“Do you know Henry Dahlstrom?”
“I can’t say that I really knew him. But I knew who he was.”
“So you know what happened to him?”
“I know that he’s dead.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Think about it. We can always take you down to the station if that might help your memory,” Wittberg suggested.
“Hell, that doesn’t really seem necessary.”
He made a face that might have been intended as a smile.
“Then you’d better start cooperating. You can begin by trying to recall when you last saw him.”
“It must have been in town. That’s the only place I ever saw him. We weren’t really pals.”
“Why not?”
“With that guy? An old drunk? Why would I want to hang out with him?”
“I have no idea, do you?”
Wittberg turned to Jacobsson, who shook her head. She was having a hard time relaxing in the cramped apartment with the dog on the other side of the table. The animal kept staring at her. The fact that he growled every once in a while didn’t make things any better, nor did the hair standing up on his back or his stiff tail. She felt a strong urge to light a cigarette herself.
“Could you get rid of the dog?” she asked.
“What? Hugo?”
“Is that his name? It sounds a little too sweet for a dog like that.”
“He has a sister named Josephine,” muttered Orjan as he took the dog out to the men in the kitchen.
They heard the men exchange a few words and then burst out in raucous laughter. The kitchen door closed. Orjan came back, casting an amused glance in Jacobsson’s direction. That’s the first real sign of life in his eyes, she thought.
“When did you last see him?” Wittberg asked again.
“I guess it was one night a week ago when Bengan and I were at the bus station. Flash came over to talk to us.”
“Then what did you do?”
“We just sat and drank.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know. Maybe half an hour.”
“What time was it?”
“Around eight, I think.”
“Can you possibly remember what day that was?”
“It must have been last Monday, because on Tuesday I was busy with something else.”
“What?”
“It’s private.”
Neither of the police officers felt like asking any more questions about that matter.
“Have you ever been to Henry Dahlstrom’s apartment?” asked Jacobsson.
“No.”
“How about his darkroom?”
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.
