Unspoken ak-2

by Mari Jungstedt

  They burst out laughing, but stopped abruptly. She took another bite of her food.

  Johan leaned toward her, earnest now.

  “I feel as if I’m only half alive. You know-I do all the usual things that I’m supposed to do. Get out of bed in the morning, have breakfast, go to work, but nothing is real. Everything seems to be happening somewhere else. I keep thinking that it’s going to get better, but that’ll never happen.”

  She carefully wiped her mouth with the napkin and got up from the table. She had a solemn look on her face. The only thing he could do was sit still. Quietly she pulled him up from his chair. They were almost the same height. She put her arms around him, kissed him on the neck. He felt her warm breath in his ear.

  Her strong, hard body against his. They tumbled onto the bed, and she pressed herself against him, their legs intertwined, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Her lips were soft and warm, her hair smelled like apple. He felt tears stinging his eyelids. Embracing her was like coming home.

  He didn’t really know what he did, or what she did; he knew only that he didn’t want it to end.

  It turned out that Martin Kihlgard from the national police did come after all. He was accompanied by Hans Hansson, who was a gaunt and unobtrusive man, compared with his boisterous colleague. Everyone in the criminal division welcomed Kihlgard with open arms. He was a big man whose clothes were always in disarray, but he was a respected and capable detective. There was much backslapping and handshaking all around. Karin Jacobsson gave him such a long hug that Knutas felt a pang of the same irritation he had felt last summer. Those two had gotten along so well that Knutas was jealous, even though he would never admit it out loud. Kihlgard was a big lug, but it was obvious that Jacobsson appreciated his outgoing personality.

  When he caught sight of Knutas, Kihlgard’s jovial smile got even bigger.

  “Well, hello, Knutie,” he shouted heartily, slapping him on the back. “How’s it going, old boy?”

  He sounds like Captain Haddock in the Tintin comics, thought Knutas as he returned the smile. He found it very annoying that Kihlgard had suddenly decided to call him Knutie.

  They sat down in Knutas’s office and started reviewing the case. No more than ten minutes passed before Kihlgard began grumbling about food.

  “Aren’t we going to have lunch?”

  “Of course, it’s almost time for it,” said Jacobsson promptly. “Why don’t we go to the Cloister? Anders’s friend owns the place, and they have great food,” she explained, turning to both officers from National.

  “That sounds excellent,” growled Kihlgard. “You get us a good table, okay, Knutie?”

  Lunch was pleasant, in any event. Leif gave them a window table with a view of Saint Per’s Ruin. Hans Hansson had never been to Gotland before, and he was impressed.

  “It’s even more beautiful than in the pictures we see. You live in a regular fairy tale city over here. I hope you appreciate it.”

  “Normally we don’t think much about it,” said Jacobsson with a smile. “But a trip to the mainland is always a good reminder. Then I realize how beautiful it is when I come back home.”

  “Same here,” Knutas agreed. “I’d have a hard time living anywhere else.”

  They ate the grilled lamb and root-vegetable casserole with gusto. Kihlgard had no time to talk while he was eating, except once when he asked for more bread. Knutas was reminded that his colleague apparently had an insatiable appetite. The man was always eating, at all times of the day and night.

  The restaurant was furnished in an old-fashioned style, with lighted candles and linen tablecloths on all the tables. The cozy atmosphere was particularly welcome now that it was overcast and cold outdoors. Leif surprised them with the restaurant’s specialty, a homemade chocolate cake, with their coffee. Then he sat down to join them for a moment.

  “How nice to have new lunch customers. Are you staying for a while?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” said Kihlgard. “This is an amazingly delicious cake.”

  “Please come again, anytime. We’re always happy to see all of our customers.”

  “I suppose it must be difficult in the wintertime.”

  “Yes, it’s tough running a restaurant here that’s open all year round. But we’ve managed to do all right, at least so far. Well, don’t let me disturb you anymore.”

  Leif stood up and left.

  “We’ve gone over the details of Dahlstrom’s life, but what’s the situation with alcoholics here on the island, in general?” asked Kihlgard. “For instance, how many are there?”

  “I would estimate there are about thirty or so truly hard-core alcoholics, meaning individuals who drink all the time and have no job,” replied Jacobsson.

  “So they’re homeless?”

  “We actually don’t have any homeless here, like you do in the city. Most of them have their own apartment or else they live in municipal housing for addicts scattered here and there.”

  “What about violent crime among this sort of people?”

  “Occasionally they kill each other when they’re drunk. We have a couple of murders a year, on average, that are drug or alcohol related. But usually that happens among the drug addicts. The alcoholics are generally harmless.”

  It was about time to go back to the office. Knutas waved to Leif to get the bill. The wonderful chocolate cake was on the house.

  After seeing Emma again, Johan had a longing for fresh air. He took a walk to distract his thoughts.

  Almedalen Park was quiet and deserted. The wet asphalt of the public footpath through the grass glittered in the glow of the streetlights, and he could hear the low quacking of the ducks in the pond, even though they were barely visible in the dark. He turned onto the shoreline pathway that ran from Visby all the way out to Snackgards Beach, two miles north. Here the wind picked up, and he turned up the collar of his jacket against the chill. Not a soul was in sight. The waves rolled in to shore, and seagulls shrieked. A large passenger ferry with its navigation lights shining through the darkness was approaching Visby Harbor.

  He thought about Emma and couldn’t comprehend how he had managed without her for so long. All his feelings had now been reawakened, and he realized that it would be rough to go on waiting. Even though their relationship had now entered a new phase. The anxious waiting was over, and he knew how she felt about him. And knowing this made him feel both calm and strong.

  What he needed to do now was to come up with some good story ideas so that he could come back to the island as soon as possible. It was harder for Emma to find an excuse to go to Stockholm.

  He passed the Maiden Tower, one of the ring wall’s many defensive structures. There was an old legend about this particular tower. In the fourteenth century, King Valdemar Atterdag of Denmark was attempting to capture Visby and strip the city of its riches. A young woman helped him to gain access through one of the gates in the ring wall. The woman had fallen in love with the king, and he had promised to marry her and take her back to Denmark if she opened the gate for him and his men. She did as he asked, and the Danes then plundered Visby. But the king broke his promise and left the young woman to her fate after she had done what he asked. When her role was discovered, the townspeople punished her by walling her alive in the Maiden Tower. According to legend, her cries for help can still be heard. As Johan walked past in the dark, he could easily imagine her inside. The wind was howling, and perhaps it was her desperate cries that he heard in the wind. Even though he was freezing, he was enjoying the weather.

  As he passed the Botanical Gardens, the rocks of Strandgardet appeared, and in the distance shone the lights from the hospital.

  Suddenly he heard a shout. A very real shout.

  He stepped forward into the darkness and discovered an elderly woman lying on an embankment with a yapping terrier at her side.

  “What happened?”

  “I fell down and can’t get up,” complained the woman, her voice qua
vering. “My foot hurts terribly.”

  “Wait, let me help you,” Johan reassured her, taking a firm grip on her arm. “Careful now, stand up slowly.”

  “Thank you so much. That was awful,” moaned the woman as she got to her feet.

  “Are you hurt? Can you put any weight on your foot?”

  “Yes, it’ll be fine. You’re not the kind of man who mugs old women, are you?”

  Johan couldn’t help smiling. He wondered how he must look, in his black jacket, unshaven, and with his hair disheveled.

  “You don’t have to worry. My name is Johan Berg,” he said.

  “Thank goodness. I’ve had enough drama for one day. My name is Astrid Persson. Do you think you could walk me home? I live over on Backgatan, up there across from the hospital.”

  She pointed with a gloved finger.

  “Of course,” said Johan, taking her by the arm. In his other hand he held the little terrier’s leash, and together they set off toward Backgatan.

  Astrid Persson absolutely insisted on inviting him in for a cup of cocoa. Her husband, Bertil, had started to get worried, and he thanked Johan warmly for his help.

  “You’re not from Gotland, are you?”

  “No, I’m here on an assignment. I’m a journalist for Swedish TV in Stockholm.”

  “Is that right? Are you here to report on the murder?”

  “You mean the murder of Henry Dahlstrom?”

  “Yes, exactly. Do you know anything about who did it?”

  “No, we hardly know anything at all about the case. The police aren’t saying much. At least so far.”

  “Ah, so that’s how it is.”

  Bertil slurped his cocoa.

  “He was a nice guy, that Dahlstrom.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Sure, of course I did. He helped me with some carpentry. He built our carport, and he did a really good job.”

  “He also did some work on the dormer window,” his wife added. “He worked as a carpenter in his younger days, you know. Before he became a photographer.”

  “Is that right? And he managed to do carpentry work, in spite of his alcohol problem?”

  “Oh yes, he did fine. It was as if he pulled himself together while he was working. I did notice that he smelled of liquor one time, but it didn’t affect his work. He did the job he was supposed to do, showed up when he promised he would, and so on. Yes, he did an excellent job. And he was pleasant, too, not much of a talker but nice.”

  Astrid nodded in agreement. Her husband had carefully taped up her foot, which she was now resting on a stool.

  “How long ago was this?” asked Johan.

  “Well, let’s see. We had the carport built several years ago. When was it?”

  He looked at his wife.

  “Four, maybe five years ago? And the dormer window was done last year.”

  “Did he help other people with this sort of work?”

  “Sure he did. I heard about him from a friend in the local folklore society.”

  “Have you told the police about this?”

  Bertil Persson looked embarrassed. He set his cocoa cup on the table.

  “No, why should we? What does it matter that he was here and did a bit of carpentry work? Why would the police care about that?”

  He leaned toward Johan and lowered his voice to speak confidentially.

  “And besides, we paid him under the table. He was living on welfare and that’s how he wanted it. You won’t say anything, will you?”

  “I hardly think the police would care about how he was paid, given the situation. They’re conducting a murder investigation, and this would be important information for them to have. I can’t keep it to myself.”

  Bertil raised his eyebrows.

  “Really? But then we risk getting caught for hiring an illegal worker.”

  He looked upset. Astrid Persson put her hand on his arm.

  “As I said, I don’t think the police will take that very seriously,” said Johan.

  He stood up. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  “But I told you this in confidence,” exclaimed Bertil Persson, looking as if he thought his days were numbered.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  The man grabbed Johan’s arm, and his voice took on an ingratiating tone.

  “But it can’t be that important, can it? My wife and I are members of the church-it would be embarrassing if this got out. Can’t we forget about the whole thing?”

  “I’m sorry, but no,” snapped Johan, pulling his arm away, a bit more brusquely than he intended.

  He hurried out of the building after saying a rather strained good-bye.

  Knutas sank onto his desk chair, holding what he hoped was his last cup of coffee for the day-at least if his stomach had anything to say about the matter. The preliminary autopsy report from the ME showed, exactly as expected, that Henry Dahlstrom had died as the result of contusions to the back of his head caused by a hammer. The perpetrator had delivered a series of blows, using both the blunt and claw end of the hammer.

  The time of death was probably late on Monday night, November 12, or possibly early Tuesday morning. This coincided well with the circumstances known to the police. All indications were that the murder had occurred after 10:30 p.m., when Dahlstrom’s neighbor heard him go down to the basement.

  Knutas started meticulously filling his pipe as he continued studying the photos and reading the description of the victim’s wounds.

  Solving a homicide was like solving a crossword puzzle. Rarely was the solution discovered through direct means. Instead, it required leaving certain details alone for a day while concentrating on others. When he later returned to what he had set aside, new patterns would often emerge. And the same thing happened when he did crossword puzzles: He frequently found it very surprising that a particular problem had caused him so much trouble. When he looked at it again, the solution seemed crystal clear.

  Knutas went over to the window, opened it slightly, and lit his pipe.

  Then there were the witnesses. Dahlstrom’s friends had nothing of any direct value to report. They had largely just confirmed what the police already knew. Nor had anything new emerged that might reinforce their suspicions about Johnsson, so the prosecutor had decided to release the man. He was still going to be charged with theft, but there was no reason to keep him in custody.

  Knutas had practically ruled out the idea that Johnsson was the guilty party. On the other hand, he was giving a good deal of thought to the man named Orjan. An unpleasant type. He’d been in jail for aggravated assault and battery. And he seemed capable of murder.

  When Orjan was interviewed he had denied it, of course, claiming that he hardly knew Dahlstrom. And this had been confirmed by others in their circle. But that didn’t preclude the possibility that he might have killed Dahlstrom.

  Arne Haukas, the PE teacher who lived in the same section of the building as Dahlstrom, had been questioned about his whereabouts on the night of the murder. He claimed that he had simply gone out jogging, as usual. He explained the late hour by saying that he’d been watching a movie on TV, and so he had postponed his run. There was a lighted ski trail nearby, so there was no problem with running at night. He hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual.

  Knutas’s ruminations were interrupted by the phone ringing. It was Johan Berg, who told him about the carpentry work that Dahlstrom had done for Bertil and Astrid Persson on Backgatan. Knutas was surprised.

  “Strange that we didn’t hear about this before. Do you have the names of anyone else he did work for?”

  “No, the old man wasn’t happy when I said that I’d have to tell the police. But you could check with the local folklore society-that’s where he heard about Dahlstrom.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Knutas put down th
e phone, thinking about what he’d learned. So Dahlstrom had done work for people in their homes. The information opened a whole new avenue. In his mind he sent Johan words of gratitude.

  Fanny went straight home from school. At the door she met her mother’s boyfriend, Jack. He glanced at her but didn’t even bother to say hi. He just hurried past. The door to the apartment wasn’t locked, and Fanny realized at once that something was wrong. She peeked in the kitchen, but it was empty.

  She found her mother stretched out on the sofa under a blanket. The blanket had slipped to one side, revealing that she was naked. On the table stood empty beer and wine bottles next to an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

  “Mamma,” said Fanny, shaking her by the shoulder. “Wake up!”

  Not a hint of life.

  “Mamma,” Fanny repeated with a sob rising in her throat. She shook her harder. “Mamma, please wake up.”

  Finally her mother opened her eyes and said in a slurred voice, “I have to throw up. Get me a bucket.”

  “Which one?”

  “Bring the one under the kitchen counter. The red one.”

  Fanny dashed out to the kitchen to get the bucket, but she didn’t find it in time. Her mother threw up all over the rug.

  She helped her mother into the bedroom, pulled the covers over her, and set the bucket next to the bed. Spot had started licking up the vomit. She chased him away and then used some paper towels to wipe up the worst of it. But she could see that the rug would have to be washed. She ran hot water in the bathtub, poured in some laundry soap, and then lowered the rug into the water. She left it to soak in the tub while she cleaned up the living room, collecting all the bottles, emptying the ashtray, and airing out the place. When she was finished, she sank onto the sofa.

  Spot whimpered. The poor thing needed to go out. She seriously considered calling her mother’s sister to tell her that she couldn’t handle things anymore. But she decided that she didn’t dare; her mother would be furious. Yet what would happen if she kept on drinking like this? She risked losing her job, and then what?

  Fanny didn’t have the energy to think about that. Soon she wouldn’t have the energy for anything at all.