Unspoken ak-2

by Mari Jungstedt

  “What did you watch?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  They were interrupted by one of the skinheads.

  “Hey, Orjan, Hugo is getting restless. We’re going to take him out for a walk.”

  Orjan 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 Orjan Brostrom 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 Dahlstrom’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 Dahlstrom 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 Dahlstrom’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 Dahlstrom 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 Dahlstrom 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 Kihlgard, who had helped them with the investigation in the summer, but his relationship with the man did have its complications. Kihlgard 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 Kihlgard 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 Dahlstrom’s account. The bank was quite crowded because it was the lunch hour. This particular branch was centrally located in Ostercentrum, 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 Dahlstrom.

  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 Dahlstrom.

  “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 Dahlstrom’s account? If he was so afraid of being discovered, it must have been an even bigger risk for him to meet Dahlstrom to give him the money than if he had transferred the sum directly.”

  “It certainly seem
s strange,” Jacobsson agreed. “I wonder what the money was for. I’m convinced the story about the racetrack is true. Dahlstrom 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 Dahlstrom 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.

  She opened the refrigerator and her mood sank. Her mother hadn’t gone grocery shopping today, either.

  Never mind. Right now she was going to do her homework. She was worried about Thursday’s math test; math had never been her strong suit. She had just taken out her books and sharpened her pencils when the phone rang. The sound gave her a start. The phone hardly ever rang in their apartment.

  To her astonishment it was him, and he wanted to invite her to dinner. She was both surprised and uncertain. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Hello, are you still there?” His smooth voice in the receiver.

  “Yes,” she managed to say, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

  “Can you? Do you want to?”

  “I’ve got homework to do. We’re having a test.”

  “But you still have to eat, don’t you?”

  “Sure, of course I do,” she said hesitantly.

  “Is your mother home?”

  “No, I’m here alone.”

  He sounded even more determined.

  “Well then, it should be fine. If you study for the test now like a good girl, I can pick you up around seven. Then we’ll have dinner together and I’ll drive you straight home afterward. Surely there can’t be any harm in that. And you’ll have time to study, too.”

  He sounded so anxious that she felt compelled to say yes. But what were they going to talk about? At the same time, the invitation to go out to a restaurant was tempting. She could count on one hand the number of times she had gone out to eat. The last time was during a disastrous vacation the previous summer. Her mother had rented a car for a week and they took the boat to Oskarshamn so they could drive around Skane and stay in youth hostels. It poured the whole time, and her mother drank every single day. On the last evening they went to a Chinese restaurant, and her mother got to talking to a group of Danish tourists. They drank a lot and started making a ruckus. Her mother got so drunk that she fell off her chair and pulled the whole tablecloth down with her. Fanny wanted to sink right through the floor.

  She sat down at the kitchen table with her math books, wondering which restaurant they would go to. As long as it wasn’t too fancy. What was she going to wear? Now she really couldn’t concentrate on her math homework. Why had she said yes? Why was he inviting her out? Even though these thoughts were whirling around in her mind, she couldn’t help feeling flattered.

  Suddenly she heard keys rattling in the lock and then her mother’s voice in the entryway.

  “All right, Spot. Good dog. What dirty paws you have! Where’s the towel?”

  Fanny stayed where she was at the table without saying a word. She counted off the seconds: 1, 2, 3, 4…

  Then it came. Four seconds this time.

  “Fanny. Fanny! ”

  Slowly she stood up.

  “What is it?” she called.

  “Could you come and help me, please? My back hurts. Could you rinse off Spot? He’s so filthy.”

  Fanny took the dog by the scruff of his neck and led him to the bathroom.

  Her mother kept on chattering. She was clearly having one of her “up” days.

  “We walked all the way out to Strandgardet. I met a nice lady with a poodle. They just moved in. The dog’s name is Salomon-can you imagine that? Spot really liked him. We took off their leashes, and they both went into the water, even though it’s so cold. That’s why he’s so filthy, from rolling in the dirt afterward. God, I’m hungry. Did you go grocery shopping?”

  “No, Mamma. I just got home from school. We have a math test, and I need to study.”

  As usual, her mother wasn’t listening. Fanny heard her opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen.

  “Don’t we have anything in the freezer? Oh, look, this is great: fish casserole. I need to eat. How long does it have to be in the oven? Forty minutes. Good God, I’ll starve to death. Oh, I really have to pee. Oooh.”

  She came rushing into the bathroom and sat down to pee while Fanny resolutely rinsed off the dog’s dirty paws. Why did her mother always have to announce all her needs loud and clear so that everyone would know how she felt at every second? Her head was pounding with irritation.

  “Make sure you dry him off properly so he won’t catch cold,” said her mother as she wiped off her crotch.

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  How wonderful it would be if her mother showed the same concern for her daughter once in a while.

  When Fanny came out of the bathroom, her mother was lying on the sofa with her eyes closed.

  “Are you tired?”

  “Yes, I need to rest for a while before going to work. Could you put the casserole in the oven when it’s preheated?”

  “Okay.”

  She sat down in the kitchen. Her mother seemed to have fallen asleep. She acts like a big baby, thought Fanny as she set the table. It was four o’clock. She now had three hours left. Two to study, she hoped, and one to get ready.

  “What are you going to eat?” asked her mother when Fanny put the casserole on the table.

  “Nothing. I’m not hungry yet. I’ll fix something later.”

  “All right,” said her mother, who already seemed to be thinking about something else.

  Fanny was on the verge of telling her about the fun theater performance they had seen at school, but she could see that her mother wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to listen. Just as well to keep quiet.

  His disappointment over the tape was still bothering Knutas as he drove the short distance home in the evening.

  He shivered in the ice-cold car. Lina was always complaining about the fact that he stubbornly insisted on keeping the old Benz, even though they could afford a new car. So far he had managed to fend off her ideas about buying a new one. It was too expensive and too much trouble to have two cars, and besides, there wasn’t room for more than one outside their house. And he would have a hard time giving up his Mercedes-there were too many memories and experiences attached to these comfortable old seats. It was as if he and the car felt a mutual affection for each other.

  When he parked outside their house, he saw lights on in all the windows. A good sign; it meant that everyone was home. He was looking forward to a peaceful evening at home, but he found anything but an idyllic family scene when he opened the front door.

  “Like hell I will! I don’t give a shit about what she says!”

  Nils pounded up the stairs and slammed his door. Petra was sitting at the kitchen table. Lina was standing at the stove with her back turned, clattering the pots and pans. He could see from the way she stood that she was angry.

  “What’s going on?”

  Knutas asked the question even before h
e took off his coat.

  His wife turned around. Her throat was flushed, and her hair was sticking out in all directions.

  “Don’t talk to me. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “So what have you two been up to?” asked Knutas, patting his daughter on the head. She instantly leapt up from her chair.

  “What have the two of us been up to?” she shot back at him. “You should be asking what he’s been up to. My so-called brother!”

  And then she also pounded up the stairs.

  “I had an awful day at work, and this is more than I can stand,” said Lina. “You’re going to have to deal with it.”

  “Did something bad happen?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  He hung up his coat, took off his shoes, and then took the stairs in a couple of bounds. He summoned both children to the bedroom and sat down on the bed with them.

  “Okay, tell me what’s going on.”

  “Well, we were supposed to help set the table, but first we had to empty the dishwasher while Mamma cooked,” said Nils. “I took out the silverware basket and started emptying it. But then Petra came and said that she wanted to do it.”

  “That’s not what happened!”

  “Quiet! I’m talking right now. That is what happened. You yanked it out of my hands even though I had already started.”

  Petra began to cry.

  “Is that true?” asked Knutas patiently, turning to his daughter.

  “Yes, but he always gets to do the silverware basket, just because it’s easier. I thought it was my turn. I wanted to trade jobs, but he wouldn’t. Then Mamma got mad and said that we should stop fighting and then Nils said that I was stupid.”

  Nils’s face flushed with indignation.

  “Yes, but I’d already started! You can’t just come and yank it away from me! And then Mamma started yelling at me that it was all my fault!”

  Knutas turned to his daughter.

  “I agree that you can’t just come and take away the silverware basket if Nils has already started to empty it. At the same time, Nils, you need to take turns when you empty the dishwasher from now on. And keep in mind that your mother is tired, and it’s not much fun for her to listen to you fighting when she’s trying to cook. And don’t call your sister stupid, Nils.”