Unspoken (5 page)

Everything was going on as usual, no matter what storms might be raging inside of someone. It was incomprehensible that she could sit here, seemingly unperturbed, sipping endless cups of coffee, and no one even noticed a thing. Such as the fact that her mind was in the grip of a psychological battle. Or that her whole life was in the process of going to hell. But her colleagues merely sat around her, carrying on subdued conversations. As if nothing were happening.

In her mind’s eye, video clips were playing in rapid succession: her daughter Sara’s birthday when all Emma could do was cry; she and Johan rolling around in a hotel bed; her mother-in-law’s searching eyes; Filip’s cello concert, which had totally slipped her mind; her husband Olle’s face when she once again rejected him.

She had gotten herself into an impossible situation.

Six months earlier she had met a man who had ended up changing everything. They got to know each other in connection with last summer’s police hunt, when Emma’s best friend became one of the killer’s victims, and she herself came very close to meeting the same fate.

Johan had stepped into her path, and she couldn’t just walk by him. He was so unlike everyone else she had ever known; so alive and intense about everything he did. She had never laughed so much with anyone else or felt so calm, almost spiritual. He made her discover sides of herself that she didn’t even know existed.

She quickly fell madly in love with him, and before she knew it, he had totally invaded her life. When they made love she was filled with a sensuality that she had never experienced before. He made her relax. For the first time she didn’t give a thought to how she looked or how he might judge her expertise in bed.

To be one hundred percent in the moment was something that she had known only from giving birth to her children.

Yet eventually she chose to break it off with him. For the children’s sake, she decided to stay with Olle. When the drama of the serial murders was over and she woke up in the hospital with her family around her, she realized that she lacked the will to go through with a divorce, even though she felt that Johan was the great love of her life. Security counted more, at least at the time. With much anguish she put an end to their affair.

The whole family went to Greece on vacation because she needed to get away and have some distance from everything. But it hadn’t turned out to be that simple.

When they were back home, Johan had written to her. At first she considered throwing out the letter, unread. But her curiosity got the better of her. Afterward she regretted it.

It would have been best for all parties concerned if she hadn’t read even one line of that letter.

Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg walked down to Östercentrum as soon as the investigative meeting was over. The pedestrian street between the shops was almost deserted. The wind and rain were having their effect. They hurried into the mall at Obs supermarket and shook off the worst of the rain as they stood inside the glass doors.

The shopping center was quite modest: H&M, Guldfynd, a couple of beauty parlors, a health food store, a bulletin board. Obs with its rows of cashiers, then the bakery and pastry shop, the customer service counter, the Tips & Tobak betting parlor and tobacco shop. Restrooms in the back, a recycling station for bottles, and the exit leading to the parking lot. Along with weary retirees and the parents of small children, needing to rest their feet, drunks occupied the benches in the mall whenever the weather was bad.

Most of them kept a hip flask in a bag or pocket, but as long as they didn’t do any drinking inside, the security guards left them in peace.

Jacobsson recognized two local winos sitting on the bench nearest the exit. They were filthy and unshaven, dressed in worn-out clothes. The younger man was leaning his head against the wall behind him and staring indifferently at the people walking past. He wore a black leather jacket and tattered running shoes. The older man had on a blue down jacket and knit cap. He was leaning forward with his head in his hands. Greasy locks of hair had crept out from under his cap.

Jacobsson introduced herself and Wittberg, even though she was fully aware that the two men knew who they were.

“We haven’t done anything. We’re just sitting here.”

The man in the cap glanced up, his eyes crossed.
And it’s not even eleven o’clock in the morning
, thought Jacobsson.

“Take it easy,” Wittberg told them. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

He pulled a photo out of his pocket.

“Do you recognize this man?”

The younger drunk kept on staring straight ahead. He refused to give either of the police officers even a glance. The other man stared at the picture.

“Hell yes. That’s Flash, of course.”

“How well do you know him?”

“He’s one of the gang, you know. Usually hangs out around here, or at the bus station. He’s been doing that for twenty years. Of course I know Flash, everybody does. Hey, Jonas, you know who Flash is, don’t you?”

He poked his pal in the side and handed him the photo.

“What a fucking stupid question. Everybody knows him.”

The man named Jonas had pupils the size of peppercorns. Jacobsson wondered what he was high on.

“When did you last see him?” asked Wittberg.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. We just want to know when you last saw him.”

“Hmm, when the hell was it? What day is today? Monday?”

Jacobsson nodded. The man stroked his chin with fingers that had been stained dirty yellow from nicotine.

“I haven’t seen him in several days, but sometimes he just takes off, you know.”

Jacobsson turned to the other man.

“What about you?”

He was still staring straight ahead.
His face is actually quite handsome, underneath all the dirt and stubble
, she thought. His expression was defiant, showing a strong unwillingness to cooperate. She restrained a desire to stand right in front of him and wave her arms to force him to react.

“Can’t remember.”

Wittberg was starting to get annoyed.

“What did you say?”

“Why do you want to know? What did he do?” asked the older man in the cap.

“He’s dead. Someone killed him.”

“What the hell? Is that true?”

Now both men looked up.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. He was found dead last night.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What we need to do now is try to find the person who did it.”

“Sure, that’s obvious. Come to think of it, I think the last time I saw him was at the bus station about a week ago.”

“Was he alone?” “He was there with his buddies—Kjelle and Bengan, I think.”

“How did he seem?”

“What do you mean by ‘seem’?”

“How did he act? Did he seem sick, or was he nervous in any way?”

“No, he was the same as usual. He never really says much. He was a little drunk, of course.”

“Do you remember what day that was?”

“It was probably Saturday because there were a lot of people downtown. I think it was Saturday.”

“A week ago?”

“That’s right. But I haven’t seen him since then.”

Jacobsson turned to the other man.

“What about you? Have you seen him since then?”

“Nope.”

Jacobsson suppressed the annoyed feeling that had begun to prickle at her throat.

“Okay. Do either of you know whether he’d spent time with any strangers lately?”

“No idea.”

“Is there anyone who might want to harm him?”

“Not Flash, no. He never got into fights with anybody. He kept a low profile, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure, I understand,” said Jacobsson. “So do you happen to know where his pal Bengan might be? Bengt Johnsson?”

“Is he the one who did it?”

Behind the alcoholic fog, the older man looked genuinely surprised.

“No, no. We just want to talk to him.”

“Haven’t seen him in a while, have you?”

“Nope,” said Jonas.

He was chewing gum so hard that his jaws made a cracking sound.

“The last time I saw him he was with that new guy from the mainland,” the older man said. “The guy named Örjan.”

“What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know because he hasn’t lived here on Gotland for very long. He was in the slammer on the mainland.”

“Do you know where we can find Bengt Johnsson?”

“He lives on Stenkumlaväg with his mother. Maybe that’s where he is.”

“Do you know the address?”

“Nope.”

“All right then. Thanks for your help. If you see or hear anything that has to do with Flash, you should contact the police immediately.”

“Sure,” said the man with the cap, and then he, too, leaned back against the wall.

Johan Berg opened the morning paper as he sat at the kitchen table in his apartment on Heleneborgsgatan in Stockholm. The apartment was on the ground floor facing the courtyard, but that didn’t bother him. The Södermalm district was the very heart of the city, and in his eyes there was no better place to live. One side of the building faced the waters of Riddarfjärden and the old prison island of Långholm with its bathing rocks and wooded walking paths. On the other side the shops, pubs, cafés, and subway were all within easy reach. The red subway line went directly to Karlaplan, and from there it was only a five-minute walk to the editorial headquarters of Swedish TV.

He subscribed to several daily newspapers:
Dagens Nyheter, Svenska Dagbladet
, and
Dagens Industri
. Currently
Gotlands Tidningar
was also in the stack that he plowed through each morning. After the events of the summer, his interest in Gotland had been given a boost. For more reasons than one.

He scanned the headlines: “Crisis in Housing for Elderly,” “Police on Gotland Earn Less Than Officers on the Mainland,” “Farmer Risks Losing EU Subsidies.”

Then he noticed a news item: “Man Found Dead in Gråbo. Police Suspect Foul Play.”

As he cleared away the breakfast dishes he thought about the article. Of course it sounded like an ordinary drunken fight, but his curiosity was aroused. He took a quick look at himself in the mirror and put a little gel on his dark curly hair. He was actually in need of a shave, but there was no time for that. His dark stubble would just have to grow out a bit. He was thirty-seven but looked younger. Tall and well built, with regular features and brown eyes. Women were always falling for him—and he’d taken advantage of that fact many times in the past. But not anymore. Ever since six months ago, only one woman existed for him: Emma Winarve of Roma on the island of Gotland. They had met when he was covering the hunt for a serial killer last summer.

She had turned his life upside down. He had never met a woman who moved him so deeply; she challenged him and made him think along whole new lines. He liked himself better when he was with her. When his friends asked him what was so special about Emma, he had a hard time explaining. Everything was just so obvious. And he knew that his feelings were reciprocated.

Things had gone so far that he thought she was actually considering leaving her husband, that it was just a matter of time. He had started fantasizing about moving to Gotland and working for one of the newspapers or for the local radio station. They would move in together, and he would be a stepfather for her two children.

Instead, just the opposite had happened. After the murderer was caught and the case was closed, she called it off. He was completely taken by surprise. His life fell apart. He was forced to take sick leave for several weeks, and when he recovered enough that he could take a vacation, she never left his thoughts for a moment.

When he came home he wrote her a letter. Quite unexpectedly, she answered, and then they started seeing each other again. They mostly met whenever Johan went to Gotland on a story. Occasionally she managed to get away to meet him in Stockholm. But he could tell that she wasn’t comfortable with all the lying and that she was struggling with terrible feelings of guilt. Finally she asked for a two-month break. October and November. She explained that she needed some distance and time to think.

Suddenly they had no communication at all. No text messages, no e-mails, no phone calls.

But she had relented once. He was on Gotland on assignment and called her up. She happened to be feeling unhappy just then, and weak, so they met. A quick meeting that merely confirmed how strong their feelings were for each other, at least that’s what he thought.

After that, nothing. He had made a couple of awkward attempts, but in vain. She was intractable.

At the same time, he understood. It was difficult for her, since she was married and had young children.

But weeks of restless nights, chain-smoking, and a constant, overwhelming longing for her had taken their toll on him, to put it mildly.

On his way to the subway station, he called Anders Knutas in Visby.

The police superintendent answered at once.

“Knutas.”

“Hi. Johan Berg from Regional News here. How are things?”

“Fine, thanks. And you? It’s been a while.”

“Things are good. I saw an article in the paper about a possible homicide in Gråbo. Is it true?”

“We don’t know much at this point.”

“What happened?”

A brief pause. Johan could picture Knutas leaning back in his desk chair, filling his pipe. They’d had a great deal to do with each other when Johan reported on the murders from Gotland and then took an active role in solving the case.

“Last night a man was found dead in a basement on Jungmansgatan, in Gråbo.”

“Of course.”

“His injuries were such that we suspect he was murdered.”

“How old was he?”

“Born in 1943.”

“Known by the police?”

“Yes, but not because he had committed any crimes to speak of, although he was quite an inveterate alcoholic. He used to hang out downtown, drinking. A so-called local wino.”

“Does it have to do with a drunken brawl?”

“It seems so.”

“How was he killed?”

“I can’t discuss that.”