Mari Jungstedt - Unspoken

“Good gracious! Henry?” Her face turned pale. “He was murdered?”

“Unfortunately, that’s probably what happened. We haven’t caught the perpetrator, and that’s why we’re interested in talking to anyone who knew Henry. Do you know where Bengt is?”

“No, he didn’t sleep here last night.”

“Where was he?”

“I don’t know.”

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

“Yesterday evening. He dropped by for only a minute. I was down in the basement, hanging up the laundry, so I didn’t actually see him. He just called down the stairs to me. This morning he phoned to say that he was going to stay with a friend for a few days.”

“I see. Who’s the friend?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Did he give you a phone number?”

“No. He’s a grown man, you know. I had the impression that he was staying with a woman.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he was so secretive. Otherwise he usually tells me where he is.”

“Did he call you on your home phone or on a cell?”

“The home phone.”

“Do you have caller ID?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

She got up and went out to the hall. After a minute she came back.

“No, it doesn’t show anything. It must have been an unlisted number.”

“Does he have a cell phone?”

Doris Johnsson stood in the doorway and gave the officers sitting on the sofa a defiant look.

“Before I answer any more questions, I want to know what happened. I knew Henry, too. You’ll have to tell me what this is all about.”

“Yes, of course,” muttered Wittberg, who seemed to be quite affected by the domineering tone of the stout woman. Jacobsson noted that he used the formal means of address with her.

“Last night Henry was found by Bengt and the building superintendent. He was in his darkroom in the basement of the building where he lives. Someone had murdered him, but I can’t go into the details. When the superintendent left to call the police, Bengt took off, and no one has heard from him since. It’s urgent that we get in touch with him as soon as we can.”

“He got scared, of course.”

“That’s very possible. But if we’re going to catch the perpetrator, we need to talk to everyone who might have seen anything or who can tell us about Henry’s actions during the days before the murder. Do you have any idea where Bengt might be, Mrs Johnsson?”

“Hmm… He knows so many people. I suppose I could call around and ask.”

“When did you last hear from Bengt, or rather when did you actually see him last?” Jacobsson interjected.

“Now let me see… Aside from yesterday evening… It must have been yesterday morning. He slept late, as usual. Didn’t get up until eleven and then had his breakfast while I was eating lunch. Then he went out. He didn’t say where he was going.”

“How did he seem?”

“The same as always. He wasn’t acting strange or anything like that.”

“Do you know if anything unusual had happened lately?”

Doris Johnsson plucked at her clothing.

“No…” she said hesitantly.

Suddenly she threw out her hands.

“Well, yes. Henry won at the harness-racing track. He won the five-race jackpot, and he was the only winner, so it was a lot of money. Eighty thousand kronor, I think. Bengt told me about it the other day.”

Jacobsson and Wittberg looked at her in astonishment.

“When did this happen?”

“It wasn’t this past Sunday, so it must have been the previous Sunday. Yes, that’s when it was, because they were at the track.”

“And Henry won eighty thousand kronor? Do you know what he did with the money?”

“Bought booze, I assume. Part of it went straight to alcohol. As soon as they have a little cash, they start buying rounds for everybody.”

“Who else belongs to his circle of friends?”

“There’s a man named Kjelle that he hangs out with a lot, along with a couple of girls. Monica and Gunsan. Though I suppose her real name is Gun.”

“Last names?”

She shook her head.

“Where do they live?”

“I don’t know that, either, but somewhere here in town. Also a man named Orjan, by the way. I think he just moved here recently. Bengt has been talking about him lately. I think he lives on Styrmansgatan.”

They said good-bye to Doris Johnsson, who promised to call as soon as she heard anything from her son.

With the information about the track winnings, they now had a clear motive for the murder.

Knutas had brought along a packet of Danish open-faced sandwiches for lunch. His father-in-law had recently paid them a visit and delighted the whole family with the delicacies he had brought from Denmark. The three slices of dark rye bread each had a different kind of lunch meat: liver sausage topped with a piece of pickled squash; sliced meatballs with pickled beets; and his favorite, Danish sausage roll. And an ice-cold beer to go with this glorious repast.

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Norrby stuck his head inside.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Of course.”

Norrby folded his nearly six-foot-two frame into one of the visitor chairs in Knutas’s office.

“I’ve been talking to one of the neighbors, who had something interesting to say.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Anna Larsson is an elderly woman who lives in the apartment above Dahlstrom’s. On Monday night around ten thirty she heard Flash go out. He was wearing his old slippers, which made a special sound when he walked.”

Knutas frowned. “How could she hear that from inside her apartment?”

“I know, that’s something you might well ask, but it so happened that her cat was suffering from diarrhea.”

“So?”

“Anna Larsson lives alone, and she doesn’t have a balcony. She was just about to go to bed when her cat shit on the floor. It smelled so bad that she didn’t want to have the garbage bag containing the shit in her apartment. She had already put on her nightgown and didn’t want to go downstairs to the trash cans, for fear of running into one of her neighbors. So she put the bag on the landing outside her door for the time being. She thought that nobody would notice if she tossed it out first thing in the morning.”

“Get to the point,” said Knutas impatiently. Norrby’s tendency to present too many details was sometimes annoying.

“Well, at the very moment that she opens her door, she hears Dahlstrom coming out wearing his slippers. He locks his door and goes downstairs to the basement.”

“Okay,” said Knutas, tapping his pipe on the table.

“Mrs Larsson doesn’t think any more about it. She goes to bed and falls asleep. In the middle of the night she’s awakened by her cat meowing. This time the cat has made a mess on the floor of her bedroom. That animal had a really bad stomachache.”

“Hmm.”

“She gets out of bed and cleans up everything. She now has another bag of cat shit that has to be put outside on the landing. When she opens the door, someone comes in the entrance one floor down and stops at Dahlstrom’s door. But this time she doesn’t hear Dahlstrom’s shuffling slippers; this person is wearing real shoes. She’s curious, so she stands there listening. The stranger doesn’t ring the doorbell but the door opens and the person goes inside, and she doesn’t hear any voices.”

Now Knutas’s interest was aroused. His pipe froze in midair.

“Then what happened?”

“Then everything was quiet. Not a sound.”

“Did she have the impression that someone had opened Dahlstrom’s door from the inside? Or did the person outside open it?”

“She thinks that the person outside opened it.”

“Why didn’t she tell us about this earlier?”