Unspoken

an open wound as big as a fist. Blood had spattered the walls and even the ceiling. His outstretched arms were covered with small, brown blisters. His jeans had dark patches on the seat where he had shit.
    Andersson backed out to the corridor.
    “Have to call the police,” he whimpered. “Do you have a cell phone? I left mine upstairs.”
    The other man replied only by shaking his head.
    “Wait here. Don’t let anyone in.” The super turned on his heel and ran up the stairs.
    When he came back, Flash’s buddy was gone.
    The gray concrete building made a dreary impression in the November darkness. Anders Knutas and his closest colleague, Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson, climbed out of their car on Jungmansgatan in the Gråbo district.
    An icy wind from the north made them hurry their steps toward Henry Dahlström’s front door. A crowd of people had gathered outside the building. Some were talking to the police. The process of knocking on doors had begun, and the building superintendent had been taken in for questioning.
    The apartment building seemed shabby. The outside light was broken, and in the stairwell the paint was peeling off the walls.
    They greeted a male colleague, who showed them to the darkroom. When he opened the door to the basement, an unbearable stench enveloped them. The stale, nauseating, cadaverous odor told them that the body had already started to decompose. Jacobsson could feel how perilously close she was to vomiting. She had thrown up plenty of times at murder scenes, but she would prefer not to do so now. She pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it over her mouth.
    Crime scene tech Erik Sohlman appeared in the doorway to the darkroom.
    “Hi. The victim’s name is Henry Dahlström. You probably know him—Flash, the old alcoholic who was a photographer? This was his darkroom. He was apparently still using it.”
    He tilted his head back in the direction of the basement room.
    “His head has been bashed in, and it wasn’t just a few blows, either. There’s blood everywhere. I just wanted to warn you that it’s not a pretty sight.”
    They paused in the doorway and looked down at the body.
    “When did he die?” asked Knutas.
    “He’s probably been lying here close to a week, I would think. The body has started to rot, not too badly yet because it’s reasonably cold down here. If he’d been here another day, the whole stairwell would have stunk.”
    Sohlman pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead and sighed.
    “I’ve got to keep working. It will be a while before you can come in.”
    “How long?”
    “A matter of hours. Actually I’d be happy if you could wait until tomorrow. We have a lot to do here. It’s the same thing with his apartment.”
    “Okay.”
    Knutas studied the cramped room. Every inch of space had been put to use. Plastic trays were crowded next to jugs containing chemicals; there were scissors, clothespins, stacks of photographs, boxes and crates. In one corner was the enlarger.
    A tray had been knocked over and the chemicals mixed with the blood.
    When they exited through the front door, Knutas inhaled the fresh evening air deep into his lungs. It was eight fifteen. The rain pouring down from the dark sky was turning into wet snow.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19
    The next morning the investigative team gathered at police headquarters on Norra Hansegatan. An expensive remodeling had just been completed, and the criminal division had been assigned new offices. The meeting room was bright with a high ceiling, and it was twice as large as the old one.
    Most of the decor was of simple Scandinavian design in gray and white, with birch furniture. In the middle of the room stood a long, wide table with room for ten on each side. At one end was a big whiteboard and a projector screen. Everything smelled new. The light-colored paint on the walls was barely dry.
    Both sides of the room were lined with windows. One row of windows looked out on the street, the parking lot at Obs supermarket, and the eastern side of the ring wall. Beyond the wall the sea was visible. The other windows faced the corridor so that it was possible to see who was walking past. The thin cotton curtains could be closed for more privacy—the old yellow curtains had been replaced with white ones in a discreet pattern.
    For once Knutas was several minutes late for the morning meeting. An amicable murmuring was going on as he stepped into the room with a coffee mug in one hand and a folder