Unspoken

his door one night, about a week before his body was found. Someone went inside without ringing the doorbell while Flash was downstairs in the basement.”
    “Couldn’t it have been Dahlström?” asked Peter.
    “No, she could tell that it wasn’t him. She knows the sound of the slippers that Flash wore.”
    “Who do you think would have a key?”
    “No idea. He had one buddy that he hung out with more than others. I think his name is Bengan.”
    “Do you know his last name?”
    “No.”
    “It must be Bengt Johnsson. He was the one the police arrested, but then they let him go. Apparently he had an alibi. Is there anything else you can tell us about Dahlström?”
    “There was one strange thing that happened this summer. Flash was talking to a guy down by the harbor. It was fucking early in the morning, not even five o’clock. I happened to notice because they were standing in an odd place, between two containers outside a warehouse. As if they were up to something.”
    “So they weren’t just hanging out and drinking?”
    “The other guy wasn’t one of Dahlström’s usual buddies. I could see that at once. He looked much too neat to be a wino.”
    “Really? In what way?”
    “He was wearing clean slacks and a polo shirt, like an executive on summer vacation.”
    “What else can you tell us about his appearance?”
    “I don’t really remember. I think he was younger than Flash, and he was very dark.”
    “Dark-skinned?”
    “No, just really suntanned.”
    “What were you doing there so early in the morning?”
    The guy smiled, looking a bit embarrassed.
    “I was with a girl. We’d been out partying at Skeppet. That’s a pub down at the harbor. Do you know it?”
    Johan grimaced. He had a bad memory from the summer when he had spent the miserably wet Midsummer’s Eve at Skeppet, and he ended up bent over a toilet all night.
    “She had to catch the seven o’clock boat in the morning, so I went with her down to the harbor. We were just messing around a little, as they say. Before she had to go home.”
    “I suppose the police know about this?” said Johan.
    “Oh no, they don’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t like the police. I wouldn’t tell them squat.”
    “Would it be okay for us to do an on-camera interview with you?”
    “Not on your life. Then the cops will show up. And you can’t say a word to them about what I’ve told you, either. I know all about protected informants, because my sister is a journalist and she told me that you’re not allowed to reveal your sources.”
    Johan raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was some guy.
    “That’s true. Of course we won’t say anything about the fact that you’re the one who told us this. What kind of work do you do, by the way?”
    “I’m studying at the college. Archaeology.”
    Even though they didn’t get to do an on-camera interview, Johan was more than satisfied with the encounter. He had to contact Knutas—of course without telling him about where he had obtained the information. Knutas was fully aware of the ethical rules under which journalists did their work, so he would understand.
    They tried to talk to the rest of the neighbors, but no one answered the doorbell. Behind the building it was deserted. They took a walk along the pathway. Peter filmed the surrounding area and suddenly gave a shout.
    A police car was parked on the public footpath that led to the next residential area. Three uniformed officers stood together, talking. Two others were holding on to the leashes of dogs that were tracking something with their noses to the ground. Police tape had been put up to cordon off a grove of trees and bushes.
    To their surprise, they noticed Knutas a short distance away.
    “Hi,” said Johan in greeting. “It’s been a while.”
    “Yes, it has.”
    Knutas was not happy, to say the least. These confounded journalists kept turning up at the most inopportune moments. So far the investigation had been mostly spared any media attention. Reporters from the local press had called him this morning to ask questions. He didn’t like it, but unfortunately it had become a natural part of his workload lately. On the other hand, he was grateful that Johan had tipped him off about Dahlström’s moonlighting. Journalists were good at digging up their own information, and they were also available to relay information to the public when the police occasionally needed help. An interdependent relationship existed between the