Unspoken ak-2

by Mari Jungstedt

  “Where does he live?”

  “On Styrmansgatan, number fourteen.”

  “Okay. Then he should be able to back up your story.”

  “Sure, although we were both pretty far gone.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was about the results from the Fingerprint Center. They took a short break and the officers left the room. Johnsson wanted to use the toilet.

  Dahlstrom’s fingerprints had been found on the bills. This finding was of little consequence if the police chose to believe Johnsson’s story. Many other prints were also found, but none that matched any in police records.

  “What do we do now?” asked Jacobsson as they got coffee from the office coffee machine.

  “I don’t know. Do you believe him?”

  “Yes, actually, I do,” she said, looking up at Knutas. “I think he sounds very convincing.”

  “I do, too. If only there was someone who could corroborate his story, we could release him right away. I think we can disregard the theft of the money for the time being.”

  “His pal, this Orjan, seems to keep popping up. We need to get hold of him,” said Jacobsson.

  “I’ll talk to Birger about whether we should hold Bengt Johnsson any longer or not. I think we’ll stop the interview here. Would you like some lunch?”

  The choice of lunch restaurants in Visby during the wintertime was limited. Most of the pubs were open only in the evening, and so they usually ended up at the same place if they wanted a change from the meager offerings in the police department’s cafeteria. Of course the lunch was more expensive, but it was worth every ore. The Cloister was furnished in classic inn style and had a well-respected chef. The owner, Leif Almlov, was one of Knutas’s best friends. When Knutas and Jacobsson stepped through the door, they were met by a great bustle and clatter and plenty of hurrying waitresses. All the tables were taken.

  Leif caught sight of them and waved.

  “Hi, how are things going?”

  He gave Jacobsson a hug and shook hands with Knutas as he kept an eye on everything going on around them.

  “Good. It’s sure crowded in here today,” said Knutas.

  “There’s a convention in town. It was like this yesterday, too. Total hysteria. What would you like to eat?”

  “Looks like we’re going to have to settle for hot dogs instead.”

  “No, no, don’t even think of it. Of course I’ll get you a table. Just wait here. Have a seat at the bar for the time being.”

  He called to the bartender to give them something to drink, on the house. As they sat down with glasses of light beer in front of them, Jacobsson lit a cigarette.

  “Have you started smoking?” exclaimed Knutas in surprise.

  “No, not at all. I only smoke when I go to a party or if I’m having problems.”

  “I see, and what would you call this?”

  “The latter. I’m having some personal difficulties.”

  “Is it something you’d like to talk about?”

  “No. Leif is waving to us-we have a table.”

  Sometimes Jacobsson could really drive Knutas crazy. She was overly secretive about her private life. She might tell him something about her travels, her relatives, or some social event that she had gone to, but he seldom found out anything important.

  They didn’t meet socially, except infrequently at a party. He had been to her place only a few times. She lived on Mellangatan, in a big three-room apartment with a view of the sea. The only male companion she ever talked about at any length was her large cockatoo named Vincent, who was the center of attention in his cage in the living room. The stories about him were legion: for one thing, he was a whiz at playing Ping-Pong with his beak, and he could scare off unwelcome visitors by growling like a dog.

  Knutas didn’t actually know very much about Karin Jacobsson except that she was interested in sports. She played soccer in Division Three and was by all accounts very good at it. She could always talk about soccer. She was a midfielder on the Visby P18 team that played in the mainland league, which meant that she often played matches off the island. Knutas imagined that if she operated on the same level as she did on the job, she was undoubtedly a tough player to tackle, in spite of her small size. She shared her interest in sports with Erik Sohlman. They were always talking about soccer.

  Jacobsson was from Tingstade parish in the north of the island. Her parents still lived in the same house on the edge of Tingstade swamp, practically right across from the church. Knutas knew that she had a younger brother, but she never talked about him or her parents.

  Many times he had wondered why she still lived alone. Karin was both charming and nice, and when she first started working with the Visby police, he had been slightly attracted to her. But that was just when he happened to meet Lina, so he had never fully examined his feelings. He didn’t dare ask Karin about her love life; her sense of privacy blocked all attempts of that sort. Yet Knutas never held back from telling her about his own problems. She knew just about everything about him, and he considered her to be his best female friend.

  Their food arrived, and they hungrily focused their attention on eating as they discussed the investigation. They both agreed that they believed Bengt Johnsson’s story.

  “Maybe the murder has nothing to do with the money Dahlstrom won at the track,” said Jacobsson. “The perp could have stolen the cash as a diversion. He wants us to think that the murder was the result of a burglary. But then the question is: What was the real motive?”

  “Do you know whether he was seeing anyone?”

  “Well, that Monica who was at the track with him told us that they sometimes slept together, but it was nothing serious.”

  “What about in the past? Maybe there’s a story farther back and none of his current friends knows anything about it.”

  “That’s conceivable,” said Jacobsson, drinking the last of the light beer she was having with her fish. “Do you think it might be about an ex-girlfriend who wanted revenge, or a jealous husband whose wife was sleeping with Dahlstrom, or some neighbor who got tired of all the coming and going in the stairwell?”

  “I think the explanation could be even simpler than that. The most obvious motive is the track money-someone killed Dahlstrom for the money, plain and simple.”

  “Maybe.” Jacobsson stood up. “I’ve got to run. We’re going to track down Orjan Brostrom-Bengt’s buddy.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  Most of the lunch guests had left the restaurant, and Leif sat down on the chair that Jacobsson had vacated.

  He opened a frosty bottle of beer and took several long gulps.

  “What an ordeal. Practically every customer wanted to order a la carte instead of choosing the daily special. The kitchen was an inferno, and the chef has been yelling at everyone. I had to console one of the waitresses who started sobbing.”

  “You poor guy,” said Knutas with a laugh. “Is she cute?”

  Leif made a wry face.

  “Not much fun when you have to play nanny to every single person. Sometimes this place seems just like a day-care center. But never mind that, a lot of people means money in the bank, and that’s what we need during the long, cold winter. How are things with you?”

  “Lots of work-just like you. The difference is that the profits are scanty.”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  “We’ve got someone under arrest, although between you and me, I doubt he’s the guy. But I’m sure we’ll solve this case, too.”

  “Wasn’t it one of his drinking buddies who did it?”

  “That seems the most likely, but we’ll have to wait and see,” said Knutas.

  Even though he and Leif were close friends, he didn’t like to discuss an investigation when he was in the middle of it. Leif was fully aware of this and respected his reticence.

  “How are Ingrid and the kids?” asked Knutas.

  “They’re all fine. This morning I went out and b
ought tickets to Paris. I’m thinking of surprising Ingrid with a week of romance right after New Year’s. We’re celebrating our fifteenth wedding anniversary.”

  “Has it been that long?”

  “Incredible but true.”

  “You always manage to come up with such good ideas. I can’t think of what to buy Lina for her birthday. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “No, you’re going to have to think of something yourself. I’ve filled my quota when it comes to your wife’s birthdays. At least until it’s time for her fiftieth.”

  Knutas smiled with embarrassment. When Lina had turned forty they were going through a rough period financially. So the Almlovs had provided the place and the wait staff for the big celebration. Leif also happened to know the members of a band, and they had agreed to play for free. Leif was truly a thoughtful and generous friend. The entire Knutas family had been invited to the Almlov mountain cabin and to their time-share apartment on the Costa del Sol in Spain.

  The two families belonged to completely different economic brackets. This had bothered Knutas at first, but over time he had accepted this difference. Leif and Ingrid had a relaxed attitude toward their wealth, and they never talked about it.

  Knutas asked for the bill, but Leif refused to let his friend pay for lunch. Every time Knutas came to the restaurant they had the same argument.

  Johan was standing in front of the ATM on Adelsgatan when he noticed her. She came walking from Soderport, holding the hand of a child on either side. She was talking to them and laughing. Tall and slender, with her sand-colored hair hanging straight down to her shoulders. He saw the contours of her high cheek-bones as she turned her head. She was wearing jeans and a short, lion-yellow quilted jacket. A striped scarf was wrapped around her neck. And she had on mocha-colored boots with fringe.

  His mouth went dry and he turned his back to peer down at the ATM. “Receipt requested?” Should he turn around and say hello? Last night’s conversation complicated matters. He didn’t know whether she was still angry.

  He had never met the children, just seen them from a distance. Would she notice him, or would she just walk past? There was hardly anyone on the street, which meant that she was bound to see him. He felt a slight panic and turned around.

  She had stopped to look in a window a short distance away. He gathered his courage.

  “Hi!” He looked right into her shining eyes.

  “Hi, Johan.”

  The children looked up at him inquisitively, their cheeks red under brightly colored caps. One of them was slightly taller than the other.

  “You must be Sara and Filip,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Johan.”

  “How do you know our names?” asked the girl in her lilting Gotland accent.

  She bore a striking resemblance to her mother. A mini-version of Emma.

  “Your mother told me.”

  Emma’s presence made him feel weak in the knees.

  “Johan is sort of a friend of mine,” Emma told the children. “He’s a TV journalist and lives in Stockholm.”

  “Do you work for a TV station?” asked the girl, wide-eyed.

  “I’ve seen you on TV,” said the boy, who was smaller and blonder.

  Johan was used to having children claim they had seen him, even though he knew it was very unlikely. He made an appearance only on those rare occasions when he did a stand-up, when reporters explain something with live video for the viewers.

  But he didn’t let on.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” said the boy solemnly.

  “Next time don’t forget to wave, okay?”

  The boy nodded.

  “How are things going?” Emma’s question sounded rather indifferent.

  “Fine, thanks. I’m here with Peter. We’re doing a story on the Bjorkhaga campground.”

  “I see,” she said without interest.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m good. Fine. Just fine.”

  She glanced quickly around, as if she were afraid that someone might notice them.

  “I’m teaching, as usual. I’ve been really busy.”

  Johan felt a growing sense of irritation.

  “How long are you staying?” she asked.

  “I’m going home tomorrow or Thursday. It hasn’t been decided yet. It depends.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Silence settled between them.

  “Come on, Mamma.”

  Filip was tugging at her arm.

  “Okay, sweetie, I’m coming.”

  “Could we meet?”

  He was forced to ask the question, even though she had already said no.

  “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.”

  Orjan Brostrom’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 Brostrom 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.”

  Brostrom 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 Dahlstrom?”

  “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 Orjan as he took the dog out to the men in the kitchen.

  They heard the men ex
change a few words and then burst out in raucous laughter. The kitchen door closed. Orjan 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 Dahlstrom’s apartment?” asked Jacobsson.

  “No.”

  “How about his darkroom?”

  Orjan 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 Dahlstrom 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.”