Mari Jungstedt - Unspoken

When the autumn darkness descended, she could retreat inside without a guilty conscience, and watch TV in the middle of the day if she felt like it, or read a good book. She could forget about putting on makeup and shuffle around wearing an old, nubby bathrobe.

In December, new demands appeared as Advent was celebrated, and preparations had to be made for Saint Lucia and Christmas Eve, with all the cooking, baking, buying Christmas presents, and putting up decorations.

For thirty-five years she had outwardly lived a good life. She was married and had two children; she had a teaching job and a great house in the middle of Roma. She had lots of friends and a good relationship with her parents and parents-in-law. Outwardly everything seemed fine, but her emotional life was in chaos. She would never have imagined how much her longing for Johan could hurt. It made her anxious, and it kept her awake at night. She had thought that her feelings for him would diminish with time. Oh, how she had deceived herself. They had seen each other only once in almost two months, and they had known each other for barely six months. By all rights their love ought to be dead. From a logical point of view, at least. But emotions and logic had nothing to do with each other.

She had tried to forget and to move on. She could see an uneasiness in the eyes of her children. Sara was only eight, and Filip was a year younger. Yet sometimes she imagined that they knew what was going on. More than Olle did. He carried on as usual. He seemed to think that they could go on forever, side by side, without touching each other. They were now like a couple of old friends. He seemed to have come to terms with the situation. Once she asked him how he could seem so content, in spite of everything. He replied that he wanted to give her time. Time after the trauma of Helena’s death and everything else that followed. Olle was still under the illusion that all this had to do with the aftermath of the events of the past summer. And it was true that she thought often about Helena’s horrible death. And she missed her terribly.

At first she had thought that the whole drama was the reason why she had fallen in love with Johan. That she had gone through some sort of emotional shock. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

She seemed to see his face everywhere she turned-at the Konsum grocery store, in the schoolyard, when she went into town.

Her guilty conscience tormented her. To think she was capable of betraying Olle in such a dreadful way. The phone conversation with Johan had made her even more confused. Of course she wanted nothing more than to see him. But the consequences of such a meeting scared her to death.

When she looked at Olle she tried to conjure up the image of the man who had once sparked her love. The man to whom she had said yes in front of the altar. He was still the same person, after all. The same now as back then. They were supposed to grow old together, damn it. That’s what they had decided long ago.

The throbbing above his temples started as soon as Johan disembarked from the plane. Shit. The last thing he needed right now was a headache. Accompanied by his colleague, cameraman Peter Bylund, he rented a car at the airport and drove straight to the old TV newsroom that was still at their disposal. It was next to the Radio Gotland building, in the middle of Visby.

It smelled musty. Dust bunnies as big as balls of yarn lay in all the corners, and the computers were also covered with a fine layer of dust. It had been a while since anyone had been inside.

The story that was their priority for the day had to do with the future of the Bjorkhaga campground. It was a classic camping area from the late forties, idyllically located near a sandy beach on the west side of the island. During the summer months it was filled with tourists and Gotlanders alike. Many were regular visitors, who came back year after year because they appreciated a quieter campground, without all the facilities. Now the municipal grounds had been leased to a private individual. The plan was to transform the Bjorkhaga campground into a modern resort area. Protests from campers and the local inhabitants came quickly.

The story had all the makings of a good TV report: photos from the deserted campground that had given so many families and their children great pleasure over the years, and a fierce conflict in the form of outraged local residents versus a business-minded entrepreneur who had the municipal bigwigs behind him.

An easy job. From Stockholm, Johan had already scheduled the interviews, so it was just a matter of getting started. The biggest challenge for him was to keep away from Emma. Right now there were only a few miles between them.

The interrogation room was sparsely furnished with a table and four chairs. The tape recorder was as new as the furniture. This was the first time it would be put to use.

Bengt Johnsson didn’t look as relaxed as he had the night before. Dressed in blue prison garb, he sat hunched on a chair, glaring at Jacobsson and Knutas, who were seated across from him. His dark hair was pulled back into a skimpy ponytail, and his mustache drooped, as did the corners of his mouth.

After the preliminary formalities were taken care of, Knutas leaned back and studied the man who was suspected of killing Henry Dahlstrom. Every interview had great significance for the investigative work. Establishing trust between the suspect and the interrogator was of the utmost importance. That was why Knutas took pains to proceed cautiously.

“How are you feeling?” he began. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, damn it. A beer would taste good right now.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not something we can offer you.” Knutas gave him a little smile. “How about a soda or some coffee?”

“I’ll have a Coke.”

Knutas rang for a soda.

“Am I allowed to smoke?”

“Sure.”

“Great.”

Johnsson shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack of John Silvers and lit it with a slight tremor in his hand.

“Can you tell us when you last saw Henry?”

“It was the day after he won at the track. Or rather, the evening after. I was in town with a pal and Flash came over to see us. I was drunk, so I don’t really remember much.”

He was interrupted by the door opening. A police officer came in with the soda.

“What happened?”

“We just talked for a while.”

“Who was your friend?”

“His name is Orjan. Orjan Brostrom.”

“What did you do then?”

“Flash didn’t stay long.”

“Was he on foot when he left?”

“He went to catch a bus.”

“And you didn’t see him after that?”

“Nope.”

“And this was on Monday, November twelfth, the day after you were at the track?”

“Yup.”

“What time?”

“I’m not really sure, but most of the stores were closed and it was dark. There were hardly any people around, so I think it was pretty late.”

“What do you mean by that? Ten or eleven at night?”

“No, no, damn it. It wasn’t that late. Maybe seven or eight.”

“And you didn’t see Henry again after that night?”

“No, not until we found him in the darkroom, that is.”

“The building superintendent says that you rang his doorbell. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you want to talk to him?”

“I hadn’t seen Flash for a while. I get a little worried when a buddy suddenly isn’t around.”

“Why did you take off after you found him?”

Johnsson was silent for a moment before he resumed talking.

“Well, you see… I’d done something really stupid, something damn stupid.”

“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.”