When they were back home, Johan had written to her. At first she considered throwing out the letter, unread. But her curiosity got the better of her. Afterward she regretted it.
It would have been best for all parties concerned if she hadn’t read even one line of that letter.
Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg walked down to Ostercentrum as soon as the investigative meeting was over. The pedestrian street between the shops was almost deserted. The wind and rain were having their effect. They hurried into the mall at Obs supermarket and shook off the worst of the rain as they stood inside the glass doors.
The shopping center was quite modest: H amp;M, Guldfynd, a couple of beauty parlors, a health food store, a bulletin board. Obs with its rows of cashiers, then the bakery and pastry shop, the customer service counter, the Tips amp; Tobak betting parlor and tobacco shop. Restrooms in the back, a recycling station for bottles, and the exit leading to the parking lot. Along with weary retirees and the parents of small children, needing to rest their feet, drunks occupied the benches in the mall whenever the weather was bad.
Most of them kept a hip flask in a bag or pocket, but as long as they didn’t do any drinking inside, the security guards left them in peace.
Jacobsson recognized two local winos sitting on the bench nearest the exit. They were filthy and unshaven, dressed in worn-out clothes. The younger man was leaning his head against the wall behind him and staring indifferently at the people walking past. He wore a black leather jacket and tattered running shoes. The older man had on a blue down jacket and knit cap. He was leaning forward with his head in his hands. Greasy locks of hair had crept out from under his cap.
Jacobsson introduced herself and Wittberg, even though she was fully aware that the two men knew who they were.
“We haven’t done anything. We’re just sitting here.”
The man in the cap glanced up, his eyes crossed. And it’s not even eleven o’clock in the morning, thought Jacobsson.
“Take it easy,” Wittberg told them. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”
He pulled a photo out of his pocket.
“Do you recognize this man?”
The younger drunk kept on staring straight ahead. He refused to give either of the police officers even a glance. The other man stared at the picture.
“Hell yes. That’s Flash, of course.”
“How well do you know him?”
“He’s one of the gang, you know. Usually hangs out around here, or at the bus station. He’s been doing that for twenty years. Of course I know Flash, everybody does. Hey, Jonas, you know who Flash is, don’t you?”
He poked his pal in the side and handed him the photo.
“What a fucking stupid question. Everybody knows him.”
The man named Jonas had pupils the size of peppercorns. Jacobsson wondered what he was high on.
“When did you last see him?” asked Wittberg.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. We just want to know when you last saw him.”
“Hmm, when the hell was it? What day is today? Monday?”
Jacobsson nodded. The man stroked his chin with fingers that had been stained dirty yellow from nicotine.
“I haven’t seen him in several days, but sometimes he just takes off, you know.”
Jacobsson turned to the other man.
“What about you?”
He was still staring straight ahead. His face is actually quite handsome, underneath all the dirt and stubble, she thought. His expression was defiant, showing a strong unwillingness to cooperate. She restrained a desire to stand right in front of him and wave her arms to force him to react.
“Can’t remember.”
Wittberg was starting to get annoyed.
“What did you say?”
“Why do you want to know? What did he do?” asked the older man in the cap.
“He’s dead. Someone killed him.”
“What the hell? Is that true?”
Now both men looked up.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. He was found dead last night.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What we need to do now is try to find the person who did it.”
“Sure, that’s obvious. Come to think of it, I think the last time I saw him was at the bus station about a week ago.”
“Was he alone?” “He was there with his buddies-Kjelle and Bengan, I think.”
“How did he seem?”
“What do you mean by ‘seem’?”
“How did he act? Did he seem sick, or was he nervous in any way?”
“No, he was the same as usual. He never really says much. He was a little drunk, of course.”
“Do you remember what day that was?”
“It was probably Saturday because there were a lot of people downtown. I think it was Saturday.”
“A week ago?”
“That’s right. But I haven’t seen him since then.”
Jacobsson turned to the other man.
“What about you? Have you seen him since then?”
“Nope.”
Jacobsson suppressed the annoyed feeling that had begun to prickle at her throat.
“Okay. Do either of you know whether he’d spent time with any strangers lately?”
“No idea.”
“Is there anyone who might want to harm him?”
“Not Flash, no. He never got into fights with anybody. He kept a low profile, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure, I understand,” said Jacobsson. “So do you happen to know where his pal Bengan might be? Bengt Johnsson?”
“Is he the one who did it?”
Behind the alcoholic fog, the older man looked genuinely surprised.
“No, no. We just want to talk to him.”
“Haven’t seen him in a while, have you?”
“Nope,” said Jonas.
He was chewing gum so hard that his jaws made a cracking sound.
“The last time I saw him he was with that new guy from the mainland,” the older man said. “The guy named Orjan.”
“What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know because he hasn’t lived here on Gotland for very long. He was in the slammer on the mainland.”
“Do you know where we can find Bengt Johnsson?”
“He lives on Stenkumlavag with his mother. Maybe that’s where he is.”
“Do you know the address?”
“Nope.”
“All right then. Thanks for your help. If you see or hear anything that has to do with Flash, you should contact the police immediately.”
“Sure,” said the man with the cap, and then he, too, leaned back against the wall.
Johan Berg opened the morning paper as he sat at the kitchen table in his apartment on Heleneborgsgatan in Stockholm. The apartment was on the ground floor facing the courtyard, but that didn’t bother him. The Sodermalm district was the very heart of the city, and in his eyes there was no better place to live. One side of the building faced the waters of Riddarfjarden and the old prison island of Langholm with its bathing rocks and wooded walking paths. On the other side the shops, pubs, cafes, and subway were all within easy reach. The red subway line went directly to Karlaplan, and from there it was only a five-minute walk to the editorial headquarters of Swedish TV.
He subscribed to several daily newspapers: Dagens Nyheter, Svenska Dagbladet, and Dagens Industri. Currently Gotlands Tidningar was also in the stack that he plowed through each morning. After the events of the summer, his interest in Gotland had been given a boost. For more reasons than one.
He scanned the headlines: “Crisis in Housing for Elderly,” “Police on Gotland Earn Less Than Officers on the Mainland,” “Farmer Risks Losing EU Subsidies.”
Then he noticed a news item: “Man Found Dead in Grabo. Police Suspect Foul Play.”
As he cleared away the breakfast dishes he thought about the article. Of course it sounded like an ordinary drunken fight, but his curiosity was aroused. He took a quick look at himself in the mirror and put a little gel on his dark curly hair. He was actually in need of a shave, but there was no time for that. His dark stubble would just have to grow out a bit. He was thirty-seven but looked younger. Tall and well built, with regular features and brown eyes. Women were always falling for him-and he’d taken advantage of that fact many times in the past. But not anymore. Ever since six months ago, only one woman existed for him: Emma Winarve of Roma on the island of Gotland. They had met when he was covering the hunt for a serial killer last summer.