Unspoken

Generally he respected Grenfors as an editor, in spite of his shortcomings. But sometimes it was impossible to understand the man. If only he were consistent in his journalistic approach, at least! But one day he could be so overzealous that he would hound the reporters relentlessly to get what he wanted for the broadcast. The next day he would be like this. And they would sit in endless meetings, discussing over and over how they could do a better job on their own news program.
    Johan didn’t mince words as he sat in the car on the way out to Gråbo, complaining about incompetent editors. His cameraman Peter was equally indignant. He was the one who had found out about the deposits to Dahlström’s account. He had met a girl at a bar in Visby, and her sister was a teller in the bank where the deposits were made.
    And now they ran the risk of being upstaged by the local press. Again.
    Gråbo seemed dead and gloomy in the biting wind. The bleak weather didn’t exactly invite outdoor activities. The cars in the parking lot bore witness to the fact that the people living there had limited incomes. Most of the Fords had at least ten years on them. An old Mazda hesitantly pulled out of its parking space and rattled off. At the recycling station, someone had toppled over a shopping cart from the ICA grocery store.
    On their way to Dahlström’s section of the building, they passed a low wooden structure that looked like a communal laundry room. One wall was plastered with wads of snuff, and the windows were covered with graffiti. The playground in front had a sandbox, swings, and worn-looking wooden benches. Not a kid was in sight.
    They walked around to the back of the building, where Dahlström had lived. The blinds were closed, preventing any curiosity-seekers from looking inside. The surrounding property consisted mainly of an over-grown lawn, and the patio was nothing more than a piece of wooden fencing with worn patio furniture that had seen better days. There was a stack of used disposable grills. Leaning against a cinder-block wall was a rusty bicycle and an overflowing garbage bag that seemed to contain empty cans. A rickety fence with peeling paint faced the passageway that continued on toward the woods.
    They decided to try talking to the neighbors.
    At the fourth apartment they tried, someone finally answered the doorbell. A young guy wearing only boxer shorts peered at them, bleary-eyed with sleep. His hair was dyed black and stood straight up like a scrub brush. An earring gleamed from one ear.
    “Hi, we’re from Regional News in Stockholm. We’d like to know something about the man who lived downstairs, the one who was murdered.”
    “Come on in.”
    He showed them to the living room and motioned for them to have a seat on the couch, while he sat down on a Windsor chair.
    “A horrible thing, that murder,” he said.
    “What was your opinion of Dahlström?” asked Johan.
    “A decent old guy. Nothing wrong with him. It didn’t bother me that he was an alcoholic, at least. Besides, he had periods when he didn’t drink as much, and then he spent a lot of time working on his photos.”
    “Was that something everybody knew about? The fact that he took photographs?”
    “Sure. He used that old bicycle storage room as his darkroom. He’s had it for the six years that I’ve lived here.”
    The guy looked as if he had just graduated from high school. Johan asked him how old he was.
    “Twenty-three,” he replied. He had moved away from home when he turned seventeen.
    “What kind of contact did you have with Dahlström?”
    “We said hello to each other if we met, of course, and sometimes he’d knock and ask if I had anything to drink. That’s about all.”
    “Have you noticed anyone new visiting Dahlström lately? Anyone who was different in some way?”
    He gave them a wry smile.
    “Are you kidding? Just about anyone who came to visit him was different. Recently I saw a chick peeing in the flower bed.”
    “Did any of the neighbors complain?”
    “I don’t think it ever got that bad. Most people probably thought he was a pretty decent guy. But in the summer some did complain when he had parties outside, in back of the building.”
    “What are people around here saying about the murder?”
    “Everyone’s saying that the killer must have been someone that Flash knew, someone who had a key to his apartment.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Well, the old lady who lives above him heard a sound at