The two families belonged to completely different economic brackets. This had bothered Knutas at first, but over time he had accepted this difference. Leif and Ingrid had a relaxed attitude toward their wealth, and they never talked about it.
Knutas asked for the bill, but Leif refused to let his friend pay for lunch. Every time Knutas came to the restaurant they had the same argument.
Johan was standing in front of the ATM on Adelsgatan when he noticed her. She came walking from Soderport, holding the hand of a child on either side. She was talking to them and laughing. Tall and slender, with her sand-colored hair hanging straight down to her shoulders. He saw the contours of her high cheek-bones as she turned her head. She was wearing jeans and a short, lion-yellow quilted jacket. A striped scarf was wrapped around her neck. And she had on mocha-colored boots with fringe.
His mouth went dry and he turned his back to peer down at the ATM. “Receipt requested?” Should he turn around and say hello? Last night’s conversation complicated matters. He didn’t know whether she was still angry.
He had never met the children, just seen them from a distance. Would she notice him, or would she just walk past? There was hardly anyone on the street, which meant that she was bound to see him. He felt a slight panic and turned around.
She had stopped to look in a window a short distance away. He gathered his courage.
“Hi!” He looked right into her shining eyes.
“Hi, Johan.”
The children looked up at him inquisitively, their cheeks red under brightly colored caps. One of them was slightly taller than the other.
“You must be Sara and Filip,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Johan.”
“How do you know our names?” asked the girl in her lilting Gotland accent.
She bore a striking resemblance to her mother. A mini-version of Emma.
“Your mother told me.”
Emma’s presence made him feel weak in the knees.
“Johan is sort of a friend of mine,” Emma told the children. “He’s a TV journalist and lives in Stockholm.”
“Do you work for a TV station?” asked the girl, wide-eyed.
“I’ve seen you on TV,” said the boy, who was smaller and blonder.
Johan was used to having children claim they had seen him, even though he knew it was very unlikely. He made an appearance only on those rare occasions when he did a stand-up, when reporters explain something with live video for the viewers.
But he didn’t let on.
“Is that right?”
“Yes,” said the boy solemnly.
“Next time don’t forget to wave, okay?”
The boy nodded.
“How are things going?” Emma’s question sounded rather indifferent.
“Fine, thanks. I’m here with Peter. We’re doing a story on the Bjorkhaga campground.”
“I see,” she said without interest.
“What about you?”
“I’m good. Fine. Just fine.”
She glanced quickly around, as if she were afraid that someone might notice them.
“I’m teaching, as usual. I’ve been really busy.”
Johan felt a growing sense of irritation.
“How long are you staying?” she asked.
“I’m going home tomorrow or Thursday. It hasn’t been decided yet. It depends.”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence settled between them.
“Come on, Mamma.”
Filip was tugging at her arm.
“Okay, sweetie, I’m coming.”
“Could we meet?”
He was forced to ask the question, even though she had already said no.
“No, I can’t.”
Her gaze shifted away from him. He tried to catch her eye.
The children were tugging at her. They didn’t care about him anymore. They wanted to move on.
“Mamma,” they both called.
Suddenly she looked him straight in the eye. And deep inside. For a second he felt everything stand still. Then she said exactly what he was hoping to hear.
“Call me.”
Orjan Brostrom’s apartment was on the fourth floor with windows facing Styrmansgatan. When they rang the doorbell, a dog started barking wildly. The barking was interspersed with a deep growl. They automatically took a step back.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice said from the other side of the door.
“The police. Open up,” ordered Wittberg.
“Just a minute,” the voice said.
It turned out that Brostrom was not alone. Two beefy men with shaved heads were sitting in the kitchen playing cards, drinking beer, and smoking. They spoke an Eastern European language. Estonian, guessed Jacobsson.
“Who are your friends?” she asked as they sat down in the living room.
“Some of my buddies from Stockholm.”
“From Stockholm?”
“That’s right.”
Brostrom gave her a sullen look. He was wearing a black vest that accentuated both his muscular arms and his chalk white skin. Not to mention all the tattoos. To her horror, Jacobsson noted that he had something resembling a swastika tattooed on his shoulder. He had greasy dark hair and a hard expression on his face. He kept one hand on the collar of the snarling attack dog as he lit a cigarette. In silence he peered at them through the smoke. An old trick among criminals was to let the cops speak first.
“Do you know Henry Dahlstrom?”
“I can’t say that I really knew him. But I knew who he was.”
“So you know what happened to him?”
“I know that he’s dead.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Think about it. We can always take you down to the station if that might help your memory,” Wittberg suggested.
“Hell, that doesn’t really seem necessary.”
He made a face that might have been intended as a smile.
“Then you’d better start cooperating. You can begin by trying to recall when you last saw him.”
“It must have been in town. That’s the only place I ever saw him. We weren’t really pals.”
“Why not?”
“With that guy? An old drunk? Why would I want to hang out with him?”
“I have no idea, do you?”
Wittberg turned to Jacobsson, who shook her head. She was having a hard time relaxing in the cramped apartment with the dog on the other side of the table. The animal kept staring at her. The fact that he growled every once in a while didn’t make things any better, nor did the hair standing up on his back or his stiff tail. She felt a strong urge to light a cigarette herself.
“Could you get rid of the dog?” she asked.
“What? Hugo?”
“Is that his name? It sounds a little too sweet for a dog like that.”
“He has a sister named Josephine,” muttered Orjan as he took the dog out to the men in the kitchen.
They heard the men exchange a few words and then burst out in raucous laughter. The kitchen door closed. Orjan came back, casting an amused glance in Jacobsson’s direction. That’s the first real sign of life in his eyes, she thought.
“When did you last see him?” Wittberg asked again.
“I guess it was one night a week ago when Bengan and I were at the bus station. Flash came over to talk to us.”
“Then what did you do?”
“We just sat and drank.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know. Maybe half an hour.”
“What time was it?”
“Around eight, I think.”
“Can you possibly remember what day that was?”
“It must have been last Monday, because on Tuesday I was busy with something else.”
“What?”
“It’s private.”
Neither of the police officers felt like asking any more questions about that matter.
“Have you ever been to Henry Dahlstrom’s apartment?” asked Jacobsson.
“No.”
“How about his darkroom?”