key to his apartment.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, the old lady who lives above him heard a sound at his door one night, about a week before his body was found. Someone went inside without ringing the doorbell while Flash was downstairs in the basement.”

“Couldn’t it have been Dahlström?” asked Peter.

“No, she could tell that it wasn’t him. She knows the sound of the slippers that Flash wore.”

“Who do you think would have a key?”

“No idea. He had one buddy that he hung out with more than others. I think his name is Bengan.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“No.”

“It must be Bengt Johnsson. He was the one the police arrested, but then they let him go. Apparently he had an alibi. Is there anything else you can tell us about Dahlström?”

“There was one strange thing that happened this summer. Flash was talking to a guy down by the harbor. It was fucking early in the morning, not even five o’clock. I happened to notice because they were standing in an odd place, between two containers outside a warehouse. As if they were up to something.”

“So they weren’t just hanging out and drinking?”

“The other guy wasn’t one of Dahlström’s usual buddies. I could see that at once. He looked much too neat to be a wino.”

“Really? In what way?”

“He was wearing clean slacks and a polo shirt, like an executive on summer vacation.”

“What else can you tell us about his appearance?”

“I don’t really remember. I think he was younger than Flash, and he was very dark.”

“Dark-skinned?”

“No, just really suntanned.”

“What were you doing there so early in the morning?”

The guy smiled, looking a bit embarrassed.

“I was with a girl. We’d been out partying at Skeppet. That’s a pub down at the harbor. Do you know it?”

Johan grimaced. He had a bad memory from the summer when he had spent the miserably wet Midsummer’s Eve at Skeppet, and he ended up bent over a toilet all night.

“She had to catch the seven o’clock boat in the morning, so I went with her down to the harbor. We were just messing around a little, as they say. Before she had to go home.”

“I suppose the police know about this?” said Johan.

“Oh no, they don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the police. I wouldn’t tell them squat.”

“Would it be okay for us to do an on-camera interview with you?”

“Not on your life. Then the cops will show up. And you can’t say a word to them about what I’ve told you, either. I know all about protected informants, because my sister is a journalist and she told me that you’re not allowed to reveal your sources.”

Johan raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was some guy.

“That’s true. Of course we won’t say anything about the fact that you’re the one who told us this. What kind of work do you do, by the way?”

“I’m studying at the college. Archaeology.”

Even though they didn’t get to do an on-camera interview, Johan was more than satisfied with the encounter. He had to contact Knutas—of course without telling him about where he had obtained the information. Knutas was fully aware of the ethical rules under which journalists did their work, so he would understand.

They tried to talk to the rest of the neighbors, but no one answered the doorbell. Behind the building it was deserted. They took a walk along the pathway. Peter filmed the surrounding area and suddenly gave a shout.

A police car was parked on the public footpath that led to the next residential area. Three uniformed officers stood together, talking. Two others were holding on to the leashes of dogs that were tracking something with their noses to the ground. Police tape had been put up to cordon off a grove of trees and bushes.

To their surprise, they noticed Knutas a short distance away.

“Hi,” said Johan in greeting. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has.”

Knutas was not happy, to say the least. These confounded journalists kept turning up at the most inopportune moments. So far the investigation had been mostly spared any media attention. Reporters from the local press had called him this morning to ask questions. He didn’t like it, but unfortunately it had become a natural part of his workload lately. On the other hand, he was grateful that Johan had tipped him off about Dahlström’s moonlighting. Journalists were good at digging up their own information, and they were also available to relay information to the public when the police occasionally needed help. An interdependent relationship existed between the police and the media. But that didn’t mean that the relationship was always easy to handle.

“What’s going on here?” asked Johan.

Peter had immediately started the camera rolling, as he always did. Knutas realized that he might as well tell them the truth.

“We’ve discovered what we think is Dahlström’s camera.”

“Where?”

Knutas pointed to the grove of trees.

“Someone tossed it over there, and a canine unit found it a short time ago.”

“What makes you think that it was his?”

“It’s the same type of camera that he always used.”

Just as Knutas spoke, they heard a shout from some shrubbery outside the area that had been cordoned off.

“We’ve got something,” called one of the dog handlers.

The German shepherd began barking nonstop. Peter instantly turned the camera in that direction and jogged over to the shrubbery. Johan was right behind him. On the ground lay a hammer with brown splotches on the handle, the head, and the claw. Johan held out the microphone, and Peter let the camera record the ensuing commotion. They recorded the comments of the police, the camera on the ground, the dogs, and the drama when everyone present realized that the murder weapon had probably been found.

Johan couldn’t believe his luck. It was sheer coincidence that they happened to show up at the decisive moment in a murder investigation, and then managed to get pictures of the whole thing.

They got Knutas to agree to an interview in which he confirmed that a discovery had just been made that might prove to be of interest. He refused to comment further, but that didn’t matter.

Johan did a stand-up at the site with all the activity going on around him and reported that it was most likely the murder weapon that had just been found.

Before he and Peter left, Johan told Knutas, without revealing his source, about Dahlström’s meeting down at the harbor.

“Why didn’t this person come to the police?” asked Knutas angrily.

“The individual doesn’t like the police. Don’t ask me why.”

Back in the car and with a gleeful smile on his face, Johan called Grenfors’s direct line at the newsroom in Stockholm.

Several Months Earlier

He had called her cell phone again and again, asking her to forgive him. He had sent sweet picture messages and even a real bouquet of flowers. Fortunately, her mother had left for work before the flowers arrived.

Fanny had decided never to meet him alone again, but now she was wavering. He called and kept saying that he needed to make amends with her. No dinner this time. Horseback riding. He knew that was something she liked. He had a friend who owned some horses in Gerum, and they could each borrow one and go riding for as long as they liked. The invitation was tempting. Her mother couldn’t afford riding lessons, and it was rare that she was allowed to ride any of the horses at the stable.

He suggested going riding on Saturday. At first she declined, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He said he would call again on Friday night, in case she changed her mind.

She had such mixed feelings. More than two weeks had passed since that evening, and it no longer seemed as dangerous as it had then. Deep inside he was probably a very nice man.

When she stepped through the stable door on Friday afternoon, the horses greeted her with a low whinny. She pulled on her rubber boots and started working. Got out the wheelbarrow, the shovel, and rake. She took Hector out first and fastened his halter to chains on either side of the passageway. He had to stand there while she mucked out his stall. The horses stood on a bed of sawdust and hay, so the piles of manure were easy to gather up with the rake. It was much harder to deal with the urine, which soaked into the sawdust and turned it into heavy piles. She took care of one stall after the other. Eight stalls and almost two hours later, she was completely worn out, and her back ached. Her cell phone was ringing. What if it was him? Instead she heard her mother’s twittering voice.

“Sweetheart, it’s Mamma. Something has come up. The thing is that I’ve been invited to Stockholm for the weekend. Berit was supposed to go to the theater with a girlfriend, but the friend got sick, so Berit asked me to go with her instead. She won a whole theater package tour from the Bingo Lotto, you know, and we’re going to see
Chess
and have dinner at the Operakällaran and stay at the Grand Hotel. Can you believe it! It’s going to be great! The plane leaves at six, so I’ve really got to start packing. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure, that’s fine. When are you coming home?”

“Sunday evening. The whole thing works out perfect because I don’t have to go to work until Monday night. Oh, this is going to be so much fun. I’ll leave you some money. But I don’t have time to take Spot out, so you’d better come home soon. He’s getting restless.”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Fanny said with a sigh.

She was supposed to ride Maxwell, but now she wouldn’t have time. She would have to change her plans and head home.

When she got to their apartment she found her mother on her way out, with newly applied lipstick and blow-dried hair, her suitcase and purse in her hand.

After her mother finally left, and after walking Spot, Fanny lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

Alone again. No one cared about her. Why did she even exist? She had an alcoholic mother who thought only about herself. As if that weren’t enough, recently she had started giving some serious thought to her mother’s extreme mood swings. One day she was as happy as a lark and full of energy, only to change the next day into a limp dishrag. Depressed, listless, and filled with dark thoughts. Unfortunately the bad days were getting more frequent, and that was when she would turn to the bottle. Fanny didn’t dare criticize, because it always ended with her mother having a fit and threatening to kill herself.

Fanny had no one to talk to about her problems. She didn’t know where to turn.

Sometimes she dreamt about her father, imagining that one day he would suddenly appear in the door, saying that he had come to stay. In her daydream she saw him embracing her and her mother. They celebrated Christmas together and went on vacations. Her mother was rosy-cheeked and happy and no longer drank. In certain dreams they would be walking along a beach in the West Indies, where her father was born. The sand was chalk white, and the sea was turquoise, just like in the colorful travel magazines she had seen. They watched the sunset together, with her sitting between her parents. That was the sort of dream that she never wanted to end.

She gave a start when Spot jumped up on the bed and licked away her tears. She hadn’t even noticed that she was crying. Here she lay, all alone, with only a dog for company, when other families were having a cozy time at home. Maybe her classmates were visiting each other, watching a video or TV, listening to music or playing computer games. But what kind of life did she have?

Only one person had shown the slightest interest in her. She might as well see him again. To hell with everything. She would sleep with him, too, if that’s what he really wanted. There had to be a first time, after all. He had said that he would call her tonight. The invitation to go horseback riding still stood, and she decided to say yes.

She got up and dried her tears. Heated up a meat pie in the microwave and ate it without much enthusiasm. Turned on the TV. The phone was silent. Wasn’t he going to call after all? Now that she had made up her mind? The hours passed. She took a can of Coke out of the fridge, opened a bag of chips, and sat down on the sofa. It was nine o’clock, and he still hadn’t called. She felt like crying again, but couldn’t squeeze out more than a few dry sobs. He had probably given up on her, too. She started watching an old movie as she ate the whole bag of chips. Finally she fell asleep on the sofa with the dog beside her.