Unspoken (3 page)

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 18

The hail that was ricocheting off the galvanized roof woke Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas at his home, which was a stone’s throw outside the ring wall in Visby.

He climbed out of bed and shivered as his feet touched the cold floor. He fumbled wearily for his bathrobe and pulled up the blinds. He peered out in surprise. Hail in November was unusual. The garden looked like something straight out of an old black-and-white Bergman movie. The trees mournfully stretched out their bare branches toward the steel gray sky. The asphalt on the residential street was wet and cold. Off in the distance a woman in a dark blue coat was struggling to cross the street with a baby buggy. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind and the sharp beads of ice that were peppering the ground. Two rumpled-looking sparrows huddled together under the currant bushes, although the sparse branches offered little protection.

Why should I get up at all?
he thought as he crawled back under the warm covers. Lina had her back turned to him and seemed to be still asleep. He cuddled up next to her and kissed the back of her neck.

The thought of Sunday breakfast with warm scones and coffee finally convinced them to get out of bed. The local radio station was playing oldies requests, and the cat was sitting in the window trying to catch the drops of water on the other side of the pane. It didn’t take long before the children came sauntering into the kitchen, still in their pajamas and nightgown. Nils and Petra were twins and had just turned twelve. They had Lina’s freckles and curly red hair but their father’s lanky build. They looked alike but were otherwise complete opposites. Petra had inherited her father’s calm disposition, and she loved fishing, golf, and spending time outdoors. Nils was hot-tempered with a bellowing laugh and a talent for mimicry. He was also crazy about movies and music, just like Lina.

Knutas checked the thermometer outside the window. Thirty-six degrees. With a certain gloominess he noted that the crimson days of October were now gone. It was his favorite month: the crisp air, the leaves of the trees blazing with color ranging from ocher to purple, and the strong scent of earth and apples. Glittering bright red rowanberries, and the woods filled with autumn chanterelles. Blue sky. Not too hot and not too cold.

Now October had been replaced with a dirty-gray November, which could hardly please anyone. The sun came up just after seven and went down before four. The days were going to get shorter and darker all the way until Christmas.

No wonder so many people got depressed at this time of year. Anyone who had to be outdoors was in a hurry to go back inside as fast as possible. People hunched their shoulders beneath the wind and rain, not even bothering to glance up at each other.
We ought to hibernate, like bears
, thought Knutas.
This month is just a transitional period and nothing more
.

The summer seemed long gone. Back then the island had looked entirely different. Each summer Gotland was invaded by hundreds of thousands of visitors who came to enjoy the unique nature, the sand beaches, and the medieval city of Visby. Of course the island needed tourists, but the visitors also meant a great deal of work for the police. Hordes of teenagers came to Visby to party at the numerous pubs. Problems with alcohol and drugs increased dramatically.

But this past summer all of that had been overshadowed by a serial killer who had ravaged the island, terrifying both tourists and Gotlanders alike. The police had worked under great pressure, and the enormous scrutiny from the media hadn’t made their job any easier.

Afterward Knutas was unhappy about the way things had turned out. He brooded over the fact that the police hadn’t seen the connection between the victims earlier and prevented the lives of more young women from being sacrificed.

He and his family had taken a five-week vacation, but when he went back to work, he felt anything but rested.

So far the fall had been uneventful, and that was exactly what he needed.

He had been standing outside the door, ringing the bell for almost five minutes. Surely Flash couldn’t be such a sound sleeper? Now he kept his finger pressed on the shiny button, but no one responded inside the apartment.

He leaned down with some difficulty and shouted through the mail slot, “Flash! Flash! Open up, damn it!”

With a sigh he leaned against the door and lit a cigarette, even though he knew that the neighbor lady would complain if she happened to come past.

It was almost a week since he and Flash had met at Östercentrum; he hadn’t seen him since. That wasn’t like him. They should have at least run into each other at the bus station or at the Domus mall, if nowhere else.

He took one last drag on his cigarette and rang the neighbor’s bell.

“Who is it?” squeaked a feeble voice.

“I’m pals with Flash . . . Henry Dahlström next door. I want to ask you a question.”

The door opened a crack and an old woman peered at him from behind a thick safety chain.

“What’s it about?”

“Have you seen Henry lately?”

“Has something happened?” An inquisitive glint appeared in her eyes.

“No, no, I don’t think so. I’m just wondering where he is.”

“I haven’t heard a sound since all that racket last weekend. There was a terrible uproar. I suppose it was a drunken party, as usual,” she snapped, giving him an accusatory look.

“Do you know if anyone else has a key to his apartment?”

“The building superintendents have keys to all the apartments. One of them lives in the building across the way. You can go over there and ask him. His name is Andersson.”

When the building superintendent let him into the apartment, they found a chaos of pulled-out drawers, cupboards that had been emptied of their contents, and overturned furniture. Papers, books, clothes, and other junk had been scattered everywhere. In the kitchen the floor was littered with leftover food, cigarette butts, liquor bottles, and other garbage. The room smelled of old beer, cigarette smoke, and fried fish. Someone had also tossed the sofa cushions and bed linens around.

Both men stood in the middle of the living room, their mouths agape. Words came haltingly from the lips of Andersson.

“What the hell happened here?”

He opened the patio door and looked out.

“Nobody out there, either. There’s only one other place to look.”

They went downstairs to the basement. Along one side of the deserted corridor was a row of doors labeled with various signs: “Laundry Room,” “Baby Buggies,” “Bicycles.” In the middle were the usual basement storerooms with chicken-wire doors. At the far end was an unmarked door.

From the darkroom issued a rotten odor that made their stomachs turn over. The stench just about knocked them to the floor. Andersson switched on the light, and the sight was appalling. On the floor lay Henry Dahlström, drenched in his own blood. He was lying on his stomach, face to the floor. The back of his head was smashed in, with an open wound as big as a fist. Blood had spattered the walls and even the ceiling. His outstretched arms were covered with small, brown blisters. His jeans had dark patches on the seat where he had shit.

Andersson backed out to the corridor.

“Have to call the police,” he whimpered. “Do you have a cell phone? I left mine upstairs.”

The other man replied only by shaking his head.

“Wait here. Don’t let anyone in.” The super turned on his heel and ran up the stairs.

When he came back, Flash’s buddy was gone.

The gray concrete building made a dreary impression in the November darkness. Anders Knutas and his closest colleague, Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson, climbed out of their car on Jungmansgatan in the Gråbo district.

An icy wind from the north made them hurry their steps toward Henry Dahlström’s front door. A crowd of people had gathered outside the building. Some were talking to the police. The process of knocking on doors had begun, and the building superintendent had been taken in for questioning.

The apartment building seemed shabby. The outside light was broken, and in the stairwell the paint was peeling off the walls.

They greeted a male colleague, who showed them to the darkroom. When he opened the door to the basement, an unbearable stench enveloped them. The stale, nauseating, cadaverous odor told them that the body had already started to decompose. Jacobsson could feel how perilously close she was to vomiting. She had thrown up plenty of times at murder scenes, but she would prefer not to do so now. She pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it over her mouth.

Crime scene tech Erik Sohlman appeared in the doorway to the darkroom.

“Hi. The victim’s name is Henry Dahlström. You probably know him—Flash, the old alcoholic who was a photographer? This was his darkroom. He was apparently still using it.”

He tilted his head back in the direction of the basement room.

“His head has been bashed in, and it wasn’t just a few blows, either. There’s blood everywhere. I just wanted to warn you that it’s not a pretty sight.”

They paused in the doorway and looked down at the body.

“When did he die?” asked Knutas.

“He’s probably been lying here close to a week, I would think. The body has started to rot, not too badly yet because it’s reasonably cold down here. If he’d been here another day, the whole stairwell would have stunk.”

Sohlman pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead and sighed.

“I’ve got to keep working. It will be a while before you can come in.”

“How long?”

“A matter of hours. Actually I’d be happy if you could wait until tomorrow. We have a lot to do here. It’s the same thing with his apartment.”

“Okay.”

Knutas studied the cramped room. Every inch of space had been put to use. Plastic trays were crowded next to jugs containing chemicals; there were scissors, clothespins, stacks of photographs, boxes and crates. In one corner was the enlarger.

A tray had been knocked over and the chemicals mixed with the blood.

When they exited through the front door, Knutas inhaled the fresh evening air deep into his lungs. It was eight fifteen. The rain pouring down from the dark sky was turning into wet snow.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19

The next morning the investigative team gathered at police headquarters on Norra Hansegatan. An expensive remodeling had just been completed, and the criminal division had been assigned new offices. The meeting room was bright with a high ceiling, and it was twice as large as the old one.

Most of the decor was of simple Scandinavian design in gray and white, with birch furniture. In the middle of the room stood a long, wide table with room for ten on each side. At one end was a big whiteboard and a projector screen. Everything smelled new. The light-colored paint on the walls was barely dry.

Both sides of the room were lined with windows. One row of windows looked out on the street, the parking lot at Obs supermarket, and the eastern side of the ring wall. Beyond the wall the sea was visible. The other windows faced the corridor so that it was possible to see who was walking past. The thin cotton curtains could be closed for more privacy—the old yellow curtains had been replaced with white ones in a discreet pattern.

For once Knutas was several minutes late for the morning meeting. An amicable murmuring was going on as he stepped into the room with a coffee mug in one hand and a folder of papers in the other. It was past eight o’clock, and everyone was present. He removed his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and took his usual place at one end of the table. Taking a gulp of the bitter coffee from the office coffee machine, he studied his colleagues as they chatted with each other.

On his right sat Karin Jacobsson: thirty-seven years old, petite, with dark hair and brown eyes. On the job she was persistent and fearless, and she could be as irascible as a terrier. She was open and outgoing, but he knew very little about her personal life, even though they had been working together for fifteen years. She lived alone and had no children. Knutas didn’t know whether she had a boyfriend or not.

He had spent all autumn without her working beside him, and he had missed her terribly. In connection with the homicides of the past summer, Karin Jacobsson had become the subject of an internal investigation regarding possible misconduct. The investigation was dropped, but the whole thing had taken its toll on her. She had been placed on leave while the investigation was ongoing, and then she had taken a vacation right afterward. He had no idea what she had done while she was away.

Right now she was immersed in a quiet conversation with Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg. He looked more like a surfer than a police officer, with his thick blond hair and trim body. He was a twenty-seven-year-old playboy who constantly had new girlfriends, but his attention to his job was irreproachable. His talent for making contact with people had been of great use—as the head of an interrogation he was unbeatable.

Lars Norrby, on the other side of the table, was the direct opposite of Wittberg: tall, dark, and meticulous to the point of being long-winded. He could drive Knutas crazy with his fussing over details. At work they knew each other’s habits inside out. They had joined the police force at the same time, and for a period they had patrolled together. Now they were both approaching fifty and were as familiar with the criminals on Gotland as they were with each other.

Detective Inspector Norrby was the police spokesman, as well as the assistant head of the criminal investigation unit—a situation that did not always please Knutas.

The technician of the group, Erik Sohlman, was intense, temperamental, and as zealous as a bloodhound; at the same time, he was incredibly methodical.

Birger Smittenberg, the chief prosecutor, was also sitting at the table. He was originally from Stockholm, but he had married a woman from Gotland. Knutas valued his knowledge and his strong sense of involvement.

Knutas began the meeting.

“The victim is Henry ‘Flash’ Dahlström, born in 1943. He was found dead just after six p.m. yesterday, in a basement room that he used as a darkroom. If you haven’t all heard it already, he’s the alcoholic who was once a photographer. He used to hang out down on Öster, and the most distinctive thing about him was the camera that he always wore around his neck.”