Unspoken ak-2

by Mari Jungstedt

  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 Dahlstrom’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 Dahlstrom’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 Dahlstrom’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 Operakallaran 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 on
e 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.

  The sound of the phone ringing woke her. At first she thought it was the landline, but when she picked up the receiver she realized it was her cell phone ringing. She got to her feet and hurried out to the entryway to rummage through her jacket pockets. The phone stopped ringing. Then it started again. It was him.

  “I have to see you… I have to. Listen here, honey. Couldn’t we meet?”

  “Sure,” she said without hesitation. “You can come over here. I’m home alone.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  She regretted it the moment she saw him. He reeked of liquor. Spot started barking but soon gave up. The dog wasn’t the menacing type.

  She stood awkwardly in the center of the living room, unsure what to do, as he threw himself onto the sofa. Now that she had invited him over, she couldn’t very well ask him to leave, could she?

  “Would you like anything?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Come here and sit down,” he said, patting the sofa cushion next to him.

  From the clock on the wall she saw that it was two in the morning. This whole thing was crazy, but she did as he said.

  It took only a second before he was on top of her. He was rough and determined.

  When he forced himself into her, she bit herself on the arm to keep from screaming.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23

  At the next day’s morning meeting everyone was talking about the discovery of the murder weapon. It was a breakthrough in the investigation, of course. By all accounts, the blotches on the hammer were blood. The hammer had been sent to the Swedish Crime Lab for DNA analysis. But there were no fingerprints.

  Most of them had seen on the evening news how the hammer was discovered. Naturally Kihlgard made jokes about the police officers’ comments that were caught on tape, and he drew a good deal of laughter from the others. Knutas was only moderately amused. He was annoyed by the extent of the information presented in the news story. At the same time, he understood that the reporter was just doing his job. It was so typical that Johan should end up right in the thick of things. He had an incredible talent for showing up exactly when things were happening. Everything had gone so fast out there that no one had thought of reining him in before it was too late. Yet, once again Johan had provided new facts that would benefit the investigation, even though the police didn’t know the source of his report about the witness at the harbor. After the case with the serial killer that past summer, Knutas had learned to trust the persistent TV reporter, although Johan could drive him crazy with all the information he managed to dig up. How he did it was a mystery. If he hadn’t become a journalist, he would have made an excellent police detective.

  The news program had started off with a long segment about the murder, the latest developments in the investigation, the payments Dahlstrom had received under the table, and the witness who had seen Dahlstrom with an unidentified man down at the harbor.

  “Why don’t we start with the unreported carpentry work?” said Norrby. “We’ve interviewed four people who hired Dahlstrom in addition to Mr and Mrs Persson. Two of them are members of the same folklore society as the Perssons. They all said more or less the same thing. Dahlstrom did a number of minor jobs for them. They paid him for the work, and that was that. Evidently he conducted himself in an exemplary manner, showed up when he was supposed to, and so on. They knew, of course, that he was an alcoholic, but he had been referred to them by friends.”

  “So it was through a referral from others that they got in touch with him?” asked Wittberg.

  “Yes, and none of them had any complaints about his work. We’re going to keep questioning people.”

  “The murder weapon wasn’t the only thing we found yesterday. We also found his camera. Sohlman?”

  “It’s a professional camera, a Hasselblad. Dahlstrom’s fingerprints were found on it, so we’re confident that it did in fact belong to him. There was no film in it, and the lens was broken, so someone had treated it rather roughly.”

  “Maybe the murderer took the film,” Jacobsson put in. “The darkroom had been searched, which indicates that the murder possibly had something to do with Dahlstrom’s photography.”

  “ Possibly. At the same time, we’ve received reports from SCL on the samples that were taken from Dahlstrom’s apartment and darkroom. SCL have really outdone themselves-we’ve never received such quick results before,” Sohlman murmured to himself as he leafed through the documents. “All the prints from glasses, bottles, and other objects have been analyzed. Many are from Dahlstrom’s buddies who visited his apartment. But there are also prints that can’t be ascribed to any of them. They may be from the perpetrator.”

  “Okay,” said Knutas. “At least we know that much. As if the information about Dahlstrom’s unreported carpentry work wasn’t enough, Johan Berg has also found a witness claiming to have seen Dahlstrom with a man down at the harbor last summer. Unfortunately, this witness does not want to talk to the police.”

  From his notes he rattled off the description of the man at the harbor.

  “They were standing in a narrow passageway between two containers and talking, around five in the morning. The witness recognized Dahlstrom and knew that this was far away from the places where he usually hung out. What do you think?”

  “If there’s one witness, there could be more,” said Wittberg. “When exactly did this happen?”

  “We don’t know. Only that it was supposedly in the middle of the summer.”

  “Why was the witness down at the harbor so early in the morning?” asked Kihlgard.

  “He was there with a girl who was going to take the morning ferry to Nynashamn.”

  “So we’re talking about a younger man. It might be one of Dahlstrom’s neighbors. Wasn’t there a young guy living in the building?”

  “You’re right about that. I think he lives on the floor upstairs.”

  Knutas glanced down at his papers.

  “His name is Niklas Appelqvist. A student.”

  “If the witness, whoever he is, could at least tell us the name of the girl, then we could find out what day she left by looking at the passenger lists of Destination Gotland,” said Jacobsson. “I think they keep the lists for three months.”

  “But how are we going to proceed if the witness doesn’t want to talk to the police?” asked Norrby.

  “Maybe the reporter would have better luck getting the information out of him than we would,” said Jacobsson. “I think we should first ask Johan Berg for help. Maybe the witness is one of those types who’s extremely hostile toward the police. For some inexplicable reason, those sorts of people do exist,” she added sarcastically.

  She turned to Knutas, giving him a big smile.

  “So we’re going to have to suck up to the reporter,” she said gleefully. “And you’re so good at that kind of thing, Anders.”

  Jacobsson gave him a friendly poke in the side. Kihlgard looked equally amused.

  Knutas was annoyed, but he had to admit that she was right. Legally, he couldn’t investigate the young man, but there was nothing to prevent him from asking Johan to find ou
t the name of the girl. So the police were at the mercy of the journalist’s goodwill. And that was a pisser.

  Just as Johan entered the editorial offices of Regional News, his cell phone rang. It was Knutas.

  “I wonder if you’d be willing to help us with something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you think the witness would remember the name of the girl he was with when he saw Dahlstrom and another man down at the harbor?”

  “I don’t know. It sounded as if she was someone he spent only that one evening with.”

  “Could you ask him?”

  “Sure. But it’ll have to wait awhile. I just arrived at the newsroom.”

  The police wanted his help. How nice. This was a switch from the normal situation when, as a journalist, he had to beg, plead, and cajole to get any information. He would keep Knutas waiting for just a bit.

  A pleasantly drowsy Friday mood had settled over the newsroom. Fridays often had a slower pace than usual because half of the evening news program was devoted to a longer story.

  Grenfors was sitting alone at the big table in the middle of the room, the so-called news desk. It was the workplace for editors, anchormen, and broadcast producers-all the key people whose job it was to put together the programs, make decisions, and assign the stories. At this time of day the anchormen and producers hadn’t yet put in an appearance. Most of the reporters were sitting at their own desks with phones pressed to their ears. In the morning they did their research and made appointments for interviews. The day often started off at a leisurely pace, which then accelerated and finally reached a crescendo of stress right before the broadcast. That’s when they had to deal with stories that weren’t finished in time, something in a report that had to be changed at the last minute because the editor wasn’t happy with it, computers that crashed, video-editing machines that broke so that certain images couldn’t be transmitted, and all sorts of other problems. Time was short, and they always worked up until the very last second. Everyone was used to that; it was their normal work tempo.