Unspoken

from the airport.”
    “That’s good,” said Knutas. “We need to get in touch with the daughter, too. I want to put out an internal APB on Bengt Johnsson immediately. We need to ask everyone in his circle of acquaintances where they think he might be staying. Sohlman, you’re in charge of examining the apartment door lock one more time. The question is: How many people knew about the money Dahlström won at the track? Everyone who was at the track with him that evening has to be interviewed. But did anyone else know?”
    “In those kinds of circles, news like that probably spreads like wildfire,” said Wittberg. “No one that we’ve talked to in town has said a word about the money, but they may have their reasons for not talking.”
    “You’ll have to interview them again, along with all the others,” said Knutas. “The money throws a whole new light on the case.”
    If there was one thing that Emma detested, it was sewing machines.
    To think that anyone should have to bother with this kind of shit work , she thought, her mouth full of pins. Her sense of irritation was fast becoming a headache. She swore silently. Why should it be so damned difficult to make a pair of pants? When other people sewed in a zipper, they made it look ridiculously easy.
    She was really trying her best, and she had armed herself with tons of patience before she started, promising herself that this time she wouldn’t give up. She would not surrender to the slightest obstacle, although she had a tendency to do just that. She was certainly well aware of her own weaknesses.
    She had been struggling with this sewing project for an hour, and she had already smoked three cigarettes to calm her nerves. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she tried to straighten out the denim fabric under the presser foot. Twice she had been forced to undo the seam when the zipper ended up buckling.
    In school she had always hated sewing class. The silence, the sternness of the teacher. The fact that everything had to be so finicky—the seam allowance, the fitting of the pattern, the wrong and right side of the fabric. The only bad grade that she’d ever received on her report card in grade school was in sewing. It was a permanent reminder of her failure to make anything from pot holders to knitted caps.
    The ring of her cell phone came like the arrival of a much anticipated guest. When she heard Johan’s voice, fire raced through her breast.
    “Hi, it’s me. Am I interrupting anything?”
    “No, but you know you’re not supposed to call me.”
    “I couldn’t help it. Is he home?”
    “No, he plays floorball on Monday nights.”
    “Please don’t be mad.”
    A brief silence. Then his voice again, low and gentle. Like a caress on her brow.
    “How are you?”
    “Fine, thanks. But I was just about to have a hysterical fit and throw my sewing machine out the window.”
    His soft laugh made her stomach lurch.
    “You’re trying to sew something? What happened to that vow you made?”
    She was reminded of the time last summer when she had tried to mend a hole in his shirt with a needle and thread from his hotel. Afterward she had vowed never to try sewing anything again.
    “It went to hell, just like everything else,” she said without thinking.
    “What? What do you mean?”
    He was trying to sound neutral, but she could hear the hope in his voice.
    “Oh, nothing. What do you want? You know you’re not supposed to call,” she repeated.
    “I couldn’t help myself.”
    “But if you don’t leave me in peace, I won’t be able to think,” she said gently.
    He tried to persuade her to meet him when he arrived in Gotland on the following day.
    She refused, even though her body was screaming for him. It was a battle between reason and emotion.
    “Don’t keep doing this. It’s hard enough as it is.”
    “But what are your feelings for me, Emma? Tell me honestly. I need to know.”
    “I think about you, too. All the time. I’m so confused. I don’t know what I should do.”
    “Do you sleep with him?”
    “You’d better hang up now,” she said, annoyed.
    He heard her light a cigarette.
    “Come on, tell me. Do you? I want to know if you do.”
    She sighed deeply.
    “No, I don’t. I don’t have the slightest desire to sleep with him. Are you satisfied?”
    “But how long can you keep that up? You’re going to have to make up your mind, Emma. Hasn’t he noticed anything? Is he that insensitive? Doesn’t he wonder why you’re