Unspoken (15 page)

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.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm cinnamon rolls swept over Knutas as he stepped into the conference room the next morning. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. He glanced at Kihlgård. It must have been him, of course. Everyone sitting at the table was in a lively mood. Jacobsson was joking with Wittberg, who had evidently been out partying last night. Knutas surmised that he was entertaining Jacobsson with a story about one of his girlfriends. He had a bottle of Coca-Cola in front of him, which was a clear sign that he had a hangover.

Kihlgård and Smittenberg were both leaning over a newspaper. The prosecutor was holding a pen in his hand, while Kihlgård was holding a roll, naturally. Good Lord, they were working on a crossword puzzle! Norrby and Sohlman were standing at the window, looking out at the rain mixed with hail and discussing the weather.

It was a virtual cocktail party. Incredible what effect fresh-baked goods could have.

Knutas took his usual place at one end of the table and loudly cleared his throat, but no one took any notice.

“All right, everyone,” he ventured. “Shall we start?”

No reaction.

He gave Kihlgård a surly look. This was so typical of that darn fellow. To come here, all sweet and nice, bringing rolls and causing a disruption. Knutas had nothing against people enjoying themselves at work, but there was a time and a place. Besides, he was in a foul mood after having a big fight with Lina that morning.

It started with her complaining that clothes were scattered on the floor, that the cat hadn’t been fed, and that he hadn’t run the dishwasher last night, even though it was full and he was the last one to go to bed. Then she found out that, in spite of a solemn promise, he had forgotten to buy a new floorball stick for Nils, who had broken his old one, and he had a game to play tonight. That turned out to be the last straw. She blew up.

The noise in the conference room forced Knutas to get up from his chair and clap his hands.

“All right, could I have your attention?” he shouted. “Shall we get to work? Or maybe you’ve decided to devote the day to social activities?”

“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Kihlgård. “Why don’t we stay in, rent a good video, and make some popcorn? It’s such awful weather today—I’m freeeeeezing.”

His voice rose to a falsetto. He bent his forearms up and shook his palms at the same time as he wiggled his hips. Given the impressive bulk of his body, the dance was extremely funny. What a clown. Even Knutas couldn’t help smiling a bit.

He started by telling them about the work Dahlström had done for payment under the table.

“How did we find this out?” asked Kihlgård.

“Actually it was that TV reporter, Johan Berg, who told me. The couple that lives on Backgatan didn’t want to go to the police since it was a question of unreported payments.”

“It’s just amazing how people with money behave,” exclaimed Jacobsson, whose expression had darkened as Knutas talked. “It’s so damned wrong. People with high incomes who use illegal workers even though they could afford to pay them legitimately. And then when someone is murdered, they won’t even go to the police because they’re afraid of getting in trouble! That’s about as low as it gets.”

Her eyes were blazing as she glanced from one colleague to another.

“They can afford a lovely house and expensive vacations, but they won’t pay their cleaning woman legally so that she could get insurance and retirement points and everything else that she’s entitled to. They refuse to pay for that. They’ll do everything to avoid paying taxes, without giving a thought to whether it’s actually a crime. At the same time they expect free day-care centers to be provided for their children and a doctor to be available when they’re sick, and they want the schools to offer good food. It’s as if they can’t see the connection between one thing and the other. It’s so hopelessly stupid!”

Everyone at the table was looking at her in surprise. Even Kihlgård, who usually had some witty remark, didn’t say a word. But maybe this was because his mouth was full of cinnamon roll, probably his third one.

“Take it easy, Karin,” Knutas warned. “Spare us your diatribe.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you agree that it’s damned wrong?”

Jacobsson glanced around the room, looking for sympathy.

“Do you have to turn everything into a political issue?” asked Knutas, sounding annoyed. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation here.”

He deliberately turned away from her and looked at his other colleagues.

“So maybe we could go on now?”

Jacobsson didn’t say another word, just sighed and shook her head.

“How did this couple get in touch with Dahlström?” asked Wittberg.

“Through friends of theirs who belong to the local folklore society. Apparently a number of people made use of his services.”

“Maybe someone was unhappy with their garden shed,” said Kihlgård with a snicker.

Knutas ignored his attempt at a joke and turned to Norrby.

“How’s it going with the bank? Have you tracked down where the deposits came from?”

“Well, we’ve come to a dead end there. It’s impossible to trace the money. Of course every bill has a serial number, but who keeps records of that? It’s also impossible to find out who gave him the money since he made the deposit himself.”

“Okay, then right now the important thing is to find out who hired Dahlström illegally. He could have been doing that kind of work for years. Strange that nobody he knew has said anything about it.”

As Knutas left the meeting he had the distinct feeling that the issues associated with the murder were going to get much more complicated.

Johan’s next meeting with Emma was about to occur much sooner than he had dared hope. The very next morning she called him at the hotel.

“I’m going to Stockholm tomorrow for a one-day conference, connected with my work.”

“Are you kidding? Are we on the same flight?”

“No, I’m taking the boat. It was planned long ago.”

“Does that mean that I can see you?”

“Yes. I wasn’t thinking of staying overnight, but I can if I want to because there’s a banquet in the evening. Teachers from all over the country are invited. I was planning to skip the banquet, but I can say that I’ve changed my mind and book a hotel room. That doesn’t mean that I actually have to sleep there. . . .”

He couldn’t believe his ears.

“Are you serious?”

She laughed.

“Would you like to have dinner together tomorrow night? Or are you busy?” she asked.

He thought for a moment.

“Let me see . . . Tomorrow night I was planning to stay home alone in front of the TV and eat chips, so I guess I won’t be able to meet you. Unfortunately.”

His heart was singing.

“But seriously—we could go to a fantastic new place in Söder. It’s small and noisy, but the food is superb.”

“That sounds great.”

He put down the phone and clenched his hand in a fist, in a gesture of victory. Could it be that she had finally given in?

From the beginning Grenfors had doubted that Regional News should do a story about the murder of Henry Dahlström. In his view, it had just been a drunken fight. He was not alone. Many of his colleagues shared this opinion, and consequently they had settled for only a brief mention of the case so far.

If the editors decided not to report a story in the beginning, it was difficult to sell the idea later on. News stories were perishable goods. A story that was super-hot one day might seem musty the next. Four days had passed since Dahlström’s body had been found, and that was an eternity in the news business. Grenfors didn’t sound especially interested when Johan called him after lunch.

“So what’s new about it?”

“Dahlström was doing odd jobs for people in their homes. Carpentry work and things like that. Getting paid under the table, of course.”

“You don’t say.” Grenfors yawned audibly.

Johan could picture the editor checking the TT wire service on his computer screen as they talked.

“Someone deposited money into his bank account. Twice. Twenty-five thousand kronor each time.”

“So they might have been payments that he was getting for work done illegally.”

“Maybe. But there’s a lot to report about the case, and we haven’t done a single story on it yet,” countered Johan. “Good Lord, a man literally had his head bashed in with a hammer in his darkroom. And this happened on little Gotland—don’t forget that. All the other stations have reported it, but we’ve hardly said a word. Now it turns out that the victim was working illegally for people, and on top of that, mysterious deposits were made to his bank account. And we’re the only ones who know about it. All indications are that this was not your ordinary drunken fight. It’s in our territory, for God’s sake, and we do such a shitty job of reporting on Gotland.”

“Have the police confirmed the information?”

“Not the bank deposits,” Johan admitted. “We found that out from a bank teller. The police refused to confirm whether it was true, but I’m convinced that it is. I know how Knutas reacts in this type of situation. But he did confirm the part about Dahlström working illegally.”

“That might be enough. But today we’re reporting on the gang rape prosecution in Botkyrka and the trial of the cop killer in Märsta. That’s a hell of a lot of crime stories for one broadcast.”

Johan lost his temper.

“I don’t think we can wait on this. We’ve been dragging our feet on this story, and now we’re the only ones who have the new information. The newspapers might have the story by tomorrow!”

“That’s the chance we’ll have to take. It’s not really that interesting. Finish up your assignment today, and then I need you back here in the newsroom tomorrow. But we won’t run the story tonight. It fits in better with the Friday broadcast. That’s all the time I have right now. Bye.”

Johan was fuming as he put down the phone. What a fucking attitude! Every other news program had the story about the trial and the gang rape, but they were the only ones with this news about the murder. Generally he respected Grenfors as an editor, in spite of his shortcomings. But sometimes it was impossible to understand the man. If only he were consistent in his journalistic approach, at least! But one day he could be so overzealous that he would hound the reporters relentlessly to get what he wanted for the broadcast. The next day he would be like this. And they would sit in endless meetings, discussing over and over how they could do a better job on their own news program.

Johan didn’t mince words as he sat in the car on the way out to Gråbo, complaining about incompetent editors. His cameraman Peter was equally indignant. He was the one who had found out about the deposits to Dahlström’s account. He had met a girl at a bar in Visby, and her sister was a teller in the bank where the deposits were made.

And now they ran the risk of being upstaged by the local press. Again.

Gråbo seemed dead and gloomy in the biting wind. The bleak weather didn’t exactly invite outdoor activities. The cars in the parking lot bore witness to the fact that the people living there had limited incomes. Most of the Fords had at least ten years on them. An old Mazda hesitantly pulled out of its parking space and rattled off. At the recycling station, someone had toppled over a shopping cart from the ICA grocery store.

On their way to Dahlström’s section of the building, they passed a low wooden structure that looked like a communal laundry room. One wall was plastered with wads of snuff, and the windows were covered with graffiti. The playground in front had a sandbox, swings, and worn-looking wooden benches. Not a kid was in sight.

They walked around to the back of the building, where Dahlström had lived. The blinds were closed, preventing any curiosity-seekers from looking inside. The surrounding property consisted mainly of an over-grown lawn, and the patio was nothing more than a piece of wooden fencing with worn patio furniture that had seen better days. There was a stack of used disposable grills. Leaning against a cinder-block wall was a rusty bicycle and an overflowing garbage bag that seemed to contain empty cans. A rickety fence with peeling paint faced the passageway that continued on toward the woods.

They decided to try talking to the neighbors.

At the fourth apartment they tried, someone finally answered the doorbell. A young guy wearing only boxer shorts peered at them, bleary-eyed with sleep. His hair was dyed black and stood straight up like a scrub brush. An earring gleamed from one ear.