Unspoken (9 page)

How could he look at her the way he did when he was so old? she had wondered. If was as if his eyes made her older than she was. Although he didn’t always pay attention to her; sometimes he ignored her completely. Then, to her surprise, she would feel disappointed, as if she actually wanted him to notice her.

One time he had asked her if she wanted a lift. She said yes because it was windy and below freezing. He had a big car, and she got in. He put on some music—Joe Cocker. That was his favorite, he told her with a smile. She had never heard of Joe Cocker. He asked her what she liked to listen to. When she couldn’t think of anything, he just laughed. It was great to sit there in his warm car and listen to his gentle laughter. It felt somehow safe.

The mere fact that she was sitting in that big fancy car made her feel more important.

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 20

The morning dawned with a pale white sun that barely managed to rise above the horizon. The sea was still relatively warm, and from the surface a mist slowly lifted upward. The water merged with the sky, and in the haze it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. A seagull shrieked between Visby’s medieval merchant buildings on Strandgatan. The rugged ring wall from the thirteenth century that surrounded the town was the best preserved in all of Europe.

From the harbor came the sound of a small fishing boat chugging its way into port with its nighttime catch of cod.

Knutas had just dropped off Lina at the hospital where she worked as a midwife. She started work at seven thirty in the morning, which suited him fine. He could drive her there and still arrive in time for the morning meeting.

They had been married for fourteen years, and he didn’t regret a single day of it. They met when he was attending a police conference in Copenhagen. One evening he went to a restaurant on Gråbrødretorv with a colleague. Lina was working there as a waitress while she was studying. It was a warm summer evening, and she had on a short-sleeved blouse and black skirt. She had tried to bring some order to her unruly red hair by fastening it with a barrette, but stray locks kept on escaping and falling into her eyes. She had more freckles than anyone Knutas had ever seen. The tiny spots reached all the way to the tips of her milky-white fingers. She smelled of almonds, and when she leaned over the table, her arm brushed against his.

The next evening they had dinner together, and that was the beginning of a love the likes of which he had never even come close to before. The year that followed was filled with passionate encounters, exhausting good-byes, long nightly phone conversations, an aching sense of longing, and an ever-growing mutual feeling that they had found their partner in life. Lina finished her training, and without further ado she agreed to marry him and move to Gotland. He had just been promoted to head of the criminal division, and that was why they had decided to try living on Gotland.

It had turned out to be a good decision. Lina had no trouble adapting. With her open and cheerful manner she quickly made new friends and created her own life for herself. After only a couple of months she had found a temporary position at Visby hospital. They bought a house, and then it wasn’t long before the twins were on their way. Knutas was thirty-five when they met, and he’d had a couple of previous long-term relationships, but he had never known how natural everything could feel. With Lina at his side, he was prepared for anything.

Of course they’d had their crises and arguments, just like everyone else. Lina had a quick temper, and when she started yelling in a strong Danish accent, he had a hard time understanding what she meant. He often couldn’t help laughing, which only made her more furious. Even so, their arguments usually ended amicably. There was no sense of competition between the two of them.

Now her birthday was coming up, and he was feeling stressed. She was going to be forty-seven next Saturday, but this year he had no clue what to buy her.

And right now, he had other things on his mind. He was looking forward to the interview with Bengt Johnsson. The man had been drunk out of his mind when they took him in, so the interview had been postponed.

Smittenberg had decided to arrest him, having good reason to suspect him of murder, or at least man-slaughter. That was the lowest degree of suspicion, and the evidence against Johnsson would have to be stronger for him actually to be arraigned. The prosecutor had three days to do that. He based the arrest on the argument that there was a risk Johnsson might obstruct the investigation if he was released. He had no alibi for the night of the murder, and he also had a great deal of money in his possession, although he couldn’t explain where it had come from. Ten thousand kronor—money they assumed was part of Dahlström’s winnings at the track. The fingerprints on the bills were being examined by the Fingerprint Center in Stockholm, and they expected to have an answer by morning. If it turned out that Dahlström’s prints were on the bills, then things didn’t look good for Johnsson.

Emma pedaled toward Roma, cursing herself for deciding to ride her bike to work. It was crazy how the cold and wind had picked up as she left the schoolyard and made her way out to the main road. The Kyrk School was located some distance from town. She started biking faster to get warm. On Tuesdays she finished teaching by twelve fifteen. She usually stayed at school to put in a couple more hours of work, but today she was planning to visit a friend. Then she was going to take the children into town to go shopping and stop at the pastry shop, as she had promised. They were in desperate need of new wardrobes.

The main road was quiet and deserted, with very little traffic at this time of year. She passed the lane that led to the cloister ruins where plays by Shakespeare were performed every summer. Then past Roma School and the public baths. Farther along, on the other side of the road, were the ramshackle buildings from the Roma sugar mill, which had been shut down. The windows in the yellow brick buildings gaped darkly at her. The sugar mill had been founded more than a hundred years earlier, but it was closed when profits began to plummet. The now deserted mill stood there as a sad reminder of how times had changed.

She lifted her face to the sky, closed her eyes, and inhaled the air deep into her lungs. Emma belonged to those who appreciated November. It was an in-between month without demands, unlike the summer, with its expectations of barbecue evenings, swimming excursions, and all the visits of friends and relatives. And God have mercy on anyone who wasn’t outdoors when the sun was shining.

When the autumn darkness descended, she could retreat inside without a guilty conscience, and watch TV in the middle of the day if she felt like it, or read a good book. She could forget about putting on makeup and shuffle around wearing an old, nubby bathrobe.

In December, new demands appeared as Advent was celebrated, and preparations had to be made for Saint Lucia and Christmas Eve, with all the cooking, baking, buying Christmas presents, and putting up decorations.

For thirty-five years she had outwardly lived a good life. She was married and had two children; she had a teaching job and a great house in the middle of Roma. She had lots of friends and a good relationship with her parents and parents-in-law. Outwardly everything seemed fine, but her emotional life was in chaos. She would never have imagined how much her longing for Johan could hurt. It made her anxious, and it kept her awake at night. She had thought that her feelings for him would diminish with time. Oh, how she had deceived herself. They had seen each other only once in almost two months, and they had known each other for barely six months. By all rights their love ought to be dead. From a logical point of view, at least. But emotions and logic had nothing to do with each other.

She had tried to forget and to move on. She could see an uneasiness in the eyes of her children. Sara was only eight, and Filip was a year younger. Yet sometimes she imagined that they knew what was going on. More than Olle did. He carried on as usual. He seemed to think that they could go on forever, side by side, without touching each other. They were now like a couple of old friends. He seemed to have come to terms with the situation. Once she asked him how he could seem so content, in spite of everything. He replied that he wanted to give her time. Time after the trauma of Helena’s death and everything else that followed. Olle was still under the illusion that all this had to do with the aftermath of the events of the past summer. And it was true that she thought often about Helena’s horrible death. And she missed her terribly.

At first she had thought that the whole drama was the reason why she had fallen in love with Johan. That she had gone through some sort of emotional shock. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

She seemed to see his face everywhere she turned—at the Konsum grocery store, in the schoolyard, when she went into town.

Her guilty conscience tormented her. To think she was capable of betraying Olle in such a dreadful way. The phone conversation with Johan had made her even more confused. Of course she wanted nothing more than to see him. But the consequences of such a meeting scared her to death.

When she looked at Olle she tried to conjure up the image of the man who had once sparked her love. The man to whom she had said yes in front of the altar. He was still the same person, after all. The same now as back then. They were supposed to grow old together, damn it. That’s what they had decided long ago.

The throbbing above his temples started as soon as Johan disembarked from the plane. Shit. The last thing he needed right now was a headache. Accompanied by his colleague, cameraman Peter Bylund, he rented a car at the airport and drove straight to the old TV newsroom that was still at their disposal. It was next to the Radio Gotland building, in the middle of Visby.

It smelled musty. Dust bunnies as big as balls of yarn lay in all the corners, and the computers were also covered with a fine layer of dust. It had been a while since anyone had been inside.

The story that was their priority for the day had to do with the future of the Björkhaga campground. It was a classic camping area from the late forties, idyllically located near a sandy beach on the west side of the island. During the summer months it was filled with tourists and Gotlanders alike. Many were regular visitors, who came back year after year because they appreciated a quieter campground, without all the facilities. Now the municipal grounds had been leased to a private individual. The plan was to transform the Björkhaga campground into a modern resort area. Protests from campers and the local inhabitants came quickly.

The story had all the makings of a good TV report: photos from the deserted campground that had given so many families and their children great pleasure over the years, and a fierce conflict in the form of outraged local residents versus a business-minded entrepreneur who had the municipal bigwigs behind him.

An easy job. From Stockholm, Johan had already scheduled the interviews, so it was just a matter of getting started. The biggest challenge for him was to keep away from Emma. Right now there were only a few miles between them.

The interrogation room was sparsely furnished with a table and four chairs. The tape recorder was as new as the furniture. This was the first time it would be put to use.

Bengt Johnsson didn’t look as relaxed as he had the night before. Dressed in blue prison garb, he sat hunched on a chair, glaring at Jacobsson and Knutas, who were seated across from him. His dark hair was pulled back into a skimpy ponytail, and his mustache drooped, as did the corners of his mouth.

After the preliminary formalities were taken care of, Knutas leaned back and studied the man who was suspected of killing Henry Dahlström. Every interview had great significance for the investigative work. Establishing trust between the suspect and the interrogator was of the utmost importance. That was why Knutas took pains to proceed cautiously.

“How are you feeling?” he began. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, damn it. A beer would taste good right now.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not something we can offer you.” Knutas gave him a little smile. “How about a soda or some coffee?”

“I’ll have a Coke.”

Knutas rang for a soda.

“Am I allowed to smoke?”

“Sure.”

“Great.”

Johnsson shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack of John Silvers and lit it with a slight tremor in his hand.

“Can you tell us when you last saw Henry?”

“It was the day after he won at the track. Or rather, the evening after. I was in town with a pal and Flash came over to see us. I was drunk, so I don’t really remember much.”

He was interrupted by the door opening. A police officer came in with the soda.

“What happened?”

“We just talked for a while.”

“Who was your friend?”

“His name is Örjan. Örjan Broström.”

“What did you do then?”

“Flash didn’t stay long.”

“Was he on foot when he left?”

“He went to catch a bus.”

“And you didn’t see him after that?”

“Nope.”

“And this was on Monday, November twelfth, the day after you were at the track?”

“Yup.”

“What time?”

“I’m not really sure, but most of the stores were closed and it was dark. There were hardly any people around, so I think it was pretty late.”

“What do you mean by that? Ten or eleven at night?”

“No, no, damn it. It wasn’t that late. Maybe seven or eight.”

“And you didn’t see Henry again after that night?”

“No, not until we found him in the darkroom, that is.”

“The building superintendent says that you rang his doorbell. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you want to talk to him?”

“I hadn’t seen Flash for a while. I get a little worried when a buddy suddenly isn’t around.”

“Why did you take off after you found him?”

Johnsson was silent for a moment before he resumed talking.

“Well, you see . . . I’d done something really stupid, something damn stupid.”