Unspoken

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 Dahlström’s account.
    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 Dahlström 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 Dahlström 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 Kihlgård, who had helped them with the investigation in the summer, but his relationship with the man did have its complications. Kihlgård 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 Kihlgård 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 Dahlström’s account. The bank was quite crowded because it was the lunch hour. This particular branch was centrally located in Östercentrum, and many people liked