Unspoken

she had fallen in love with Johan. That she had gone through some sort of emotional shock. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
    She seemed to see his face everywhere she turned—at the Konsum grocery store, in the schoolyard, when she went into town.
    Her guilty conscience tormented her. To think she was capable of betraying Olle in such a dreadful way. The phone conversation with Johan had made her even more confused. Of course she wanted nothing more than to see him. But the consequences of such a meeting scared her to death.
    When she looked at Olle she tried to conjure up the image of the man who had once sparked her love. The man to whom she had said yes in front of the altar. He was still the same person, after all. The same now as back then. They were supposed to grow old together, damn it. That’s what they had decided long ago.
    The throbbing above his temples started as soon as Johan disembarked from the plane. Shit. The last thing he needed right now was a headache. Accompanied by his colleague, cameraman Peter Bylund, he rented a car at the airport and drove straight to the old TV newsroom that was still at their disposal. It was next to the Radio Gotland building, in the middle of Visby.
    It smelled musty. Dust bunnies as big as balls of yarn lay in all the corners, and the computers were also covered with a fine layer of dust. It had been a while since anyone had been inside.
    The story that was their priority for the day had to do with the future of the Björkhaga campground. It was a classic camping area from the late forties, idyllically located near a sandy beach on the west side of the island. During the summer months it was filled with tourists and Gotlanders alike. Many were regular visitors, who came back year after year because they appreciated a quieter campground, without all the facilities. Now the municipal grounds had been leased to a private individual. The plan was to transform the Björkhaga campground into a modern resort area. Protests from campers and the local inhabitants came quickly.
    The story had all the makings of a good TV report: photos from the deserted campground that had given so many families and their children great pleasure over the years, and a fierce conflict in the form of outraged local residents versus a business-minded entrepreneur who had the municipal bigwigs behind him.
    An easy job. From Stockholm, Johan had already scheduled the interviews, so it was just a matter of getting started. The biggest challenge for him was to keep away from Emma. Right now there were only a few miles between them.
    The interrogation room was sparsely furnished with a table and four chairs. The tape recorder was as new as the furniture. This was the first time it would be put to use.
    Bengt Johnsson didn’t look as relaxed as he had the night before. Dressed in blue prison garb, he sat hunched on a chair, glaring at Jacobsson and Knutas, who were seated across from him. His dark hair was pulled back into a skimpy ponytail, and his mustache drooped, as did the corners of his mouth.
    After the preliminary formalities were taken care of, Knutas leaned back and studied the man who was suspected of killing Henry Dahlström. Every interview had great significance for the investigative work. Establishing trust between the suspect and the interrogator was of the utmost importance. That was why Knutas took pains to proceed cautiously.
    “How are you feeling?” he began. “Would you like something to drink?”
    “Yes, damn it. A beer would taste good right now.”
    “Unfortunately, that’s not something we can offer you.” Knutas gave him a little smile. “How about a soda or some coffee?”
    “I’ll have a Coke.”
    Knutas rang for a soda.
    “Am I allowed to smoke?”
    “Sure.”
    “Great.”
    Johnsson shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack of John Silvers and lit it with a slight tremor in his hand.
    “Can you tell us when you last saw Henry?”
    “It was the day after he won at the track. Or rather, the evening after. I was in town with a pal and Flash came over to see us. I was drunk, so I don’t really remember much.”
    He was interrupted by the door opening. A police officer came in with the soda.
    “What happened?”
    “We just talked for a while.”
    “Who was your friend?”
    “His name is Örjan. Örjan Broström.”
    “What did you do then?”
    “Flash didn’t stay long.”
    “Was he on foot when he left?”
    “He went to catch a