Unspoken (8 page)

She was reminded of the time last summer when she had tried to mend a hole in his shirt with a needle and thread from his hotel. Afterward she had vowed never to try sewing anything again.

“It went to hell, just like everything else,” she said without thinking.

“What? What do you mean?”

He was trying to sound neutral, but she could hear the hope in his voice.

“Oh, nothing. What do you want? You know you’re not supposed to call,” she repeated.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“But if you don’t leave me in peace, I won’t be able to think,” she said gently.

He tried to persuade her to meet him when he arrived in Gotland on the following day.

She refused, even though her body was screaming for him. It was a battle between reason and emotion.

“Don’t keep doing this. It’s hard enough as it is.”

“But what are your feelings for me, Emma? Tell me honestly. I need to know.”

“I think about you, too. All the time. I’m so confused. I don’t know what I should do.”

“Do you sleep with him?”

“You’d better hang up now,” she said, annoyed.

He heard her light a cigarette.

“Come on, tell me. Do you? I want to know if you do.”

She sighed deeply.

“No, I don’t. I don’t have the slightest desire to sleep with him. Are you satisfied?”

“But how long can you keep that up? You’re going to have to make up your mind, Emma. Hasn’t he noticed anything? Is he that insensitive? Doesn’t he wonder why you’re acting this way?”

“Of course he does, but he thinks it’s a reaction to what happened this summer.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?”

“What are your feelings for me?”

Another deep sigh.

“I love you, Johan,” she said quietly. “That’s what makes everything so difficult.”

“But what the hell, Emma. We can’t keep going on like this for much longer. Wouldn’t it be better to make a clean break and tell him how things stand?”

“What the hell do you mean by ‘how things stand’?” she roared. “You have no idea how things stand!”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Her voice was angry now, and she was on the verge of tears.

“You have no fucking idea what it’s like to be responsible for two young children! I can’t sit on the sofa and cry all weekend because I miss you. Or decide to be with you just because I want to. Or need to. Or have to, in order to survive. Because surely you know that my whole life revolves around you, Johan. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I see in my mind’s eye before I fall asleep. But I can’t let this take over everything. I have to keep functioning. Take care of the house, my job, my family. Above all, I have to think of my children. What would happen to them if I left Olle? You go around over there in Stockholm with only yourself to think about. A good job, your own nice apartment in the center of town, and lots to do. If your longing for me starts to get difficult, there are plenty of things to divert your attention. You can go out to pubs, meet with friends, go to the movies. And if you’re feeling sad and want to cry over me, you can do that, too. But where the hell can I go? Maybe I can sneak into the laundry room and cry. But I can’t just go into town if I’m feeling unhappy and find something else to do. Or meet some new people who are fun? Not likely. Sure, there are plenty of people like that out here!”

She slammed down the phone just as she heard the front door open.

Olle was home.

Ann-Sofie Dahlström had the driest hands that Knutas had ever seen. And she kept rubbing them together so that flakes of skin came off and fell onto her lap. She wore her brown hair pulled back and fastened with a plastic barrette at the nape of her neck. Her face was pale and without a trace of makeup. Knutas began by expressing his condolences over the death of her ex-husband.

“We haven’t had any contact for a long time. It’s been years since we last talked. . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“What was Henry like when you were married?”

“He was almost always working. There were plenty of late nights and working weekends. We didn’t have much of a family life. I was the one who mostly took care of our daughter, Pia. Maybe it was partly my fault that things turned out the way they did. I probably shut him out. He started drinking more and more. Finally it got to be intolerable.”

How typical for a woman
, thought Knutas.
An expert at taking the blame for her husband’s bad habits
.

“In what way was it intolerable?”

“He was almost always drunk and started neglecting his work. As long as he had a full-time job at
Gotlands Tidningar
, he managed well enough. The problems began when he started his own company and didn’t have anyone looking over his shoulder. He started drinking in the middle of the week, didn’t come home at night, and lost customers because he either failed to show up or didn’t bother to deliver the photographs he had promised. I finally had to file for divorce.”

As she talked, her hands continued their bizarre massage, making a faint scraping sound. She noticed Knutas’s glance.

“My hands get like this in the winter, and no lotion does any good. It’s the cold. There’s nothing I can do about it,” she added with a certain sharpness to her voice.

“No, of course not. Forgive me,” Knutas apologized. He took out his pipe in order to focus on something else.

“How did his drinking affect Pia?”

“She became withdrawn and uncommunicative. She spent more and more time away from home. Told me that she was studying with friends, but her grades kept getting worse. She started skipping classes and then developed an eating problem. It took a long time for me to realize that it was serious. During the fall semester of her second year, the teachers concluded that she was suffering from anorexia, and she didn’t get over it until she finished high school.”

“But she stayed in school, in spite of her illness?”

“Yes. I don’t think it was the most severe form of the disease, but there’s no question that she had an eating disorder.”

“What sort of help did you receive?”

“As luck would have it, I knew a doctor at the hospital who had worked at a clinic on the mainland—a clinic for patients with eating disorders. He helped me. I managed to persuade Pia to go over there with me. At the time she weighed only ninety-seven pounds, even though she’s five foot nine inches tall.”

“How did your husband react?”

“He didn’t want to know anything about it. This was toward the end of our marriage.”

“What does your daughter do now?”

“She lives in Malmö. She’s a librarian at the municipal library.”

“Is she married?”

“No.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“So how do you think she’s doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“How is she?”

The woman sitting across from Knutas looked him in the eye without saying a word. Her right eyebrow was twitching. The silence was palpable. Finally it got so oppressive that he was forced to break it.

“How would you describe your contact with each other?”

“Regular.”

“And what form does it take?”

“She calls me once a week. Always on Friday.”

“How often do you see each other?”

“She usually comes to Gotland for a couple of weeks every summer. But she stays with friends.”

“But you see each other?”

“Yes, naturally, we see each other. Of course.”

The APB that was issued for Bengt Johnsson on the police-band radio brought results after a couple of hours. Jacobsson took the call from the local police in Slite. A boy who claimed to have seen Johnsson had come into the station. Jacobsson asked to speak to him.

“I think I know where the man is that you’re looking for,” said a young boy’s voice on the phone.

“Really? Where is he?”

“In Åminne, in a cabin. It’s an area near here, for summer houses.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes, he was unloading things from a car outside one of the cabins.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why did you happen to contact the police?”

“My best friend’s father is on the police force in Slite. I told my friend that I’d seen a suspicious-looking guy out by the summer houses, and he told his father.”

“Why did you think the man was suspicious?”

“He was dirty and had on ragged clothes. He seemed nervous and kept looking around, as if he didn’t want anyone to notice him.”

“Did he see you?”

“No, I don’t think so. I was standing behind a tree. I waited to ride my bike past until he went inside the cabin.”

“Was he alone?”

“I think so.”

“Can you tell me anything else about how he looked?”

“Pretty old, maybe fifty or sixty. Very fat.”

“Anything else? What about his hair?”

“He had dark hair, in a ponytail.”

Jacobsson felt a vague lurch in her stomach.

“What was he unloading?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“How did you happen to catch sight of him?”

“We live right next to the summer-house area. I was on my way home from visiting a friend.”

“Could you point out the cabin?”

“Sure.”

“Could I talk to one of your parents?”

“They’re not home right now.”

“Okay. Stay in the house. We’ll be there in half an hour. Where do you live?”

Five minutes later Jacobsson and Knutas were in a car, heading east toward Åminne, a popular seaside vacation spot in the summer, located on the northeast side of the island. The local police were going out to the boy’s home to await their colleagues.

Outside the car windows, the winter darkness was nearly impenetrable. There were no streetlights, and their only guides were the headlights of cars, as well as reflector posts that appeared at regular intervals. They passed an occasional house, a warm glow coming from its windows. A reminder that people lived out here in the countryside.

When they reached the boy’s house, a Slite police car was in the driveway. The boy’s name was Jon, and he looked to be about fifteen. Accompanied by his father, he led the way to the summer-house area. It was hard to see the houses in the dark. Without flashlights they would have been fumbling blindly. When they aimed the beams at the cabins, they saw that all of them were a dark Falun red with white trim. Each of them had a yard surrounded by a decorative fence. On this November evening the deserted area seemed almost ghostly. Jacobsson shivered and zipped up her jacket.

Suddenly they saw a light in one of the cabins at the very edge of the woods. It occurred to Knutas that they should have called for backup. Or dogs. Johnsson might not be alone. Knutas put his hand in the inside pocket of his coat, feeling for his service revolver.

Jacobsson was the only one who didn’t have a weapon, since the investigation into her potential misconduct during the summer’s serial killer case was ongoing, so she had to wait a short distance away. They sent the boy and his father home. The officers stopped before reaching the house and turned off their flashlights so they could discuss how to proceed.

An old Volvo Amazon was parked outside the fence. Knutas crouched down and crept forward, with the other two officers close behind. He paused under a window while the others took up position on either side of the front door.

Not a sound could be heard from inside. Cautiously Knutas stood up enough to peer through the window. In a matter of seconds his brain registered a complete picture of the room: the fireplace with a rocking chair in front of it, the table with four chairs, and an antique lamp hanging from the ceiling. All very cozy. On the table stood several bottles of beer. He signaled to his colleagues. No one there.

At that instant all three of them gave a start as someone moved inside the cabin. Knutas ducked down. The sound of someone clattering and rummaging around penetrated the walls. They waited. Knutas’s legs were aching and his fingers were stiff from the cold. Again silence settled over the cabin. Knutas peeked inside and saw the back of a large man now seated in the rocking chair. The ponytail indicated that it was Bengt Johnsson. He had put more wood on the fire, and the flames were dangerously high. He had also moved the table over next to him. On the table stood a whiskey bottle, which looked as if it had been newly opened. Next to the bottle was a glass and an ashtray. The man was smoking as he stared into the fire. Then he leaned forward to take a gulp from the bottle. It was Johnsson, no doubt about it.

Visible to the right of the room was a hallway and part of the kitchen. Knutas had the feeling that Johnsson was alone, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure. One of the police officers shifted his feet uneasily. It was freezing cold, and none of them was dressed for standing outdoors for any length of time.

Suddenly Johnsson stood up and looked right at the window. Knutas ducked so quickly that he fell over. Whether Johnsson had seen him or not, it was impossible to tell, but it was now or never.

Knutas took up position in front of the door with his weapon drawn and, after a nod of agreement from the other two officers, he kicked in the door with all his might.

They were greeted by Bengt Johnsson’s look of bewilderment. He was obviously drunk, and he was once again sitting in the rocking chair with the glass in his hand.

“What the hell?” was all he managed to say when the three officers stormed in with their guns drawn.

The fire in the fireplace crackled pleasantly, and the kerosene lamps gave off a gentle glow. And there the man sat, peaceful as could be.

The situation was so absurd that Knutas felt an urge to laugh. He lowered his gun and said, “How are things going, Bengt?”

“Fine, thanks,” slurred the man sitting next to the fire. “Nice of you to drop by.”

Several Months Earlier

He made her unsure of herself. Fanny didn’t know how she was supposed to act. He was probably twice her age. She really ought to think of him as a nice old man and nothing more. But there was something about the way he treated her that changed everything. In the beginning, he would grab a lock of her hair and cautiously tug at it, which was both playful and annoying at the same time. She would blush, finding the whole thing embarrassing because she sensed that it meant something more. Sometimes when she met his gaze, he would turn serious, and it felt as if his eyes were stripping her naked. She didn’t find it entirely unpleasant. Sometimes she even thought him attractive when she studied him surreptitiously. He was muscular. He had thick, shiny hair with just a hint of gray at the temples. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth revealed his age. His teeth were slightly yellow and crooked, with multiple fillings.