UNSPOKEN

Henry “Flash” Dahlström got out his hip flask and took a good swig of his home-brewed liquor. It made him grimace, but it also warmed him nicely. With him in the stands sat the whole gang: Bengan, Gunsan, Monica, and Kjelle. All of them were rapidly advancing toward various states of intoxication.

The procession had just started. The snorting standardbreds, glossy with sweat, were lined up and prancing forward as the music blared from the loudspeakers. The drivers, with their legs wide apart, were firmly seated in their lightweight sulkies.

The odds were posted on a black tote board out near the track, with the numbers ticking past.

Henry leafed through the racing program. He ought to place a bet on Ginger Star, running in race number seven. No one else seemed to believe in her. She was only a three-year-old. He had followed the horse during the summer races, and even though she had a tendency to break into a gallop, she kept on getting better.

“Hey, Flash, take a look at Pita Queen. She’s a beauty, don’t you think?” Bengan slurred his words as he reached for the hip flask.

Henry had been given the nickname Flash because he had worked as a photographer for Gotlands Tidningar for many years before alcohol took over his life full-time.

“You’re damn right. With that trainer . . .” he replied and then stood up to take his racing card to the window.

There was a line of betting windows, all with open wooden hatches. Wallets were eagerly pulled out, banknotes changed hands, and cards were handed in. One flight up was the track restaurant, where invited guests ate steak and drank strongbeer. Honored big-time players puffed on cigars, discussing the current condition of the horses and the technique of the drivers.

The race was about to begin. The first driver politely saluted the judges by giving a brief nod toward the judging tower. Over the loudspeakers the announcer called for the horses to take their places.

The race began and he followed the sulkies on the track as closely as he could after consuming eight strongbeers and a countless number of shots. When the bell for the final lap rang, his pulse quickened. Ginger Star was running well, damned well, as a matter of fact. With each stride she closed in on the two favorites in the lead, and he seemed to be seeing her more clearly. The powerful neck, the snorting nostrils, and the ears pointing straight forward. She could do it.

Don’t start galloping now, do not gallop. He was muttering this plea to himself like a mantra. His eyes were fixed on the young filly, who with furious energy was closing in on the leaders. Now she passed one of her rivals. Suddenly he became aware of the weight of the camera around his neck, and he was reminded that he had planned to take pictures. He snapped several photos, his hands relatively steady.

The red sand of the trotting track spurted up around the hooves that were pounding forward at breakneck speed. The drivers were using their whips on the horses, and the excitement rose among the spectators. Many in the stands were on their feet, some of them clapping, others shouting.

Ginger Star pulled forward on the outside and was now even with the horse in the lead. Then her driver used his whip for the first time. Dahlström stood up as he followed the horse through the lens of his camera.

When Ginger Star crossed the finish line ahead of the big favorite by a nose, a sigh of disappointment passed through the crowd. Dahlström was aware of scattered comments: “What the hell?” “It can’t be true!” “Unbelievable!” “Damn it!”

But he dropped down onto the bench.

He had won all five races in a row.

The slender, dark-skinned girl was alone in the stable. She had declined an invitation to join the others at a local restaurant to celebrate the end of the season. She could just imagine how rowdy it was bound to get. Worse than usual. She had been there several times before but didn’t enjoy it. The horse owners would drink too much and try to hit on her. They called her “princess,” pulled her onto their laps, and pinched her on the rear.

Some got bolder the more they drank. They would make comments about her body, both verbally and with their eyes. They were a pack of dirty old men.

She yawned, but she had no desire to bike home, either. Not really. Her mother had the day off from her job, and there was a good chance that she was drunk. If she was alone she would be sitting on the sofa with her mouth turned down in a sullen frown, with a bottle of wine in front of her. As usual, Fanny would feel guilty because she hadn’t spent the day with her mother instead of with the horses. Her mother couldn’t care less that it was a race day with tons of work to do. Nor did she understand that Fanny needed to get away from home. The stable was her lifeline. If she didn’t have the horses, she didn’t know what she would do.

Uneasiness seized her as she imagined an even worse scenario: that her mother might not be alone. If her so-called boyfriend, Jack, was there, they would get even drunker, and Fanny would have a hard time sleeping.

Tomorrow she had to be at school early, and she needed to get some sleep. Ninth grade was a torment that she wanted to get through as fast as possible. Fanny had tried to do her best when the term started, but things just kept getting worse. She was having a hard time concentrating, and she had started cutting classes fairly often. She just couldn’t face it.

She had enough troubles outside of school.

The room was very bright. The blinds were rolled up and the dirty streaks on the windowpane were clearly visible. On the windowsill stood a solitary pot with an African violet that had long since perished.

Henry Dahlström slowly regained consciousness as the urgent ringing of the phone cut through the thick silence. The sound echoed off the walls in the shabby two-room apartment, persisting until it finally won out over sleep. Disconnected thoughts popped up in his mind, relentlessly bringing him back to reality. He had a vague feeling of happiness but couldn’t remember what it was from.

The headache started the minute he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Cautiously he sat up. His vision blurred the pattern of the bedspread. Thirst made him get to his feet and stagger out to the kitchen. The floor swayed beneath him. He leaned against the door frame and looked at the chaos.

The kitchen cupboards stood wide open and the counter was covered with dirty glasses and plates, as well as scraps of food. There was burned coffee in the glass pot of the coffeemaker. Someone had dropped a plate on the floor. He could make out the remnants of fried herring and mashed potatoes among the pieces of china. On the kitchen table, beer cans were crowded together with liquor bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and a stack of racing cards.

Suddenly he remembered why he should be happy. He had brought home the jackpot as the sole winner of all five races. The sum was breathtaking, at least for him. Over eighty thousand kronor had been paid out to him, in cash, and gone straight into his pockets. He had never before had so much money in his possession.

His eyes flicked anxiously up and down over the half-empty cupboards. Surely he’d had enough sense to hide the money. If only none of the others . . . No, he refused to believe that. Although when it came to liquor or money, you never could tell.

He pushed aside the thought and tried to recall what he had done when he arrived home from the track the previous evening. Where the hell?

Oh, that’s right. The broom closet. With trembling fingers he pulled out the package of vacuum cleaner bags. When he touched the bundle of banknotes, he breathed a sigh of relief. He sank down onto the floor, cradling the package in his hands as if it were a valuable porcelain vase. At the same time, thoughts about what he was going to do with the money flickered past. Fly to the Canary Islands and order drinks with little umbrellas. Maybe invite Monica or Bengan to come, too—or why not both of them?

An image of his daughter appeared. He really ought to send some of the money to her. She was grown up now and lived in Malmö. Contact between the two of them had been broken off long ago.

Henry stuffed the package back in the closet and stood up. Thousands of stars danced before his eyes.

The need for a drink became more urgent. The beer cans were empty, as were the liquor bottles. He lit one of the longer cigarette butts from the ashtray, swearing as he burned his finger.

Then he discovered a bottle of vodka under the table, and it turned out to have a decent slug left in the bottom. He greedily gulped it down, and the merry-go-round in his head eased up a bit. He went out to the patio and breathed in the cold, raw November air.

On the lawn lay an unopened can of strongbeer, of all things. He picked it up and definitely started feeling better. In the fridge he found a piece of sausage and a saucepan of dried mashed potatoes.

It was Monday evening. It was past six o’clock, and the state liquor store was closed. He had to go out and find some booze.

On one of the benches near the Allis hot dog stand sat Bengan with that new guy Örjan from the mainland. An unpleasant type, pale with dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp look in his eye. The muscles of his arms testified to how he had spent his time in the slammer, from which he had recently been released. He had apparently been sent up for aggravated assault and battery. Tattoos covered his arms and chest; part of one was visible inside the dirty collar of his shirt. Henry felt anything but comfortable with him, and things were made only worse by the fact that he always had that growling attack dog in tow. The animal was white with red eyes and a square snout. Ugly as sin. The guy bragged that his dog had bitten a toy poodle to death in Östermalm in the middle of downtown Stockholm. The fucking upper-class dame who owned the poodle went nuts and starting hitting Örjan with her umbrella until the police showed up and took charge. He had gotten off with a warning to buy a stronger leash. The incident was even reported on TV.

As Henry approached, a muted rumble issued from the dog’s throat; the animal was lying at Örjan’s feet. Bengan greeted him with a wobbly wave of his hand. It was apparent from far away that Henry’s friend was quite inebriated.

“Hi, how are things? Congratulations again. It’s so fucking great.” Bengan gave his friend a befuddled look.

“Thanks.”

Örjan pulled out a plastic bottle containing a colorless, unidentified liquid.

“Want some?”

“Sure.”

The liquor had a pungent smell. After several sizable gulps, Henry’s hands stopped shaking.

“That went down nice, didn’t it?” Örjan asked the question without smiling.

“Absolutely,” said Henry, and he sat down on the bench next to the other two men.

“How’s it going for you?”

“Well, I’ve got my head up and my feet down.”

Bengan leaned closer to Henry and breathed loudly in his ear.

“Shit, what about all that dough?” he muttered. “It’s amazing. What are you thinking of doing with it?”

Henry cast a quick glance over at Örjan, who had lit a cigarette. He was staring out toward Östergravar and seemed to have stopped listening.

“We’ll talk about it later,” whispered Henry. “I want you to keep your mouth shut about the money. Don’t tell anyone else about it. Okay?”

“Sure, no problem,” promised Bengan. “Of course, buddy.” He patted Henry on the shoulder and turned back to Örjan. “Give me a swig.” He grabbed the bottle.

“Take it easy, damn it. Pianissimo.”

Typical Örjan, thought Henry. He always has to sound so odd. Pianissimo—what the hell is that? The dog bared his teeth.

All Henry wanted right now was to buy some booze and get out of there.

“Have you got anything to sell?”

Örjan dug through a worn bag made of imitation leather. He pulled out a plastic bottle containing home-brewed liquor.

“Fifty kronor. But maybe you can afford to cough up more than that?”

“Naw. I’ve only got a fifty.”

Henry handed over the banknote and reached for the bottle. Örjan kept his grip on it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“What if I don’t believe you? What if I think that you’ve got more and you just don’t want to pay more than that?”

“What the hell—let go!”

He yanked the bottle away from Örjan. At the same time he stood up. Örjan laughed and jeered, “Can’t you take a joke?”

“I’ve got to go. See you. I’ll be in touch.”

He headed for the bus stop without looking back. He could feel Örjan’s eyes fixed on his back like needles.

It didn’t bother him that the apartment was still a mess from the party the night before.

He put an old Johnny Cash record on the stereo. The neighbor woman protested by pounding on the wall, presumably because the music was interfering with the Swedish soap opera on TV. He pretended not to notice because he despised everything that had to do with normal Swedish life.

During his professional days he had also avoided routines. As the foremost photographer at Gotlands Tidningar he’d had plenty of opportunities to plan his own work hours. When he eventually started his own business, of course, he did precisely as he pleased.

In moments of clarity he surmised that it was this freedom that had spelled the beginning of the end. It created space for his drinking, which slowly but surely nibbled away at his work, his family life, his free time, and finally took precedence over everything else. His marriage fell apart, his clients disappeared, and contact with his daughter became increasingly sporadic and then ceased altogether after a few years. In the end he had neither money nor a job. The only friends who remained were his drinking buddies.

He was roused from his reflections by a clattering sound on the patio. He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.

Was it one of those damn kids in the area who was going around stealing bicycles and then painting and selling them? His own bicycle stood outside unlocked. They had tried to swipe it before.

Another clatter. He looked at his watch. Ten forty-five. Someone was out there—there was no doubt about that.

Might be an animal, of course, maybe a cat.

He opened the patio door and peered into the darkness. The little patch of grass that belonged to his corner property was lit up in the cold glow of the streetlight. Over by the pathway a shadow disappeared among the trees. Presumably just somebody out walking his dog. Henry pulled the door shut and locked it, just to be safe.

The interruption annoyed him. He switched on the ceiling light and looked around the apartment with distaste. He couldn’t stand seeing all the clutter, so he stuck his feet into a pair of slippers and went down to his darkroom in the basement to check on the pictures he had taken during his evening at the harness races. He had taken a whole roll of Ginger Star, and a couple of shots just as she crossed the finish line. Her head thrust forward, her mane flying, and her nose ahead of all the others. What a feeling.

The building superintendent had been kind enough to let him use an old bicycle storage room. He had furnished it with an enlarger, trays for developer and fixer, and a rack for drying the pictures. The basement window was covered with pieces of black cardboard to keep out the daylight.

The only light source was a red bulb on the wall. In the faint glow of this lamp the work could be done without difficulty. He enjoyed spending time in his darkroom. Focusing one hundred percent of his attention on a task in silence and darkness. He had experienced this same feeling of calm only once before, during his honeymoon to Israel. One day he and Ann-Sofie had gone on a snorkeling expedition. As they moved below the surface of the silent sea, it was like being in another dimension. Undisturbed, untouched by the constant noise of the rest of the world. That was the only time he had gone snorkeling, but the experience had stayed with him as a pleasant memory.

He had been working for quite a while when he was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Instinctively he froze and listened carefully. Who could it be? It had to be close to midnight.

The knocking came again, slower and longer. He lifted the photo he was working on from the rinse bath and hung it up to dry as thoughts whirled through his mind.

Should he open the door? Common sense told him that it would be best not to. This might have something to do with his winnings. Someone who wanted the money. The news about his win certainly must have spread by now. The sound coming from the other side of the door signified danger. His mouth went dry. Although it could just as well be Bengan.

“Who is it?” he shouted.

The question hung in the darkness. No reply, utter silence. He sank down onto a stool, fumbled for the liquor bottle, and took several quick swigs. A few minutes passed and nothing happened. He sat totally still and waited, though he didn’t know what he was waiting for.

Suddenly someone began pounding hard from a different direction, on the windowpane. He gave such a start that he nearly dropped the bottle on the floor. The last of his drunkenness vanished, and he stared up at the cardboard covering the window, hardly daring to breathe.

Then it came again. Hard, loud. As if the person out there wasn’t using his knuckles but some sort of tool. The ceiling and walls closed in. Terror seized him by the throat. Here he sat, trapped like a rat, while someone out there was toying with him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his guts turned over. He needed to go to the toilet.

The pounding changed into a rhythmic thudding, a monotonous banging against the basement window. No one in the building would hear his cries for help. Not in the middle of the night on an ordinary weekday. Could the person or persons out there break the window? It would still be impossible to get in because the window was much too small. He had locked the door—he was sure of that.

All of a sudden there was silence. Every muscle in his body was on edge. He listened for sounds that weren’t there.

For almost an hour he sat in the same frozen position before he dared to stand up. The hasty movement made him dizzy, and he staggered and saw flashing white stars in the dark. He had to go to the bathroom right now; he couldn’t hold it any longer. His legs could barely support him.

When he opened the door he realized instantly that he had made a mistake.

She had just stepped out of the shower and put on underpants and a big T-shirt. Freshly scrubbed with the stiff brushes that she bought at Åhléns department store. They tore at her body and made her skin tender. Her mother had asked her what she needed brushes like that for.

“For scrubbing myself. They make you a lot cleaner. And it’s good for the skin,” she replied. She explained that the smell from the horses clung to her. The shower had become her best friend.

She turned sideways and studied her thin body in profile. Her shoulders drooped. If she straightened her back, her breasts stuck out and seemed even bigger. That’s why she always walked slightly bent over. She had developed early. By the seventh grade, she already had breasts. At first she had done everything she could to hide them. Big, baggy shirts helped.

The worst was in gym class. Even though she wore a sports bra that flattened out her breasts, they still were visible when she jumped or ran. The changes in her body made her feel sick. Why did everyone get so disgusting when they grew up? She shaved under her arms as soon as the slightest sign of hair appeared. Not to mention her crotch. And the blood that appeared every month, staining her panties and sheet when she bled through during the night. She despised her body.

The fact that she had dark skin didn’t make things any better. She wanted to look like all the others. In her class there were only two others who were dark. They were twins, so at least they had each other. Two boys who had been adopted from Brazil. They were the school’s best soccer players, and they were very popular because they looked like Roberto Carlos, the famous Brazilian wingback. For them the color of their skin was an advantage. But not for her. She didn’t want to stand out.

She longed to have friends, to have her very own best friend. Someone to confide in, to share her worries. In school no one paid any attention to her anymore. Both there and at home, she was always alone. At the same time she was fully aware that this was her own fault. When she started in the ninth grade, kids would sometimes ask her to join them after doing their homework. She always said no. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had to rush home to walk Spot and take care of everything else that had to be done. Inviting a friend home was out of the question. The risk was too great that they would find a messy apartment reeking of smoke, with the blinds down and breakfast dishes still on the table. A depressed mother with a cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth and a wineglass in her hand. No thanks, that wasn’t something she wanted to put herself through, or a friend, either. It would just make everyone talk. How embarrassing that would be. The last thing she needed was more problems.

That was why Fanny was alone. The other kids got tired of asking her, and finally no one even bothered to talk to her. It was as though she didn’t even exist.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.”

No one at the table said a word. Everyone was listening intently.

“Dahlström was found with extensive contusions on the back of his head. There’s no doubt that he was murdered. His body will be transported to the forensic medicine lab in Solna sometime today.”

“Did you find the murder weapon?” asked Norrby.

“Not yet. We’ve searched both the darkroom and his apartment. Those are the only areas that we’ve cordoned off. Anything else would be pointless since the body has been lying there for a week, and Lord knows how many people have gone up and down the stairs during that time. Dahlström lived on the ground floor in a corner apartment. Right outside is the public passageway to Terra Nova. The whole area has been searched. The dark made our work more difficult, but the search was resumed as soon as it was daylight. Which was just a short time ago.”

He looked at his watch.

“Who called it in?” asked the prosecutor.

“The body was discovered by one of the building superintendents. Apparently there are four of them. This one lives in the building across the way. His name is Ove Andersson. He said that a man claiming to be a good friend of the victim rang his doorbell around six p.m. yesterday. The man said that he hadn’t seen Dahlström for several days and he wondered where he might be. They found him in the basement, but when the superintendent went up to his place to call the police, the friend took the opportunity to disappear.”

“It seems fishy that he ran off. Maybe he was the murderer,” Wittberg suggested.

“But if so, why would he contact the super?” objected Norrby.

“Maybe he wanted to get back inside the apartment to get something that he left behind, but he didn’t dare break in again,” Jacobsson piped in.

“Well, we can’t rule that out, even though it doesn’t sound very plausible,” countered Norrby. “But why would he wait a whole week? There was always a risk that the body would be discovered.”

Knutas frowned. “One alternative is that he disappeared because he was afraid of being a suspect. Maybe he was at the party, because it’s obvious that a party took place in that apartment. No matter what, we need to get hold of him as soon as possible.”

“Have we got a description?” asked Wittberg.

Knutas looked down at his papers. “Middle-aged, about fifty, according to the super. Tall and heavy. He has a mustache, and dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dark shirt, dark pants. He didn’t notice the man’s shoes. I think it sounds like Bengt Johnsson. He’s probably the only one of the local winos who fits the description.”

“It’s got to be Bengan. Those two were always hanging out together,” said Wittberg.

Knutas turned to the crime tech. “Erik, you can give us the technical details now.”

Sohlman nodded. “We’ve gone over the apartment and darkroom, but we’re far from done. If we start with the victim and his wounds, we need to look at the photos. I should warn you that they’re rather nasty.”

Sohlman switched off the lights and, using a computer, clicked the digital pictures onto the screen at the front of the room.