Orjan shook his head.
“But he and Bengan were good pals, and you hang out with Bengan. How come you never went to his place?”
“It just never happened. I just moved here, damn it. I’ve only lived here for three months.”
“Okay. So what did you do after that on Monday night, after Dahlstrom went home?”
“Bengan and I sat there for a while longer, even though it was fucking cold out, and then we came back here to my place.”
“What did you do here?”
“We just sat and talked, watched TV, and drank a lot.”
“Were the two of you here alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“I think we both crashed on the sofa. In the middle of the night I woke up and got into bed.”
“Is there anyone who can confirm that what you’re saying is true?”
“Don’t think so, no.”
“Did anyone call you during that time?”
“No.”
“Was Bengan with you all night?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about that? You were asleep, weren’t you?”
“He passed out before I did.”
“So what did you do?”
“Flipped through the TV channels.”
“What did you watch?”
“Can’t remember.”
They were interrupted by one of the skinheads.
“Hey, Orjan, Hugo is getting restless. We’re going to take him out for a walk.”
Orjan looked at his watch.
“Good, he probably needs to go out. His leash is hanging on a hook in the hallway. And make sure he doesn’t eat any leaves-they’re not good for his stomach.”
Amazing, thought Jacobsson. How considerate.
They left Orjan Brostrom without making any further progress. He was not someone they looked forward to meeting again.
When Knutas was back in his office after lunch, someone knocked on the door. Norrby’s demeanor, which he normally kept under tight control, had now been shattered by an excitement that Knutas hadn’t seen in his colleague for a long time.
“You won’t believe this,” Norrby gasped as he waved a sheaf of papers.
He dropped into one of the visitor’s chairs.
“These are printouts from the bank, from Henry Dahlstrom’s bank account. For years he had only one account, and that’s where his disability pension was always deposited. See here?” said Norrby, pointing to the numbers on the page.
“Four months ago he opened a new account. Two deposits were made, both of them for the same large amount. The first was made on July twentieth, when the sum of twenty-five thousand kronor was deposited. The second was as late as October thirtieth, and for the same amount of twenty-five thousand.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“It’s a mystery to me.”
Norrby leaned back in his chair and threw out his hands in a dramatic gesture.
“We now have a new lead!”
“So Dahlstrom was mixed up in some kind of monkey business. I’ve always had the feeling that this wasn’t an ordinary robbery homicide. We need to call everyone in for another meeting.”
Knutas looked at his watch.
“It’s one forty-five. Shall we say two thirty? Will you tell the others?”
“Sure.”
“In the meantime I’ll call the prosecutor. Birger should be here, too.”
When the investigative team had gathered, Norrby began by telling them about the deposits made to Dahlstrom’s account.
The sense of focus in the room sharpened tangibly. Everyone automatically leaned forward, and Wittberg gave a long whistle.
“Jesus. Can we find out where the money came from?”
“Whoever made the deposit used an ordinary deposit slip. It doesn’t give any information about the person. On the other hand, we do have the date of the deposit.”
“What about the bank surveillance cameras?” Jacobsson suggested.
“We’ve already thought of that. The bank saves the tapes from the cameras for a month. The first bank tape from July is gone, but we have the one from October. If we’re in luck, we can use it to trace the individual who made the deposits. We’re picking it up right now.”
“I’ve talked with the Swedish Forensic Lab. They’re working hard on the evidence taken from the darkroom and apartment, and if we’re lucky we’ll have answers by the end of the week,” Sohlman informed the others. “There are also palm prints and fingerprints from the basement window that we checked against the criminal records. We didn’t come up with a match, so if they belong to the perp, he doesn’t have a police record.”
“What about the murder weapon?” asked Wittberg.
Sohlman shook his head.
“So far we haven’t found it, but all indications are that it was a hammer, the ordinary kind that you can buy in any hardware store.”
“All right. We need to proceed with the investigation as usual, but let’s concentrate on finding out what Dahlstrom was up to. Who else among his acquaintances might know something? What about the building superintendent? Or the daughter? We still haven’t had a proper interview with her. We’re going to expand the interview process to include anyone who had contact with Dahlstrom or who may have seen him on the night of the murder-the bus driver, employees in kiosks and stores, more neighbors in the area.”
“And the racetrack,” Jacobsson interjected. “We should contact people at the track.”
“But it’s closed for the season,” objected Wittberg.
“All the stables are still in operation. The horses have to be exercised, the stable personnel are working, and the drivers are there. It was at the track that he won all that money, after all.”
“Absolutely,” said Knutas. “All suggestions are welcome. One more thing before we adjourn-this has to do with how we’re going to handle the media. So far, thank God, no journalist has published any details-as you know, we never allow that when it’s a matter of a drunken brawl. But their interest in the case is going to grow if the news about the money gets out. So let’s keep it under wraps; don’t say a word to anyone. You know how easily word can spread. If any reporter starts asking you questions about the investigation, refer them to me or to Lars. I also think it’s time for us to call in the National Criminal Police. I’ve asked for their assistance. Two officers will be arriving tomorrow.”
“I hope Martin is one of them,” said Jacobsson. “That would be great.”
A murmur of agreement was heard.
Knutas shared their positive view of Martin Kihlgard, who had helped them with the investigation in the summer, but his relationship with the man did have its complications. Kihlgard was a cheerful and congenial person who was quite domineering and had an opinion about almost everything. Deep inside, Knutas was aware that his touchiness when it came to Kihlgard might have to do with a little-brother complex in relation to the gentleman from National. The fact that Karin Jacobsson had such an openly high opinion of his colleague didn’t make the situation any better.
With a whir and a click the tape slipped into the VCR. Knutas and Jacobsson were alone in Knutas’s office. A few seconds of grainy gray flickering, and then the inside of the bank appeared in black and white. They had to fast-forward a bit before they reached the time in question.
The clock in the upper-right-hand corner showed 12:23, and the date was October 30. Almost five minutes passed before anyone made the deposit in Dahlstrom’s account. The bank was quite crowded because it was the lunch hour. This particular branch was centrally located in Ostercentrum, and many people liked to take care of their banking at lunchtime. Two windows were open, with a female and a male teller behind the glass. On chairs near the window facing the street sat four people: an elderly man with a cane, a girl with long blond hair, a fat middle-aged woman, and a young man wearing a suit.
Knutas thought to himself that right now he might be looking at the very person who had murdered Henry Dahlstrom.
The door opened and two more people came into the bank. They didn’t seem to be together. First a man who appeared to be in his fifties. He was wearing a gray jacket and checked cap with dark slacks and shoes. He walked forward without hesitation and took a number.