Unspoken (19 page)

“But I don’t want to meet anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”

Now she just wanted to get out of the car. His aggressive tone scared her. She tried to open the car door.

“You little bitch. Who the hell do you think you are?”

He threw himself at her and grabbed her hard by the arms. With his lips pressed close to her ear, he snarled, “Do you think you can just stop seeing me? You better be damn careful, because you’re treading on thin ice. Don’t think you can just start setting the terms. I’ll fix things so that you never set foot in that stable again—do you understand? One word from me, and you won’t be able to show your face there ever again. Is that what you want?”

She tried to pull herself out of his grip.

“Let me make one thing damn clear—our relationship is over when I say it’s over. And not a word about this to a single person, or you can say good-bye to the stable forever. Just keep that in mind, you little slut!”

He pushed her away from him. Sobbing, she finally managed to open the door and stumble out of the car.

In the next instant he was gone. The last thing she heard was the tires screeching as he turned the corner.

Emma looked at her husband over the rim of her wineglass. They were still sitting at the table, talking after dinner as they usually did on the weekend. The children were watching
Little Stars
on TV, quite happy with bottles of Coke and a big bowl of popcorn. Olle seemed content. Was it really possible that he didn’t suspect a thing?

He refilled her glass.
How absurd
, she thought.
Yesterday I was sitting just like this with Johan
.

“That was certainly delicious,” he said.

She had served lamb burgers with yogurt sauce and homemade baba ghanoush. There was now a Lebanese restaurant in Visby, and they had tried it out on one of the rare occasions when they went out to dinner. The chef had given her the recipe when she asked him for it.

Yet another dinner in the long series of meals that they had shared. Olle asked her to tell him about the course she had taken in Stockholm, and so she did. They’d hardly had any time to talk since she had come home.

“How long did you stay at the banquet?”

“Oh, not very long,” she replied evasively. “I don’t know what time it was. Maybe one.”

“Did you leave with Viveka?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“Huh. I called your hotel this morning, but you weren’t there. And your cell phone was off.”

She felt a burning sensation shoot through her body. Now she was going to have to tell another lie.

“I must have been eating breakfast. What time did you call?”

“Eight thirty. I couldn’t find Sara’s sneakers.”

He kept his eyes fixed on her. Emma took another sip of her wine to gain some time.

“That’s when I was in the breakfast room. The battery on my cell had run out, so I left it in my room to recharge.”

“Oh, so that’s what happened,” he said, sounding satisfied.

A perfectly natural explanation. Of course that was what happened. His trust in her had been built up over many years. Why should he doubt what she told him? She had never given him any cause to do that.

The lies burned inside her, and for her the relaxed mood was now gone. She started to clear the table.

“Hey, sit down,” he objected. “That can wait.”

Their conversation moved on to other topics, and her feeling of uneasiness soon disappeared. They put the children to bed and watched an exciting thriller on TV. She curled up on the sofa with Olle’s arm around her, the same as always. And yet it wasn’t.

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 25

Things finally fell apart the following morning. Emma’s cell rang while she was in the shower, and Olle checked to see what the message was.

It said: “How are you? Longing for you. Kisses, Johan.”

When she came out of the shower, Olle was sitting at the kitchen table. His face was white with fury, and he was holding her cell phone in his hand.

The floor gave way beneath her. She realized at once that he knew. Through the window she saw the children playing outside in the rain.

“What is it?” she asked in a feeble voice.

“What the hell is going on?” he said, his voice thick with anger.

“What do you mean?”

She could feel her lower lip quivering.

“You got a message,” he shouted. “On this!” He waved her cell in the air. “From some Johan who is longing for you and sending you kisses.
Who the hell is Johan?
”

“Just wait and I’ll explain,” she pleaded as she cautiously sat down on the very edge of a chair across from him.

At that moment she heard the front door open.

“Mamma, Mamma, my mittens are wet,” cried Sara. “Can I have another pair?”

“I’m coming,” she called. She went out to the entryway and found another pair. Her hands were shaking.

“Here, sweetheart. Now go back out and play with Filip. Mamma and Pappa need to be alone to talk. So why don’t you and your brother stay outside for a while. I’ll call you when we’re done.”

She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek and then went back to her husband in the kitchen.

“I’ve wanted to tell you, but it’s been so difficult,” she said, giving him an entreating look. “I’ve been seeing somebody for a while, but I’m so confused. I don’t really know what I feel.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

His words cut right through her. She could hear how Olle was trying to control his anger by clenching his teeth. She didn’t dare look at him.

“It can’t be true! This is too fucking unbelievable!” he said.

He got up from the table and came to stand in front of her, still holding her cell phone in his hand.

“What the hell is going on here? Who is he?”

“He’s the journalist who interviewed me after Helena was killed. The journalist from TV. Johan Berg,” she said quietly.

Olle flung the cell phone to the floor with all his might. With a bang it was transformed into a pile of plastic and metal splinters. Then he turned to her.

“Have you been seeing him ever since then? Behind my back? For all these months?”

His face contorted with anger as he leaned toward her.

“Yes,” she said weakly. “But you have to let me explain. We haven’t been seeing each other the whole time.”

“Explain!” he shouted. “You can explain to your lawyer. Get out! I want you out of here!”

He grabbed her hard by the arm and yanked her out of the chair.

“Get out! You don’t belong here anymore. Leave right now, so I don’t have to look at you. Go to hell! I never want to see you again! Do you hear me? Never!”

The children had heard the ruckus, and they now appeared in the doorway. At first they looked bewildered, then they both started to cry. That didn’t stop Olle. He shoved Emma out onto the porch in her stocking feet and threw her jacket and boots after her.

“Here!” he yelled. “But you’re not taking the car!” And he snatched away her car keys.

Then he slammed the door shut.

Emma put on her jacket and boots. The door opened again and her purse came flying out.

She was out in the cold. The street was deserted.

A Sunday morning in November, and it was over. She stared at the closed door. Her purse had fallen open and the contents were scattered all over the porch and front steps. Mechanically she gathered up everything, too numb to cry. She walked down to the gate and opened it, then turned right, although she didn’t know why. She didn’t notice the neighbor family a couple of houses away who were talking and laughing as they climbed into their car and drove off. The mother waved to Emma but got no response.

She felt empty inside, as if stunned. Her face felt rigid. What on earth had she done? Where should she go now? She couldn’t go back to her own house.

The sports field next to the school was deserted. The wind was blowing from the north. She looked over at the main road where a few cars were driving past.

When did the buses go into town on Sundays? She had never needed to ask that question before.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26

The temperature in the sauna was 176 degrees Fahrenheit. Knutas filled a wooden ladle and tossed more water on the glowing hot stones. The temperature rose even higher.

They had swum a mile and were more than satisfied. Once a week Anders Knutas and Leif Almlöv would go swimming together, at least in the wintertime. Knutas swam regularly at Solberga Baths during all seasons of the year. He actually preferred to swim alone. He always thought more clearly when he was in the water, swimming one lap after another. But this was a way for the two of them to meet. They had to put up with a good deal of joshing from their friends because they went to the swimming pool—something that was more typical for women. Men played tennis or golf together, or they went bowling.

In the sauna they would discuss all sorts of daily trivialities, or just sit in utter silence. That was the sign of a good friend, Knutas thought. He didn’t care for loud people who insisted on jabbering incessantly, even when they had nothing sensible to say.

Knutas described Lina’s birthday fiasco, which gave Almlöv a good laugh. They would never completely understand women—they could certainly agree on that.

They had sons the same age, and they talked about the problems of puberty that had started showing up. Their sons were classmates and friends. A week or so ago Almlöv had discovered them smoking in secret. It turned out that they had lit a couple of old cigarette butts. Almlöv’s son, who wore his hair long—to the dismay of his parents—had managed to burn several locks on one side.

They talked about their surprise at getting older, about the anxiety of bulging stomachs and slack muscles, about getting gray hair on their chests. Knutas didn’t think about old age and death very often, but sometimes he noticed how life seemed to be running away from him, and then he would wonder how much time he had left. He pictured himself getting older and older, with all the accompanying infirmities and immobility. How long would he be able to remain active? When he was thinking along those lines, he would start worrying about the fact that he smoked, although not much. Mostly he sucked on an unlit pipe, filling it and tending to it, but lighting it only a few times each day.

Almlöv was struggling with the same anxieties, even though he didn’t smoke. He told Knutas that he had bought a home gym, and he was working out for an hour every morning. The results were quite evident, as Knutas noted with envy. He appreciated his friend’s candor and the fact that he could confide in him. But when it came to Knutas’s job, other rules applied. And Almlöv never asked him about his work. Even so, Knutas sometimes wished he could tell his friend about one thing or another. It was often good to talk to someone outside police headquarters, someone who had a different perspective. Lina was usually the one who served as his sounding board. She had helped him many times to think along new lines.

It was eleven o’clock by the time Knutas arrived at his office. On his desk was a handwritten note from Norrby along with the transcription of an interview from the Uppsala police. The young woman who was with the witness at the harbor had been tracked down to an address there. Only one passenger of the right age and from that city had taken the boat on the day in question. Her name was Elin Andersson. The Uppsala police had apparently agreed to assist the investigative team by interviewing her over the weekend. She had conceded that she knew Niklas Appelqvist and that they had been together at the harbor on the morning of July 20 before she left. But she had not noticed anyone in particular down at the harbor. So it was as they had guessed—Dahlström’s young neighbor was the one who had provided Johan Berg with the information. Knutas was extremely annoyed that such an important witness refused to talk to the police. And it wasn’t because he’d been in trouble with the police. A search of police records had come up negative.

When he entered the conference room half an hour later, Knutas noticed at once a sense of excitement in the air. Jacobsson and Kihlgård had gone through Dahlström’s papers over the weekend, and from the look on their faces, it was clear that they had found something that they were dying to share with their colleagues. Kihlgård had two big cinnamon rolls on a plate in front of him next to a big mug of coffee. He ate as he fiddled with the papers. Crumbs fell on the table.

Knutas sighed. “Do the two of you have something to report?”

“You better believe it,” said Kihlgård. “It turns out that Dahlström kept detailed records on his clients. We have a long list of names and dates, what he built, and how much he was paid.”

“The work he did was much more extensive than we thought,” added Jacobsson. “He had been doing carpentry jobs for over ten years. His first job was in 1990. Some of the people who made use of Dahlström’s services are very well-known in Visby.”

Everyone gave Jacobsson their full attention as she held up a list of names.

“Would you believe—wait till you hear this—city council chairman and Social Democrat Arne Magnusson?”

A gasp of surprise rippled through the room.

“Magnusson?” said Wittberg, laughing. “That can’t be true! The guy who’s always defending high taxes and talking about how great it is to pay them? That’s too funny! He’s the worst moralizer in all of Visby.”

“Yes, he’s always lobbying for the restaurants to close at one a.m. in the summertime and for smoking to be banned,” snickered Sohlman.

“If this gets out . . . the journalists are going to have a field day.” Norrby threw out his hands.

“A garden shed in 1997,” read Jacobsson from the list. “Five thousand kronor, paid under the table, along with several bottles of liquor. Can you believe it?”

Knutas grew serious. “This is totally insane.”

“Just wait. There are more surprises on the list,” said Jacobsson. “Bernt Håkansson, chief surgeon at the hospital, and Leif Almlöv, restaurant owner and your good friend, Anders!”

“What the hell?” Knutas turned bright red in the face. “Is his name on there, too?”

“A sauna in the country for ten thousand—that was a tidy sum.”