pressed it over her mouth.
Crime scene tech Erik Sohlman appeared in the doorway to the darkroom.
“Hi. The victim’s name is Henry Dahlstrom. You probably know him-Flash, the old alcoholic who was a photographer? This was his darkroom. He was apparently still using it.”
He tilted his head back in the direction of the basement room.
“His head has been bashed in, and it wasn’t just a few blows, either. There’s blood everywhere. I just wanted to warn you that it’s not a pretty sight.”
They paused in the doorway and looked down at the body.
“When did he die?” asked Knutas.
“He’s probably been lying here close to a week, I would think. The body has started to rot, not too badly yet because it’s reasonably cold down here. If he’d been here another day, the whole stairwell would have stunk.”
Sohlman pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead and sighed.
“I’ve got to keep working. It will be a while before you can come in.”
“How long?”
“A matter of hours. Actually I’d be happy if you could wait until tomorrow. We have a lot to do here. It’s the same thing with his apartment.”
“Okay.”
Knutas studied the cramped room. Every inch of space had been put to use. Plastic trays were crowded next to jugs containing chemicals; there were scissors, clothespins, stacks of photographs, boxes and crates. In one corner was the enlarger.
A tray had been knocked over and the chemicals mixed with the blood.
When they exited through the front door, Knutas inhaled the fresh evening air deep into his lungs. It was eight fifteen. The rain pouring down from the dark sky was turning into wet snow.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19
The next morning the investigative team gathered at police headquarters on Norra Hansegatan. An expensive remodeling had just been completed, and the criminal division had been assigned new offices. The meeting room was bright with a high ceiling, and it was twice as large as the old one.
Most of the decor was of simple Scandinavian design in gray and white, with birch furniture. In the middle of the room stood a long, wide table with room for ten on each side. At one end was a big whiteboard and a projector screen. Everything smelled new. The light-colored paint on the walls was barely dry.
Both sides of the room were lined with windows. One row of windows looked out on the street, the parking lot at Obs supermarket, and the eastern side of the ring wall. Beyond the wall the sea was visible. The other windows faced the corridor so that it was possible to see who was walking past. The thin cotton curtains could be closed for more privacy-the old yellow curtains had been replaced with white ones in a discreet pattern.
For once Knutas was several minutes late for the morning meeting. An amicable murmuring was going on as he stepped into the room with a coffee mug in one hand and a folder of papers in the other. It was past eight o’clock, and everyone was present. He removed his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and took his usual place at one end of the table. Taking a gulp of the bitter coffee from the office coffee machine, he studied his colleagues as they chatted with each other.
On his right sat Karin Jacobsson: thirty-seven years old, petite, with dark hair and brown eyes. On the job she was persistent and fearless, and she could be as irascible as a terrier. She was open and outgoing, but he knew very little about her personal life, even though they had been working together for fifteen years. She lived alone and had no children. Knutas didn’t know whether she had a boyfriend or not.
He had spent all autumn without her working beside him, and he had missed her terribly. In connection with the homicides of the past summer, Karin Jacobsson had become the subject of an internal investigation regarding possible misconduct. The investigation was dropped, but the whole thing had taken its toll on her. She had been placed on leave while the investigation was ongoing, and then she had taken a vacation right afterward. He had no idea what she had done while she was away.
Right now she was immersed in a quiet conversation with Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg. He looked more like a surfer than a police officer, with his thick blond hair and trim body. He was a twenty-seven-year-old playboy who constantly had new girlfriends, but his attention to his job was irreproachable. His talent for making contact with people had been of great use-as the head of an interrogation he was unbeatable.
Lars Norrby, on the other side of the table, was the direct opposite of Wittberg: tall, dark, and meticulous to the point of being long-winded. He could drive Knutas crazy with his fussing over details. At work they knew each other’s habits inside out. They had joined the police force at the same time, and for a period they had patrolled together. Now they were both approaching fifty and were as familiar with the criminals on Gotland as they were with each other.
Detective Inspector Norrby was the police spokesman, as well as the assistant head of the criminal investigation unit-a situation that did not always please Knutas.
The technician of the group, Erik Sohlman, was intense, temperamental, and as zealous as a bloodhound; at the same time, he was incredibly methodical.
Birger Smittenberg, the chief prosecutor, was also sitting at the table. He was originally from Stockholm, but he had married a woman from Gotland. Knutas valued his knowledge and his strong sense of involvement.
Knutas began the meeting.
“The victim is Henry ‘Flash’ Dahlstrom, born in 1943. He was found dead just after six p.m. yesterday, in a basement room that he used as a darkroom. If you haven’t all heard it already, he’s the alcoholic who was once a photographer. He used to hang out down on Oster, and the most distinctive thing about him was the camera that he always wore around his neck.”
No one at the table said a word. Everyone was listening intently.
“Dahlstrom was found with extensive contusions on the back of his head. There’s no doubt that he was murdered. His body will be transported to the forensic medicine lab in Solna sometime today.”
“Did you find the murder weapon?” asked Norrby.
“Not yet. We’ve searched both the darkroom and his apartment. Those are the only areas that we’ve cordoned off. Anything else would be pointless since the body has been lying there for a week, and Lord knows how many people have gone up and down the stairs during that time. Dahlstrom lived on the ground floor in a corner apartment. Right outside is the public passageway to Terra Nova. The whole area has been searched. The dark made our work more difficult, but the search was resumed as soon as it was daylight. Which was just a short time ago.”
He looked at his watch.
“Who called it in?” asked the prosecutor.
“The body was discovered by one of the building superintendents. Apparently there are four of them. This one lives in the building across the way. His name is Ove Andersson. He said that a man claiming to be a good friend of the victim rang his doorbell around six p.m. yesterday. The man said that he hadn’t seen Dahlstrom for several days and he wondered where he might be. They found him in the basement, but when the superintendent went up to his place to call the police, the friend took the opportunity to disappear.”
“It seems fishy that he ran off. Maybe he was the murderer,” Wittberg suggested.
“But if so, why would he contact the super?” objected Norrby.
“Maybe he wanted to get back inside the apartment to get something that he left behind, but he didn’t dare break in again,” Jacobsson piped in.
“Well, we can’t rule that out, even though it doesn’t sound very plausible,” countered Norrby. “But why would he wait a whole week? There was always a risk that the body would be discovered.”
Knutas frowned. “One alternative is that he disappeared because he was afraid of being a suspect. Maybe he was at the party, because it’s obvious that a party took place in that apartment. No matter what, we need to get hold of him as soon as possible.”
“Have we got a description?” asked Wittberg.
