Unspoken

About the Book

It is winter on Gotland. The tourists have returned home. The tree branches are bare, the sky is grey and the days are getting shorter and darker. Winter should be a quiet time on the holiday island, but two crimes shatter the peace for Chief Inspector Anders Knutas.

Henry Dahlström, an alcoholic photographer, is the first victim. He had just enjoyed a spectacular day at the racetrack, winning eighty thousand kronor when his horse came home in the fifth race. The next morning his body, badly beaten, is discovered in his darkroom. Days later fourteen-year-old Fanny is reported missing. She is a lonely child, with few friends, and living with her dysfunctional mother. Her only joy is looking after the horses at the local stables. Could these two crimes be connected? Photographs found in Dahlström’s darkroom suggest a link.

Painstakingly, Inspector Knutas and his team work the clues, aided by reporter Johan Berg. As the pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together, Knutas is in for a terrible surprise: the truth is much closer to home than the police had ever imagined.

Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Sunday, November 11

Monday, November 12

Sunday, November 18

Monday, November 19

Tuesday, November 20

Wednesday, November 21

Thursday, November 22

Friday, November 23

Saturday, November 24

Sunday, November 25

Monday, November 26

Tuesday, November 27

Wednesday, November 28

Thursday, November 29

Saturday, December 1

Sunday, December 2

Monday, December 3

Tuesday, December 4

Wednesday, December 5

Thursday, December 13

Friday, December 14

Monday, December 17

Thursday, December 20

Friday, December 21

Saturday, December 22

Sunday, December 23

Wednesday, December 26

Epilogue

Author’s Acknowledgments

About the Author

By Mari Jungstedt

Copyright

UNSPOKEN

Mari Jungstedt

Translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally

To my husband, Cenneth Niklasson—beloved best friend

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 11

For the first time in a week the sky cleared. The wan rays of November sunshine found their way through the clouds, and the spectators at the Visby trotting track turned their faces with yearning up toward the sun. It was the last race of the season, and there was a sense of anticipation in the air, mixed with a touch of melancholy. A chilly but enthusiastic crowd had gathered in the grandstands. They were drinking beer and hot coffee from plastic cups, eating hot dogs, and making notes in their track programs.

Henry “Flash” Dahlström got out his hip flask and took a good swig of his home-brewed liquor. It made him grimace, but it also warmed him nicely. With him in the stands sat the whole gang: Bengan, Gunsan, Monica, and Kjelle. All of them were rapidly advancing toward various states of intoxication.

The procession had just started. The snorting standardbreds, glossy with sweat, were lined up and prancing forward as the music blared from the loudspeakers. The drivers, with their legs wide apart, were firmly seated in their lightweight sulkies.

The odds were posted on a black tote board out near the track, with the numbers ticking past.

Henry leafed through the racing program. He ought to place a bet on Ginger Star, running in race number seven. No one else seemed to believe in her. She was only a three-year-old. He had followed the horse during the summer races, and even though she had a tendency to break into a gallop, she kept on getting better.

“Hey, Flash, take a look at Pita Queen. She’s a beauty, don’t you think?” Bengan slurred his words as he reached for the hip flask.

Henry had been given the nickname Flash because he had worked as a photographer for
Gotlands Tidningar
for many years before alcohol took over his life full-time.

“You’re damn right. With that trainer . . .” he replied and then stood up to take his racing card to the window.

There was a line of betting windows, all with open wooden hatches. Wallets were eagerly pulled out, banknotes changed hands, and cards were handed in. One flight up was the track restaurant, where invited guests ate steak and drank strongbeer. Honored big-time players puffed on cigars, discussing the current condition of the horses and the technique of the drivers.

The race was about to begin. The first driver politely saluted the judges by giving a brief nod toward the judging tower. Over the loudspeakers the announcer called for the horses to take their places.

After four races Henry had an equal number of wins on his card. If luck was with him, he could win the jackpot with five in a row. Since he had also bet on the long shot Ginger Star in the last race, the winnings ought to be significant. If only she came up to his expectations.

The race began and he followed the sulkies on the track as closely as he could after consuming eight strongbeers and a countless number of shots. When the bell for the final lap rang, his pulse quickened. Ginger Star was running well, damned well, as a matter of fact. With each stride she closed in on the two favorites in the lead, and he seemed to be seeing her more clearly. The powerful neck, the snorting nostrils, and the ears pointing straight forward. She could do it.

Don’t start galloping now, do not gallop. He was muttering this plea to himself like a mantra. His eyes were fixed on the young filly, who with furious energy was closing in on the leaders. Now she passed one of her rivals. Suddenly he became aware of the weight of the camera around his neck, and he was reminded that he had planned to take pictures. He snapped several photos, his hands relatively steady.

The red sand of the trotting track spurted up around the hooves that were pounding forward at breakneck speed. The drivers were using their whips on the horses, and the excitement rose among the spectators. Many in the stands were on their feet, some of them clapping, others shouting.

Ginger Star pulled forward on the outside and was now even with the horse in the lead. Then her driver used his whip for the first time. Dahlström stood up as he followed the horse through the lens of his camera.

When Ginger Star crossed the finish line ahead of the big favorite by a nose, a sigh of disappointment passed through the crowd. Dahlström was aware of scattered comments: “What the hell?” “It can’t be true!” “Unbelievable!” “Damn it!”

But he dropped down onto the bench.

He had won all five races in a row.

The only audible sound was the sweep of the broom across the stable floor and the grinding jaws of the horses as they chewed their evening oats. Calm had settled in after the hectic race day. Fanny Jansson was sweeping with brisk, rhythmic strokes. Her body ached after all the hard work, and when she was done, she sank down onto a feed box outside Regina’s stall. The horse peered out, and Fanny stuck her hand through the bars to stroke the horse’s nose.

The slender, dark-skinned girl was alone in the stable. She had declined an invitation to join the others at a local restaurant to celebrate the end of the season. She could just imagine how rowdy it was bound to get. Worse than usual. She had been there several times before but didn’t enjoy it. The horse owners would drink too much and try to hit on her. They called her “princess,” pulled her onto their laps, and pinched her on the rear.

Some got bolder the more they drank. They would make comments about her body, both verbally and with their eyes. They were a pack of dirty old men.

She yawned, but she had no desire to bike home, either. Not really. Her mother had the day off from her job, and there was a good chance that she was drunk. If she was alone she would be sitting on the sofa with her mouth turned down in a sullen frown, with a bottle of wine in front of her. As usual, Fanny would feel guilty because she hadn’t spent the day with her mother instead of with the horses. Her mother couldn’t care less that it was a race day with tons of work to do. Nor did she understand that Fanny needed to get away from home. The stable was her lifeline. If she didn’t have the horses, she didn’t know what she would do.

Uneasiness seized her as she imagined an even worse scenario: that her mother might not be alone. If her so-called boyfriend, Jack, was there, they would get even drunker, and Fanny would have a hard time sleeping.

Tomorrow she had to be at school early, and she needed to get some sleep. Ninth grade was a torment that she wanted to get through as fast as possible. Fanny had tried to do her best when the term started, but things just kept getting worse. She was having a hard time concentrating, and she had started cutting classes fairly often. She just couldn’t face it.

She had enough troubles outside of school.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12

A bubble of saliva had formed at the corner of his mouth. With each exhalation it grew bigger until it burst and dribbled down his chin and onto the pillowcase.

The room was very bright. The blinds were rolled up and the dirty streaks on the windowpane were clearly visible. On the windowsill stood a solitary pot with an African violet that had long since perished.

Henry Dahlström slowly regained consciousness as the urgent ringing of the phone cut through the thick silence. The sound echoed off the walls in the shabby two-room apartment, persisting until it finally won out over sleep. Disconnected thoughts popped up in his mind, relentlessly bringing him back to reality. He had a vague feeling of happiness but couldn’t remember what it was from.

The headache started the minute he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Cautiously he sat up. His vision blurred the pattern of the bedspread. Thirst made him get to his feet and stagger out to the kitchen. The floor swayed beneath him. He leaned against the door frame and looked at the chaos.

The kitchen cupboards stood wide open and the counter was covered with dirty glasses and plates, as well as scraps of food. There was burned coffee in the glass pot of the coffeemaker. Someone had dropped a plate on the floor. He could make out the remnants of fried herring and mashed potatoes among the pieces of china. On the kitchen table, beer cans were crowded together with liquor bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and a stack of racing cards.

Suddenly he remembered why he should be happy. He had brought home the jackpot as the sole winner of all five races. The sum was breathtaking, at least for him. Over eighty thousand kronor had been paid out to him, in cash, and gone straight into his pockets. He had never before had so much money in his possession.

His eyes flicked anxiously up and down over the half-empty cupboards. Surely he’d had enough sense to hide the money. If only none of the others . . . No, he refused to believe that. Although when it came to liquor or money, you never could tell.

He pushed aside the thought and tried to recall what he had done when he arrived home from the track the previous evening. Where the hell?

Oh, that’s right. The broom closet. With trembling fingers he pulled out the package of vacuum cleaner bags. When he touched the bundle of banknotes, he breathed a sigh of relief. He sank down onto the floor, cradling the package in his hands as if it were a valuable porcelain vase. At the same time, thoughts about what he was going to do with the money flickered past. Fly to the Canary Islands and order drinks with little umbrellas. Maybe invite Monica or Bengan to come, too—or why not both of them?

An image of his daughter appeared. He really ought to send some of the money to her. She was grown up now and lived in Malmö. Contact between the two of them had been broken off long ago.