It was a virtual cocktail party. Incredible what effect fresh-baked goods could have.
Knutas took his usual place at one end of the table and loudly cleared his throat, but no one took any notice.
“All right, everyone,” he ventured. “Shall we start?”
No reaction.
He gave Kihlgard a surly look. This was so typical of that darn fellow. To come here, all sweet and nice, bringing rolls and causing a disruption. Knutas had nothing against people enjoying themselves at work, but there was a time and a place. Besides, he was in a foul mood after having a big fight with Lina that morning.
It started with her complaining that clothes were scattered on the floor, that the cat hadn’t been fed, and that he hadn’t run the dishwasher last night, even though it was full and he was the last one to go to bed. Then she found out that, in spite of a solemn promise, he had forgotten to buy a new floorball stick for Nils, who had broken his old one, and he had a game to play tonight. That turned out to be the last straw. She blew up.
The noise in the conference room forced Knutas to get up from his chair and clap his hands.
“All right, could I have your attention?” he shouted. “Shall we get to work? Or maybe you’ve decided to devote the day to social activities?”
“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Kihlgard. “Why don’t we stay in, rent a good video, and make some popcorn? It’s such awful weather today-I’m freeeeeezing.”
His voice rose to a falsetto. He bent his forearms up and shook his palms at the same time as he wiggled his hips. Given the impressive bulk of his body, the dance was extremely funny. What a clown. Even Knutas couldn’t help smiling a bit.
He started by telling them about the work Dahlstrom had done for payment under the table.
“How did we find this out?” asked Kihlgard.
“Actually it was that TV reporter, Johan Berg, who told me. The couple that lives on Backgatan didn’t want to go to the police since it was a question of unreported payments.”
“It’s just amazing how people with money behave,” exclaimed Jacobsson, whose expression had darkened as Knutas talked. “It’s so damned wrong. People with high incomes who use illegal workers even though they could afford to pay them legitimately. And then when someone is murdered, they won’t even go to the police because they’re afraid of getting in trouble! That’s about as low as it gets.”
Her eyes were blazing as she glanced from one colleague to another.
“They can afford a lovely house and expensive vacations, but they won’t pay their cleaning woman legally so that she could get insurance and retirement points and everything else that she’s entitled to. They refuse to pay for that. They’ll do everything to avoid paying taxes, without giving a thought to whether it’s actually a crime. At the same time they expect free day-care centers to be provided for their children and a doctor to be available when they’re sick, and they want the schools to offer good food. It’s as if they can’t see the connection between one thing and the other. It’s so hopelessly stupid!”
Everyone at the table was looking at her in surprise. Even Kihlgard, who usually had some witty remark, didn’t say a word. But maybe this was because his mouth was full of cinnamon roll, probably his third one.
“Take it easy, Karin,” Knutas warned. “Spare us your diatribe.”
“What do you mean? Don’t you agree that it’s damned wrong?”
Jacobsson glanced around the room, looking for sympathy.
“Do you have to turn everything into a political issue?” asked Knutas, sounding annoyed. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation here.”
He deliberately turned away from her and looked at his other colleagues.
“So maybe we could go on now?”
Jacobsson didn’t say another word, just sighed and shook her head.
“How did this couple get in touch with Dahlstrom?” asked Wittberg.
“Through friends of theirs who belong to the local folklore society. Apparently a number of people made use of his services.”
“Maybe someone was unhappy with their garden shed,” said Kihlgard with a snicker.
Knutas ignored his attempt at a joke and turned to Norrby.
“How’s it going with the bank? Have you tracked down where the deposits came from?”
“Well, we’ve come to a dead end there. It’s impossible to trace the money. Of course every bill has a serial number, but who keeps records of that? It’s also impossible to find out who gave him the money since he made the deposit himself.”
“Okay, then right now the important thing is to find out who hired Dahlstrom illegally. He could have been doing that kind of work for years. Strange that nobody he knew has said anything about it.”
As Knutas left the meeting he had the distinct feeling that the issues associated with the murder were going to get much more complicated.
Johan’s next meeting with Emma was about to occur much sooner than he had dared hope. The very next morning she called him at the hotel.
“I’m going to Stockholm tomorrow for a one-day conference, connected with my work.”
“Are you kidding? Are we on the same flight?”
“No, I’m taking the boat. It was planned long ago.”
“Does that mean that I can see you?”
“Yes. I wasn’t thinking of staying overnight, but I can if I want to because there’s a banquet in the evening. Teachers from all over the country are invited. I was planning to skip the banquet, but I can say that I’ve changed my mind and book a hotel room. That doesn’t mean that I actually have to sleep there…”
He couldn’t believe his ears.
“Are you serious?”
She laughed.
“Would you like to have dinner together tomorrow night? Or are you busy?” she asked.
He thought for a moment.
“Let me see… Tomorrow night I was planning to stay home alone in front of the TV and eat chips, so I guess I won’t be able to meet you. Unfortunately.”
His heart was singing.
“But seriously-we could go to a fantastic new place in Soder. It’s small and noisy, but the food is superb.”
“That sounds great.”
He put down the phone and clenched his hand in a fist, in a gesture of victory. Could it be that she had finally given in?
From the beginning Grenfors had doubted that Regional News should do a story about the murder of Henry Dahlstrom. In his view, it had just been a drunken fight. He was not alone. Many of his colleagues shared this opinion, and consequently they had settled for only a brief mention of the case so far.
If the editors decided not to report a story in the beginning, it was difficult to sell the idea later on. News stories were perishable goods. A story that was super-hot one day might seem musty the next. Four days had passed since Dahlstrom’s body had been found, and that was an eternity in the news business. Grenfors didn’t sound especially interested when Johan called him after lunch.
“So what’s new about it?”
“Dahlstrom was doing odd jobs for people in their homes. Carpentry work and things like that. Getting paid under the table, of course.”
“You don’t say.” Grenfors yawned audibly.
Johan could picture the editor checking the TT wire service on his computer screen as they talked.
“Someone deposited money into his bank account. Twice. Twenty-five thousand kronor each time.”
“So they might have been payments that he was getting for work done illegally.”
“Maybe. But there’s a lot to report about the case, and we haven’t done a single story on it yet,” countered Johan. “Good Lord, a man literally had his head bashed in with a hammer in his darkroom. And this happened on little Gotland-don’t forget that. All the other stations have reported it, but we’ve hardly said a word. Now it turns out that the victim was working illegally for people, and on top of that, mysterious deposits were made to his bank account. And we’re the only ones who know about it. All indications are that this was not your ordinary drunken fight. It’s in our territory, for God’s sake, and we do such a shitty job of reporting on Gotland.”