“Sure he did. I heard about him from a friend in the local folklore society.”
“Have you told the police about this?”
Bertil Persson looked embarrassed. He set his cocoa cup on the table.
“No, why should we? What does it matter that he was here and did a bit of carpentry work? Why would the police care about that?”
He leaned toward Johan and lowered his voice to speak confidentially.
“And besides, we paid him under the table. He was living on welfare and that’s how he wanted it. You won’t say anything, will you?”
“I hardly think the police would care about how he was paid, given the situation. They’re conducting a murder investigation, and this would be important information for them to have. I can’t keep it to myself.”
Bertil raised his eyebrows.
“Really? But then we risk getting caught for hiring an illegal worker.”
He looked upset. Astrid Persson put her hand on his arm.
“As I said, I don’t think the police will take that very seriously,” said Johan.
He stood up. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
“But I told you this in confidence,” exclaimed Bertil Persson, looking as if he thought his days were numbered.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
The man grabbed Johan’s arm, and his voice took on an ingratiating tone.
“But it can’t be that important, can it? My wife and I are members of the church-it would be embarrassing if this got out. Can’t we forget about the whole thing?”
“I’m sorry, but no,” snapped Johan, pulling his arm away, a bit more brusquely than he intended.
He hurried out of the building after saying a rather strained good-bye.
Knutas sank onto his desk chair, holding what he hoped was his last cup of coffee for the day-at least if his stomach had anything to say about the matter. The preliminary autopsy report from the ME showed, exactly as expected, that Henry Dahlstrom had died as the result of contusions to the back of his head caused by a hammer. The perpetrator had delivered a series of blows, using both the blunt and claw end of the hammer.
The time of death was probably late on Monday night, November 12, or possibly early Tuesday morning. This coincided well with the circumstances known to the police. All indications were that the murder had occurred after 10:30 p.m., when Dahlstrom’s neighbor heard him go down to the basement.
Knutas started meticulously filling his pipe as he continued studying the photos and reading the description of the victim’s wounds.
Solving a homicide was like solving a crossword puzzle. Rarely was the solution discovered through direct means. Instead, it required leaving certain details alone for a day while concentrating on others. When he later returned to what he had set aside, new patterns would often emerge. And the same thing happened when he did crossword puzzles: He frequently found it very surprising that a particular problem had caused him so much trouble. When he looked at it again, the solution seemed crystal clear.
Knutas went over to the window, opened it slightly, and lit his pipe.
Then there were the witnesses. Dahlstrom’s friends had nothing of any direct value to report. They had largely just confirmed what the police already knew. Nor had anything new emerged that might reinforce their suspicions about Johnsson, so the prosecutor had decided to release the man. He was still going to be charged with theft, but there was no reason to keep him in custody.
Knutas had practically ruled out the idea that Johnsson was the guilty party. On the other hand, he was giving a good deal of thought to the man named Orjan. An unpleasant type. He’d been in jail for aggravated assault and battery. And he seemed capable of murder.
When Orjan was interviewed he had denied it, of course, claiming that he hardly knew Dahlstrom. And this had been confirmed by others in their circle. But that didn’t preclude the possibility that he might have killed Dahlstrom.
Arne Haukas, the PE teacher who lived in the same section of the building as Dahlstrom, had been questioned about his whereabouts on the night of the murder. He claimed that he had simply gone out jogging, as usual. He explained the late hour by saying that he’d been watching a movie on TV, and so he had postponed his run. There was a lighted ski trail nearby, so there was no problem with running at night. He hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual.
Knutas’s ruminations were interrupted by the phone ringing. It was Johan Berg, who told him about the carpentry work that Dahlstrom had done for Bertil and Astrid Persson on Backgatan. Knutas was surprised.
“Strange that we didn’t hear about this before. Do you have the names of anyone else he did work for?”
“No, the old man wasn’t happy when I said that I’d have to tell the police. But you could check with the local folklore society-that’s where he heard about Dahlstrom.”
“All right. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“You’re welcome.”
Knutas put down the phone, thinking about what he’d learned. So Dahlstrom had done work for people in their homes. The information opened a whole new avenue. In his mind he sent Johan words of gratitude.
Fanny went straight home from school. At the door she met her mother’s boyfriend, Jack. He glanced at her but didn’t even bother to say hi. He just hurried past. The door to the apartment wasn’t locked, and Fanny realized at once that something was wrong. She peeked in the kitchen, but it was empty.
She found her mother stretched out on the sofa under a blanket. The blanket had slipped to one side, revealing that she was naked. On the table stood empty beer and wine bottles next to an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.
“Mamma,” said Fanny, shaking her by the shoulder. “Wake up!”
Not a hint of life.
“Mamma,” Fanny repeated with a sob rising in her throat. She shook her harder. “Mamma, please wake up.”
Finally her mother opened her eyes and said in a slurred voice, “I have to throw up. Get me a bucket.”
“Which one?”
“Bring the one under the kitchen counter. The red one.”
Fanny dashed out to the kitchen to get the bucket, but she didn’t find it in time. Her mother threw up all over the rug.
She helped her mother into the bedroom, pulled the covers over her, and set the bucket next to the bed. Spot had started licking up the vomit. She chased him away and then used some paper towels to wipe up the worst of it. But she could see that the rug would have to be washed. She ran hot water in the bathtub, poured in some laundry soap, and then lowered the rug into the water. She left it to soak in the tub while she cleaned up the living room, collecting all the bottles, emptying the ashtray, and airing out the place. When she was finished, she sank onto the sofa.
Spot whimpered. The poor thing needed to go out. She seriously considered calling her mother’s sister to tell her that she couldn’t handle things anymore. But she decided that she didn’t dare; her mother would be furious. Yet what would happen if she kept on drinking like this? She risked losing her job, and then what?
Fanny didn’t have the energy to think about that. Soon she wouldn’t have the energy for anything at all.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm cinnamon rolls swept over Knutas as he stepped into the conference room the next morning. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. He glanced at Kihlgard. It must have been him, of course. Everyone sitting at the table was in a lively mood. Jacobsson was joking with Wittberg, who had evidently been out partying last night. Knutas surmised that he was entertaining Jacobsson with a story about one of his girlfriends. He had a bottle of Coca-Cola in front of him, which was a clear sign that he had a hangover.
Kihlgard and Smittenberg were both leaning over a newspaper. The prosecutor was holding a pen in his hand, while Kihlgard was holding a roll, naturally. Good Lord, they were working on a crossword puzzle! Norrby and Sohlman were standing at the window, looking out at the rain mixed with hail and discussing the weather.