The sense of focus in the room sharpened tangibly. Everyone automatically leaned forward, and Wittberg gave a long whistle.
“Jesus. Can we find out where the money came from?”
“Whoever made the deposit used an ordinary deposit slip. It doesn’t give any information about the person. On the other hand, we do have the date of the deposit.”
“What about the bank surveillance cameras?” Jacobsson suggested.
“We’ve already thought of that. The bank saves the tapes from the cameras for a month. The first bank tape from July is gone, but we have the one from October. If we’re in luck, we can use it to trace the individual who made the deposits. We’re picking it up right now.”
“I’ve talked with the Swedish Forensic Lab. They’re working hard on the evidence taken from the darkroom and apartment, and if we’re lucky we’ll have answers by the end of the week,” Sohlman informed the others. “There are also palm prints and fingerprints from the basement window that we checked against the criminal records. We didn’t come up with a match, so if they belong to the perp, he doesn’t have a police record.”
“What about the murder weapon?” asked Wittberg.
Sohlman shook his head.
“So far we haven’t found it, but all indications are that it was a hammer, the ordinary kind that you can buy in any hardware store.”
“All right. We need to proceed with the investigation as usual, but let’s concentrate on finding out what Dahlstrom was up to. Who else among his acquaintances might know something? What about the building superintendent? Or the daughter? We still haven’t had a proper interview with her. We’re going to expand the interview process to include anyone who had contact with Dahlstrom or who may have seen him on the night of the murder-the bus driver, employees in kiosks and stores, more neighbors in the area.”
“And the racetrack,” Jacobsson interjected. “We should contact people at the track.”
“But it’s closed for the season,” objected Wittberg.
“All the stables are still in operation. The horses have to be exercised, the stable personnel are working, and the drivers are there. It was at the track that he won all that money, after all.”
“Absolutely,” said Knutas. “All suggestions are welcome. One more thing before we adjourn-this has to do with how we’re going to handle the media. So far, thank God, no journalist has published any details-as you know, we never allow that when it’s a matter of a drunken brawl. But their interest in the case is going to grow if the news about the money gets out. So let’s keep it under wraps; don’t say a word to anyone. You know how easily word can spread. If any reporter starts asking you questions about the investigation, refer them to me or to Lars. I also think it’s time for us to call in the National Criminal Police. I’ve asked for their assistance. Two officers will be arriving tomorrow.”
“I hope Martin is one of them,” said Jacobsson. “That would be great.”
A murmur of agreement was heard.
Knutas shared their positive view of Martin Kihlgard, who had helped them with the investigation in the summer, but his relationship with the man did have its complications. Kihlgard was a cheerful and congenial person who was quite domineering and had an opinion about almost everything. Deep inside, Knutas was aware that his touchiness when it came to Kihlgard might have to do with a little-brother complex in relation to the gentleman from National. The fact that Karin Jacobsson had such an openly high opinion of his colleague didn’t make the situation any better.
With a whir and a click the tape slipped into the VCR. Knutas and Jacobsson were alone in Knutas’s office. A few seconds of grainy gray flickering, and then the inside of the bank appeared in black and white. They had to fast-forward a bit before they reached the time in question.
The clock in the upper-right-hand corner showed 12:23, and the date was October 30. Almost five minutes passed before anyone made the deposit in Dahlstrom’s account. The bank was quite crowded because it was the lunch hour. This particular branch was centrally located in Ostercentrum, and many people liked to take care of their banking at lunchtime. Two windows were open, with a female and a male teller behind the glass. On chairs near the window facing the street sat four people: an elderly man with a cane, a girl with long blond hair, a fat middle- aged woman, and a young man wearing a suit.
Knutas thought to himself that right now he might be looking at the very person who had murdered Henry Dahlstrom.
The door opened and two more people came into the bank. They didn’t seem to be together. First a man who appeared to be in his fifties. He was wearing a gray jacket and checked cap with dark slacks and shoes. He walked forward without hesitation and took a number.
Behind him came another man, very tall and of slight build. He stooped a bit. He apparently already had a number, and he went to stand in front of the teller’s window, as if he were next in line.
When he turned and glanced around the bank, Knutas saw that he had a camera hanging around his neck.
They recognized him at once. The man was Henry Dahlstrom.
“Damn it,” groaned Knutas. “He deposited the money himself.”
“There goes that possibility. How typical. It was too easy.”
Jacobsson turned on the ceiling light.
“He got the money and then put it in the bank himself,” she said. “Impossible to trace, in other words.”
“Damned rotten luck. But why didn’t the person just transfer the money directly into Dahlstrom’s account? If he was so afraid of being discovered, it must have been an even bigger risk for him to meet Dahlstrom to give him the money than if he had transferred the sum directly.”
“It certainly seems strange,” Jacobsson agreed. “I wonder what the money was for. I’m convinced the story about the racetrack is true. Dahlstrom gambled regularly, and the track has always attracted a shady clientele. Something underhanded could have been going on there, maybe a dispute between two criminal elements. Maybe Dahlstrom was hired to spy for someone and take pictures, so that the person could keep tabs on his rivals.”
“You’ve been watching too many movies,” said Knutas.
“Shit,” cried Jacobsson as she glanced at her watch. “Speaking of movies, I’ve got to get going.”
“What are you going to see?”
“We’re going to the Roxy to see a Turkish black comedy. It’s a special showing.”
“Who are you going with?”
“You’d really like to know, wouldn’t you?”
She gave Knutas an annoying wink and disappeared into the hallway.
“Why are you always so secretive?” he shouted after her.
Several Months Earlier
Fanny had come home from school to an empty apartment.
Her feeling of relief was mixed with a dose of guilt. The less she saw of her mother lately, the better she felt. At the same time, she didn’t think it was right to feel this way. You were supposed to like your mother. And besides, she was Fanny’s only parent.
She opened the refrigerator and her mood sank. Her mother hadn’t gone grocery shopping today, either.
Never mind. Right now she was going to do her homework. She was worried about Thursday’s math test; math had never been her strong suit. She had just taken out her books and sharpened her pencils when the phone rang. The sound gave her a start. The phone hardly ever rang in their apartment.
To her astonishment it was him, and he wanted to invite her to dinner. She was both surprised and uncertain. She didn’t know what to say.
“Hello, are you still there?” His smooth voice in the receiver.
“Yes,” she managed to say, feeling her cheeks grow hot.
“Can you? Do you want to?”
“I’ve got homework to do. We’re having a test.”
“But you still have to eat, don’t you?”
“Sure, of course I do,” she said hesitantly.
“Is your mother home?”
“No, I’m here alone.”
He sounded even more determined.
