“Have the police confirmed the information?”
“Not the bank deposits,” Johan admitted. “We found that out from a bank teller. The police refused to confirm whether it was true, but I’m convinced that it is. I know how Knutas reacts in this type of situation. But he did confirm the part about Dahlstrom working illegally.”
“That might be enough. But today we’re reporting on the gang rape prosecution in Botkyrka and the trial of the cop killer in Marsta. That’s a hell of a lot of crime stories for one broadcast.”
Johan lost his temper.
“I don’t think we can wait on this. We’ve been dragging our feet on this story, and now we’re the only ones who have the new information. The newspapers might have the story by tomorrow!”
“That’s the chance we’ll have to take. It’s not really that interesting. Finish up your assignment today, and then I need you back here in the newsroom tomorrow. But we won’t run the story tonight. It fits in better with the Friday broadcast. That’s all the time I have right now. Bye.”
Johan was fuming as he put down the phone. What a fucking attitude! Every other news program had the story about the trial and the gang rape, but they were the only ones with this news about the murder. Generally he respected Grenfors as an editor, in spite of his shortcomings. But sometimes it was impossible to understand the man. If only he were consistent in his journalistic approach, at least! But one day he could be so overzealous that he would hound the reporters relentlessly to get what he wanted for the broadcast. The next day he would be like this. And they would sit in endless meetings, discussing over and over how they could do a better job on their own news program.
Johan didn’t mince words as he sat in the car on the way out to Grabo, complaining about incompetent editors. His cameraman Peter was equally indignant. He was the one who had found out about the deposits to Dahlstrom’s account. He had met a girl at a bar in Visby, and her sister was a teller in the bank where the deposits were made.
And now they ran the risk of being upstaged by the local press. Again.
Grabo seemed dead and gloomy in the biting wind. The bleak weather didn’t exactly invite outdoor activities. The cars in the parking lot bore witness to the fact that the people living there had limited incomes. Most of the Fords had at least ten years on them. An old Mazda hesitantly pulled out of its parking space and rattled off. At the recycling station, someone had toppled over a shopping cart from the ICA grocery store.
On their way to Dahlstrom’s section of the building, they passed a low wooden structure that looked like a communal laundry room. One wall was plastered with wads of snuff, and the windows were covered with graffiti. The playground in front had a sandbox, swings, and worn-looking wooden benches. Not a kid was in sight.
They walked around to the back of the building, where Dahlstrom had lived. The blinds were closed, preventing any curiosity-seekers from looking inside. The surrounding property consisted mainly of an over-grown lawn, and the patio was nothing more than a piece of wooden fencing with worn patio furniture that had seen better days. There was a stack of used disposable grills. Leaning against a cinder-block wall was a rusty bicycle and an overflowing garbage bag that seemed to contain empty cans. A rickety fence with peeling paint faced the passageway that continued on toward the woods.
They decided to try talking to the neighbors.
At the fourth apartment they tried, someone finally answered the doorbell. A young guy wearing only boxer shorts peered at them, bleary-eyed with sleep. His hair was dyed black and stood straight up like a scrub brush. An earring gleamed from one ear.
“Hi, we’re from Regional News in Stockholm. We’d like to know something about the man who lived downstairs, the one who was murdered.”
“Come on in.”
He showed them to the living room and motioned for them to have a seat on the couch, while he sat down on a Windsor chair.
“A horrible thing, that murder,” he said.
“What was your opinion of Dahlstrom?” asked Johan.
“A decent old guy. Nothing wrong with him. It didn’t bother me that he was an alcoholic, at least. Besides, he had periods when he didn’t drink as much, and then he spent a lot of time working on his photos.”
“Was that something everybody knew about? The fact that he took photographs?”
“Sure. He used that old bicycle storage room as his darkroom. He’s had it for the six years that I’ve lived here.”
The guy looked as if he had just graduated from high school. Johan asked him how old he was.
“Twenty-three,” he replied. He had moved away from home when he turned seventeen.
“What kind of contact did you have with Dahlstrom?”
“We said hello to each other if we met, of course, and sometimes he’d knock and ask if I had anything to drink. That’s about all.”
“Have you noticed anyone new visiting Dahlstrom lately? Anyone who was different in some way?”
He gave them a wry smile.
“Are you kidding? Just about anyone who came to visit him was different. Recently I saw a chick peeing in the flower bed.”
“Did any of the neighbors complain?”
“I don’t think it ever got that bad. Most people probably thought he was a pretty decent guy. But in the summer some did complain when he had parties outside, in back of the building.”
“What are people around here saying about the murder?”
“Everyone’s saying that the killer must have been someone that Flash knew, someone who had a key to his apartment.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, the old lady who lives above him heard a sound at his door one night, about a week before his body was found. Someone went inside without ringing the doorbell while Flash was downstairs in the basement.”
“Couldn’t it have been Dahlstrom?” asked Peter.
“No, she could tell that it wasn’t him. She knows the sound of the slippers that Flash wore.”
“Who do you think would have a key?”
“No idea. He had one buddy that he hung out with more than others. I think his name is Bengan.”
“Do you know his last name?”
“No.”
“It must be Bengt Johnsson. He was the one the police arrested, but then they let him go. Apparently he had an alibi. Is there anything else you can tell us about Dahlstrom?”
“There was one strange thing that happened this summer. Flash was talking to a guy down by the harbor. It was fucking early in the morning, not even five o’clock. I happened to notice because they were standing in an odd place, between two containers outside a warehouse. As if they were up to something.”
“So they weren’t just hanging out and drinking?”
“The other guy wasn’t one of Dahlstrom’s usual buddies. I could see that at once. He looked much too neat to be a wino.”
“Really? In what way?”
“He was wearing clean slacks and a polo shirt, like an executive on summer vacation.”
“What else can you tell us about his appearance?”
“I don’t really remember. I think he was younger than Flash, and he was very dark.”
“Dark-skinned?”
“No, just really suntanned.”
“What were you doing there so early in the morning?”
The guy smiled, looking a bit embarrassed.
“I was with a girl. We’d been out partying at Skeppet. That’s a pub down at the harbor. Do you know it?”
Johan grimaced. He had a bad memory from the summer when he had spent the miserably wet Midsummer’s Eve at Skeppet, and he ended up bent over a toilet all night.
“She had to catch the seven o’clock boat in the morning, so I went with her down to the harbor. We were just messing around a little, as they say. Before she had to go home.”