Unspoken (10 page)

“Okay,” said Knutas. “What was it?”

“The whole gang was at the racetrack on Sunday, the last race day of the season, so it was extra festive. I was there with Flash and Kjelle, and two broads: Gunsan and Monica. We went over to Flash’s place beforehand to have a bite to eat. And then when he won, he wanted to celebrate and we did, too. So we went back to his apartment afterward. We had a party there that night.”

He fell silent. Knutas clearly sensed that this was a turning point in the interrogation. Now it was starting to get interesting.

“Well, Flash had won all this money at the track, eighty thousand big ones, in thousand-kronor bills. He showed me where he hid the money, in a box in the broom closet. Later, when the others were all in the living room, I just couldn’t resist. I thought he wouldn’t notice if I took a few thousand. I’ve been going through a real cash crunch, and Flash seemed to be really flush lately, so I thought that . . . well.”

He paused and gave the officers a pleading look.

“But damn it, I didn’t kill him. No, I didn’t. I could never do anything like that. But I did take some of his money.”

“How much?”

“I guess about twenty thousand,” said Johnsson quietly.

“You only had ten thousand in the cabin. What happened to the rest of it?”

“I spent it. On a lot of booze. This thing with Flash really upset me.”

“But why did you run away from the darkroom?” Knutas asked again.

“I was scared that you’d think I killed Flash because I stole his money.”

“What were you doing on the evening of November twelfth?”

“What day was that?”

“Last Monday, when you saw Henry at the bus station.”

“Like I told you, we were there until maybe eight or nine o’clock. Then I went home with Örjan. We spent the night drinking until I passed out on his sofa.”

“What time was it then?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where does he live?”

“On Styrmansgatan, number fourteen.”

“Okay. Then he should be able to back up your story.”

“Sure, although we were both pretty far gone.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was about the results from the Fingerprint Center. They took a short break and the officers left the room. Johnsson wanted to use the toilet.

Dahlström’s fingerprints had been found on the bills. This finding was of little consequence if the police chose to believe Johnsson’s story. Many other prints were also found, but none that matched any in police records.

“What do we do now?” asked Jacobsson as they got coffee from the office coffee machine.

“I don’t know. Do you believe him?”

“Yes, actually, I do,” she said, looking up at Knutas. “I think he sounds very convincing.”

“I do, too. If only there was someone who could corroborate his story, we could release him right away. I think we can disregard the theft of the money for the time being.”

“His pal, this Örjan, seems to keep popping up. We need to get hold of him,” said Jacobsson.

“I’ll talk to Birger about whether we should hold Bengt Johnsson any longer or not. I think we’ll stop the interview here. Would you like some lunch?”

The choice of lunch restaurants in Visby during the wintertime was limited. Most of the pubs were open only in the evening, and so they usually ended up at the same place if they wanted a change from the meager offerings in the police department’s cafeteria. Of course the lunch was more expensive, but it was worth every öre. The Cloister was furnished in classic inn style and had a well-respected chef. The owner, Leif Almlöv, was one of Knutas’s best friends. When Knutas and Jacobsson stepped through the door, they were met by a great bustle and clatter and plenty of hurrying waitresses. All the tables were taken.

Leif caught sight of them and waved.

“Hi, how are things going?”

He gave Jacobsson a hug and shook hands with Knutas as he kept an eye on everything going on around them.

“Good. It’s sure crowded in here today,” said Knutas.

“There’s a convention in town. It was like this yesterday, too. Total hysteria. What would you like to eat?”

“Looks like we’re going to have to settle for hot dogs instead.”

“No, no, don’t even think of it. Of course I’ll get you a table. Just wait here. Have a seat at the bar for the time being.”

He called to the bartender to give them something to drink, on the house. As they sat down with glasses of light beer in front of them, Jacobsson lit a cigarette.

“Have you started smoking?” exclaimed Knutas in surprise.

“No, not at all. I only smoke when I go to a party or if I’m having problems.”

“I see, and what would you call this?”

“The latter. I’m having some personal difficulties.”

“Is it something you’d like to talk about?”

“No. Leif is waving to us—we have a table.”

Sometimes Jacobsson could really drive Knutas crazy. She was overly secretive about her private life. She might tell him something about her travels, her relatives, or some social event that she had gone to, but he seldom found out anything important.

They didn’t meet socially, except infrequently at a party. He had been to her place only a few times. She lived on Mellangatan, in a big three-room apartment with a view of the sea. The only male companion she ever talked about at any length was her large cockatoo named Vincent, who was the center of attention in his cage in the living room. The stories about him were legion: for one thing, he was a whiz at playing Ping-Pong with his beak, and he could scare off unwelcome visitors by growling like a dog.

Knutas didn’t actually know very much about Karin Jacobsson except that she was interested in sports. She played soccer in Division Three and was by all accounts very good at it. She could always talk about soccer. She was a midfielder on the Visby P18 team that played in the mainland league, which meant that she often played matches off the island. Knutas imagined that if she operated on the same level as she did on the job, she was undoubtedly a tough player to tackle, in spite of her small size. She shared her interest in sports with Erik Sohlman. They were always talking about soccer.

Jacobsson was from Tingstäde parish in the north of the island. Her parents still lived in the same house on the edge of Tingstäde swamp, practically right across from the church. Knutas knew that she had a younger brother, but she never talked about him or her parents.

Many times he had wondered why she still lived alone. Karin was both charming and nice, and when she first started working with the Visby police, he had been slightly attracted to her. But that was just when he happened to meet Lina, so he had never fully examined his feelings. He didn’t dare ask Karin about her love life; her sense of privacy blocked all attempts of that sort. Yet Knutas never held back from telling her about his own problems. She knew just about everything about him, and he considered her to be his best female friend.

Their food arrived, and they hungrily focused their attention on eating as they discussed the investigation. They both agreed that they believed Bengt Johnsson’s story.

“Maybe the murder has nothing to do with the money Dahlström won at the track,” said Jacobsson. “The perp could have stolen the cash as a diversion. He wants us to think that the murder was the result of a burglary. But then the question is: What was the real motive?”

“Do you know whether he was seeing anyone?”

“Well, that Monica who was at the track with him told us that they sometimes slept together, but it was nothing serious.”

“What about in the past? Maybe there’s a story farther back and none of his current friends knows anything about it.”

“That’s conceivable,” said Jacobsson, drinking the last of the light beer she was having with her fish. “Do you think it might be about an ex-girlfriend who wanted revenge, or a jealous husband whose wife was sleeping with Dahlström, or some neighbor who got tired of all the coming and going in the stairwell?”

“I think the explanation could be even simpler than that. The most obvious motive is the track money—someone killed Dahlström for the money, plain and simple.”

“Maybe.” Jacobsson stood up. “I’ve got to run. We’re going to track down Örjan Broström—Bengt’s buddy.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

Most of the lunch guests had left the restaurant, and Leif sat down on the chair that Jacobsson had vacated.

He opened a frosty bottle of beer and took several long gulps.

“What an ordeal. Practically every customer wanted to order à la carte instead of choosing the daily special. The kitchen was an inferno, and the chef has been yelling at everyone. I had to console one of the waitresses who started sobbing.”

“You poor guy,” said Knutas with a laugh. “Is she cute?”

Leif made a wry face.

“Not much fun when you have to play nanny to every single person. Sometimes this place seems just like a day-care center. But never mind that, a lot of people means money in the bank, and that’s what we need during the long, cold winter. How are things with you?”

“Lots of work—just like you. The difference is that the profits are scanty.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“We’ve got someone under arrest, although between you and me, I doubt he’s the guy. But I’m sure we’ll solve this case, too.”

“Wasn’t it one of his drinking buddies who did it?”

“That seems the most likely, but we’ll have to wait and see,” said Knutas.

Even though he and Leif were close friends, he didn’t like to discuss an investigation when he was in the middle of it. Leif was fully aware of this and respected his reticence.

“How are Ingrid and the kids?” asked Knutas.

“They’re all fine. This morning I went out and bought tickets to Paris. I’m thinking of surprising Ingrid with a week of romance right after New Year’s. We’re celebrating our fifteenth wedding anniversary.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Incredible but true.”

“You always manage to come up with such good ideas. I can’t think of what to buy Lina for her birthday. Do you have any suggestions?”

“No, you’re going to have to think of something yourself. I’ve filled my quota when it comes to your wife’s birthdays. At least until it’s time for her fiftieth.”

Knutas smiled with embarrassment. When Lina had turned forty they were going through a rough period financially. So the Almlövs had provided the place and the wait staff for the big celebration. Leif also happened to know the members of a band, and they had agreed to play for free. Leif was truly a thoughtful and generous friend. The entire Knutas family had been invited to the Almlöv mountain cabin and to their time-share apartment on the Costa del Sol in Spain.

The two families belonged to completely different economic brackets. This had bothered Knutas at first, but over time he had accepted this difference. Leif and Ingrid had a relaxed attitude toward their wealth, and they never talked about it.

Knutas asked for the bill, but Leif refused to let his friend pay for lunch. Every time Knutas came to the restaurant they had the same argument.

Johan was standing in front of the ATM on Adelsgatan when he noticed her. She came walking from Söderport, holding the hand of a child on either side. She was talking to them and laughing. Tall and slender, with her sand-colored hair hanging straight down to her shoulders. He saw the contours of her high cheek-bones as she turned her head. She was wearing jeans and a short, lion-yellow quilted jacket. A striped scarf was wrapped around her neck. And she had on mocha-colored boots with fringe.

His mouth went dry and he turned his back to peer down at the ATM. “Receipt requested?” Should he turn around and say hello? Last night’s conversation complicated matters. He didn’t know whether she was still angry.

He had never met the children, just seen them from a distance. Would she notice him, or would she just walk past? There was hardly anyone on the street, which meant that she was bound to see him. He felt a slight panic and turned around.

She had stopped to look in a window a short distance away. He gathered his courage.

“Hi!” He looked right into her shining eyes.

“Hi, Johan.”

The children looked up at him inquisitively, their cheeks red under brightly colored caps. One of them was slightly taller than the other.

“You must be Sara and Filip,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Johan.”

“How do you know our names?” asked the girl in her lilting Gotland accent.

She bore a striking resemblance to her mother. A mini-version of Emma.

“Your mother told me.”

Emma’s presence made him feel weak in the knees.

“Johan is sort of a friend of mine,” Emma told the children. “He’s a TV journalist and lives in Stockholm.”

“Do you work for a TV station?” asked the girl, wide-eyed.

“I’ve seen you on TV,” said the boy, who was smaller and blonder.

Johan was used to having children claim they had seen him, even though he knew it was very unlikely. He made an appearance only on those rare occasions when he did a stand-up, when reporters explain something with live video for the viewers.

But he didn’t let on.

“Is that right?”

“Yes,” said the boy solemnly.

“Next time don’t forget to wave, okay?”

The boy nodded.

“How are things going?” Emma’s question sounded rather indifferent.

“Fine, thanks. I’m here with Peter. We’re doing a story on the Björkhaga campground.”

“I see,” she said without interest.

“What about you?”

“I’m good. Fine. Just fine.”

She glanced quickly around, as if she were afraid that someone might notice them.

“I’m teaching, as usual. I’ve been really busy.”

Johan felt a growing sense of irritation.

“How long are you staying?” she asked.

“I’m going home tomorrow or Thursday. It hasn’t been decided yet. It depends.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence settled between them.

“Come on, Mamma.”

Filip was tugging at her arm.

“Okay, sweetie, I’m coming.”

“Could we meet?”

He was forced to ask the question, even though she had already said no.