Of course there were exceptions. When time was tight and the story was thrown into editing twenty minutes before the broadcast, they still succeeded in putting it together.
Unpredictability was the real draw in terms of working in a newsroom. In the morning he never knew how the day was going to go. Johan worked mostly as a crime reporter, and the contacts that he had established over the years were invaluable for the newsroom. He also had primary responsibility for covering Gotland, which had been placed under the domain of Regional News a little over a year ago. Swedish TV’s large deficit meant that they had closed the local office on Gotland and moved the crew from Norrkoping back to Stockholm. Johan was happy to take on Gotland, a place that had delighted him since he was a child. And now it was no longer just the island that attracted him.
Spot tugged at his leash. To think he’s never learned to heel, thought Fanny angrily, but she didn’t feel like yelling at him. The streets were deserted in the residential neighborhood where she was walking. A dark mist had settled over Visby, and the asphalt was shiny from the gentle rain. An inviting glow came from the curtain-framed windows of all the houses. How orderly everything was. Flowers on the windowsills, gleaming cars in the driveways, and charming mailboxes. Here and there a well-tended compost pile.
She had a good view inside the homes at this time of the evening, after dark. In one, copper utensils hung on the wall in the kitchen; another had a brightly painted, rustic grandfather clock. In a living room a little girl was jumping up and down on the sofa, talking to someone that Fanny couldn’t see. Over there was a man holding a dustpan in one hand. A few crumbs must have landed on the rug, she thought and pressed her lips together. A man and woman were standing in another kitchen window; they seemed to be cooking together.
Suddenly the door to a big house opened. An elderly couple came out and went over to a waiting taxi as they chatted merrily. They were well dressed, and Fanny smelled the strong scent of the woman’s perfume as they passed quite close to her. They didn’t notice that she had stopped to watch them.
She was freezing in her thin jacket. Back home her mother was waiting in the silent and dark apartment. She worked the night shift at Flextronics. Fanny had met her father only a few times in her life, the last time when she was five years old. His band had been playing a gig in Visby, and he dropped by for a brief visit. The only thing she remembered about him was his big, dry hand holding hers, and his brown eyes. Her father was as black as night. He was a Rastafarian and came from Jamaica. In the photos she had seen, he had long tangled locks of hair. They call them dreadlocks, her mother had told her.
He lived in Stockholm, where he played drums in a band, and he had a wife and three kids in Farsta. That was all she knew.
She never heard from him, not even on her birthday. Sometimes she tried to imagine what it would be like if he and her mother had lived together. Maybe her mother wouldn’t drink as much. Maybe she would be happier. Maybe Fanny wouldn’t have to take care of everything: the cooking, cleaning, and laundry, taking Spot for a walk and doing the grocery shopping. Maybe she wouldn’t have a guilty conscience about going out to the stables if her father was around. She wondered what he would say if he knew how things were for her. But he probably didn’t care; she meant nothing to him.
She was simply the product of his love affair with her mother.
The first thing Jacobsson and Wittberg noticed was the group of sculptures. Almost two meters tall, made of concrete, and gathered in one place on the property. One depicted a rearing horse that was desperately whinnying at the clouds, another looked like a deer, a third was a moose with a disproportionately large head. Grotesque and phantomlike, they stood there in the pouring rain on the flat expanse of lawn.
They dashed from the car to the house, whose roof extended over the simple porch, offering some protection. A typical one-story building from the fifties with a basement and dirty gray stucco facade. The steps were rotting, and there seemed to be an imminent risk that they might put a foot right through them. The doorbell was almost inaudible. After a minute a tall, stout woman in her seventies opened the door. She was wearing a cardigan and a floral-patterned dress. Her hair was thick and white.
“We’re from the police,” Wittberg explained. “We want to ask you some questions. Are you Doris Johnsson, the mother of Bengt Johnsson?”
“That’s right. Has he gotten mixed up in something again? Come in. You’re getting soaked.”
They sat down on the leather sofa in the living room. The room was cluttered with things. In addition to the sofa group, there were three armchairs, a rustic chiffonier, a TV, pedestals for flowers, and a bookshelf. The windowsills were crowded with potted plants, and every available space in the room held glass figurines in various designs. They all had one thing in common: they depicted animals. Dogs, cats, hedgehogs, squirrels, cows, horses, pigs, camels, and birds. In various sizes, colors, and poses, they were enthroned on tables and benches, in windows, and on shelves.
“You collect these things?” asked Jacobsson, rather foolishly.
The woman’s lined face brightened. “Yes, I’ve been doing it for years. I have six hundred and twenty-seven pieces,” she told them proudly. “So what was it you wanted?”
“Well, I’m sorry to say that we’ve brought some bad news,” said Wittberg, leaning forward. “One of your son’s friends has been found dead, and we suspect that someone killed him. His name is Henry Dahlstrom.”
“Good gracious! Henry?” Her face turned pale. “He was murdered?”
“Unfortunately, that’s probably what happened. We haven’t caught the perpetrator, and that’s why we’re interested in talking to anyone who knew Henry. Do you know where Bengt is?”
“No, he didn’t sleep here last night.”
“Where was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last see him?” asked Jacobsson.
“Yesterday evening. He dropped by for only a minute. I was down in the basement, hanging up the laundry, so I didn’t actually see him. He just called down the stairs to me. This morning he phoned to say that he was going to stay with a friend for a few days.”
“I see. Who’s the friend?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did he give you a phone number?”
“No. He’s a grown man, you know. I had the impression that he was staying with a woman.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he was so secretive. Otherwise he usually tells me where he is.”
“Did he call you on your home phone or on a cell?”
“The home phone.”
“Do you have caller ID?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
She got up and went out to the hall. After a minute she came back.
“No, it doesn’t show anything. It must have been an unlisted number.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
Doris Johnsson stood in the doorway and gave the officers sitting on the sofa a defiant look.
“Before I answer any more questions, I want to know what happened. I knew Henry, too. You’ll have to tell me what this is all about.”
“Yes, of course,” muttered Wittberg, who seemed to be quite affected by the domineering tone of the stout woman. Jacobsson noted that he used the formal means of address with her.
“Last night Henry was found by Bengt and the building superintendent. He was in his darkroom in the basement of the building where he lives. Someone had murdered him, but I can’t go into the details. When the superintendent left to call the police, Bengt took off, and no one has heard from him since. It’s urgent that we get in touch with him as soon as we can.”
“He got scared, of course.”
“That’s very possible. But if we’re going to catch the perpetrator, we need to talk to everyone who might have seen anything or who can tell us about Henry’s actions during the days before the murder. Do you have any idea where Bengt might be, Mrs Johnsson?�
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“Hmm… He knows so many people. I suppose I could call around and ask.”
“When did you last hear from Bengt, or rather when did you actually see him last?” Jacobsson interjected.
“Now let me see… Aside from yesterday evening… It must have been yesterday morning. He slept late, as usual. Didn’t get up until eleven and then had his breakfast while I was eating lunch. Then he went out. He didn’t say where he was going.”
“How did he seem?”
“The same as always. He wasn’t acting strange or anything like that.”
“Do you know if anything unusual had happened lately?”
Doris Johnsson plucked at her clothing.
“No…” she said hesitantly.
Suddenly she threw out her hands.
“Well, yes. Henry won at the harness-racing track. He won the five-race jackpot, and he was the only winner, so it was a lot of money. Eighty thousand kronor, I think. Bengt told me about it the other day.”
Jacobsson and Wittberg looked at her in astonishment.
“When did this happen?”
“It wasn’t this past Sunday, so it must have been the previous Sunday. Yes, that’s when it was, because they were at the track.”
“And Henry won eighty thousand kronor? Do you know what he did with the money?”
“Bought booze, I assume. Part of it went straight to alcohol. As soon as they have a little cash, they start buying rounds for everybody.”
“Who else belongs to his circle of friends?”
“There’s a man named Kjelle that he hangs out with a lot, along with a couple of girls. Monica and Gunsan. Though I suppose her real name is Gun.”
“Last names?”
She shook her head.
“Where do they live?”
“I don’t know that, either, but somewhere here in town. Also a man named Orjan, by the way. I think he just moved here recently. Bengt has been talking about him lately. I think he lives on Styrmansgatan.”
They said good-bye to Doris Johnsson, who promised to call as soon as she heard anything from her son.
With the information about the track winnings, they now had a clear motive for the murder.
Knutas had brought along a packet of Danish open-faced sandwiches for lunch. His father-in-law had recently paid them a visit and delighted the whole family with the delicacies he had brought from Denmark. The three slices of dark rye bread each had a different kind of lunch meat: liver sausage topped with a piece of pickled squash; sliced meatballs with pickled beets; and his favorite, Danish sausage roll. And an ice-cold beer to go with this glorious repast.
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Norrby stuck his head inside.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
Norrby folded his nearly six-foot-two frame into one of the visitor chairs in Knutas’s office.
“I’ve been talking to one of the neighbors, who had something interesting to say.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Anna Larsson is an elderly woman who lives in the apartment above Dahlstrom’s. On Monday night around ten thirty she heard Flash go out. He was wearing his old slippers, which made a special sound when he walked.”
Knutas frowned. “How could she hear that from inside her apartment?”
“I know, that’s something you might well ask, but it so happened that her cat was suffering from diarrhea.”
“So?”
“Anna Larsson lives alone, and she doesn’t have a balcony. She was just about to go to bed when her cat shit on the floor. It smelled so bad that she didn’t want to have the garbage bag containing the shit in her apartment. She had already put on her nightgown and didn’t want to go downstairs to the trash cans, for fear of running into one of her neighbors. So she put the bag on the landing outside her door for the time being. She thought that nobody would notice if she tossed it out first thing in the morning.”
“Get to the point,” said Knutas impatiently. Norrby’s tendency to present too many details was sometimes annoying.
“Well, at the very moment that she opens her door, she hears Dahlstrom coming out wearing his slippers. He locks his door and goes downstairs to the basement.”
“Okay,” said Knutas, tapping his pipe on the table.
“Mrs Larsson doesn’t think any more about it. She goes to bed and falls asleep. In the middle of the night she’s awakened by her cat meowing. This time the cat has made a mess on the floor of her bedroom. That animal had a really bad stomachache.”
“Hmm.”
“She gets out of bed and cleans up everything. She now has another bag of cat shit that has to be put outside on the landing. When she opens the door, someone comes in the entrance one floor down and stops at Dahlstrom’s door. But this time she doesn’t hear Dahlstrom’s shuffling slippers; this person is wearing real shoes. She’s curious, so she stands there listening. The stranger doesn’t ring the doorbell but the door opens and the person goes inside, and she doesn’t hear any voices.”
Now Knutas’s interest was aroused. His pipe froze in midair.
“Then what happened?”
“Then everything was quiet. Not a sound.”
“Did she have the impression that someone had opened Dahlstrom’s door from the inside? Or did the person outside open it?”
“She thinks that the person outside opened it.”
“Why didn’t she tell us about this earlier?”
“She was interviewed on the evening when Dahlstrom’s body was found. She says that she felt stressed and upset, so she mentioned only that she had heard him go down to the basement. Afterward I got to wondering how she could be so sure about it. That’s why I went back to talk to her again.”
“Good job,” Knutas said. “It might have been the killer that she heard, but it could just as well have been Dahlstrom coming in from somewhere. This was several hours later, wasn’t it?”
“Definitely, but it seems quite unlikely that he would have gone out, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Did the woman notice anything else after the person went inside?”
“No, she went back to bed and fell asleep.”
“Okay. The question is whether the person had a key-assuming that it wasn’t Dahlstrom, that is.”
“There’s no sign that the lock was forced.”
“Maybe it was someone he knew.”
“That seems most plausible.”
When the investigative team met again that afternoon, Jacobsson and Wittberg started off by reporting on their encounter with Doris Johnsson and what she had told them about the winnings at the racetrack.
“Now at least we have a motive,” said Jacobsson, concluding her report.
“That explains why the apartment was ransacked,” said Knutas. “The murderer apparently knew that Dahlstrom had won big at the track.”
“The money still hasn’t turned up,” added Sohlman, “so presumably the perpetrator found it.”
“Bengt Johnsson comes immediately to mind,” said Jacobsson. “I think we need to put out an APB on him.”
“Considering that this involves a homicide, I have to agree.” Knutas turned to Norrby. “We’ve obtained some new information from a witness.”
His colleague told everyone about Anna Larsson and her sick cat in the apartment above.
“Damn,” said Wittberg. “That indicates that the perp had a key. Which reinforces our suspicions about Johnsson.”
“Why is that?” Jacobsson objected. “The perp could just as easily have killed Dahlstrom, then stolen his keys and gone up to his apartment.”
“Or he might have just picked the lock,” Sohlman interjected. “Dahlstrom had a regular cylinder lock on his door. A skilled burglar could have gotten it open without leaving any sign of forced entry. We didn’t find any damage on first examination, but we’ll take another look at the lock.”
“I agree with Wittberg,” said Norrby. “I think it was Bengt Johnsson. He was
Dahlstrom’s closest friend and it’s likely that he had a spare key. Unless it was Dahlstrom himself who had decided to go out again in the middle of the night. Wearing real shoes this time.”
“Sure, that’s possible. But if it was Bengan, why would he then contact the super?” said Jacobsson, sounding skeptical.
“To divert suspicion from himself, of course,” snapped Norrby.
“If the neighbor woman’s testimony is accurate, then Dahlstrom was alive twenty-four hours after he went to the racetrack and had a party in his apartment,” said Knutas. “That means he wasn’t killed in connection with the party. The murder most likely took place late on Monday night or in the early hours of Tuesday morning. We’ll soon have a more precise determination of the time from the medical examiner.”
“By the way, we received another interesting piece of information from a witness,” Norrby went on. “I was out there today, talking with all the neighbors for a second time. One of them who wasn’t home gave me a call later on.”
“Yes?”
Knutas leaned his head on his hands, preparing for another lengthy report.
“It’s a girl who goes to Save High School. She also heard someone in the stairwell late Monday night. She said it was Arne Haukas, the man who lives across from her on the floor below, meaning the same floor where Dahlstrom lived. Haukas is a PE teacher, and he usually goes out jogging in the evening. Normally he goes out around eight, but on Monday she heard him leave his apartment around eleven p.m. She also saw him from her window.”
“Is that so? How can she be so sure of the time and day?”
“Her older sister from Alva was visiting. They were up late, talking, and they both saw him. This girl has been keeping an eye on him ever since she discovered that he’s a bit of a Peeping Tom. He always looks in her window whenever he runs past. She thinks he goes jogging in the evening as a pretext for peering in people’s windows.”
“Does she have any proof for her allegations?”
“No. She actually sounded a little doubtful herself. She said that she wasn’t sure about it, that it was just a feeling she had.”
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