Unspoken

her work was a source of great joy for Lina, but when things went wrong, she was very hard on herself. She would go over and over everything that had happened, brooding about what they could have done differently, whether they could have done this instead of that.
    It wasn’t really so strange, thought Knutas. She had to deal with life and death all day long. Just as he did.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21
    Pia Dahlström was a tall, dark, and very beautiful woman. Completely unlike her parents, both in appearance and demeanor. She was wearing a jacket, black pants, and high heels. Her hair was pinned up in a knot. She had arrived early because she had to leave that same morning. It was only 7:00 a.m., and police headquarters was still deserted.
    Knutas had offered her coffee, which he had taken the trouble to make himself. It was rare that anyone bothered to make real coffee, even though the coffeemaker stood right next to the dreary office coffee machine. They chatted while they waited for the coffee to brew. She reminded him of Audrey Hepburn in the old movies from the fifties. Her big, dark eyes were rimmed with dark eyeliner, just like the movie star’s eyes.
    When the coffee was done brewing, she sat down on his visitor’s sofa.
    “Could you describe your relationship with your father?” Knutas asked, thinking that he sounded like a psychiatrist.
    “We weren’t close at all. His alcoholism prevented that. He started drinking more and more the older I got, or maybe I just noticed it more as I grew up.”
    She gave her beautiful head a slight shake. Not a strand of hair was out of place.
    “He didn’t care about me,” she went on. “He never came to watch any of my riding lessons or gymnastics routines. Mamma was always the one who went to the PTA meetings and the quarterly teacher conferences. I can’t remember him ever making a single sacrifice or doing anything for my sake. No, I really couldn’t care less about him.”
    “I can understand that,” said Knutas.
    “You speak Gotland Swedish, but you sound like a Dane,” she said with a smile.
    “I’m married to a Dane, so I guess some of it has rubbed off. How did you react when you heard about your father’s death?”
    “I just felt empty inside. If he hadn’t been murdered, he probably would have ended up drinking himself to death. When I was younger I was angry at him, but that feeling is long gone. He chose the life he was living. He used to have everything: a stimulating job, a family, and a house. But he chose booze over me and my mother.”
    “When did you last have contact with him?”
    “The same day I passed my school exams,” she said without changing expression.
    “But that must be more than fifteen years ago,” exclaimed Knutas in surprise.
    “Seventeen, to be exact.”
    “How could it be that the two of you haven’t had any contact since then?”
    “It’s very simple. He never called, and I never did, either.”
    “And you didn’t have any contact with him after the divorce?”
    “Sometimes I would spend the weekends with him, but it wasn’t much fun. The fact that I was there didn’t stop him from drinking. He never had any ideas about what we should do except stay in his apartment, and then his buddies would come over. They’d drink without paying any attention to me. Watch the races and soccer games on TV, or sometimes they’d sit there and look at girlie magazines. It was disgusting. Usually I’d end up going back home after an hour. Then I stopped going there at all.”
    “What about your relationship with your mother?”
    “It’s fine. I suppose it could be better, but I think it’s at an acceptable level,” she said, sounding as if she were talking about stocks and bonds.
    She scratched her collarbone and her bra strap was visible for a moment. It was a glossy gold with a nice embroidered edge.
    She’s undoubtedly just as perfect underneath , thought Knutas, and then he was annoyed with himself for letting her femininity affect him.
    “So how are you doing now?” he asked, to change the subject.
    “Fine, thanks. I work at the municipal library in Malmö, and I like my job. I have lots of friends, both in Malmö and in Copenhagen.”
    “Do you live alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you know if your father had any enemies? You haven’t had contact with him in so many years, but something from the distant past might also be important.”
    A frown appeared on her face. “Not that I can think of.”
    Not