Unspoken

at the stable.”
    “I know that. We’ve been down the whole list,” said Knutas impatiently. “What about him?”
    “He was an intern under Dahlström when he was in high school. He worked at the newspaper for two weeks. After that he was a temp for Gotlands Tidningar and later he also worked for Dahlström when he started his own business. This Eriksson owns a café in town, the Café Cortado on Hästgatan, but his hobby is photography.”
    “Is that right?” exclaimed Knutas in surprise. This was new information to him.
    “He and Dahlström may have kept in contact over all these years, even though Eriksson denied it when Wittberg and I interviewed him. A most unpleasant type of person. I could easily imagine him—”
    “All right, but let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Knutas interrupted her. “What else?”
    “I asked him if he spends any time at the stable, and he said that he’s there now and then. The staff at the stable confirm this. He would also occasionally drive Fanny home.”
    “Does he have a police record?”
    “No. On the other hand, there have been a number of complaints filed against him for suspected neglect. His family used to raise sheep, and the animals were evidently treated badly, according to the person who complained. Eriksson no longer has any sheep.”
    “I want to talk to him myself. Where is he?”
    “I think he’s at home. He lives in . . . oh my God!”
    Jacobsson abruptly fell silent.
    “What is it?”
    “Stefan Eriksson lives in Gerum, which is only a couple of miles from the place where Fanny Jansson’s body was found.”
    “I’m ten minutes from there. I’m on my way.”
    Gerum is not a real town. It’s just a church with a few scattered farms right next to the large and inaccessible Lojsta Heath. The landscape is flat, but Stefan Eriksson’s farm and surrounding property were the exception. It stood on a hill with a panoramic view of the area. The farm consisted of a stone farmhouse with two wings and a large barn. A late-model Jeep was parked outside along with a BMW.
    When Knutas rang the bell, he heard dogs barking inside. No one came to the door.
    He took a stroll around the farm and looked in the windows of the separate wings. One was apparently used as an artist’s studio, and there were paintings leaning against the walls. A painting of a woman’s face was set on an easel in the middle of the room. Crowded onto a table splotched with paint were cans and tubes of paint along with paintbrushes.
    As he peered in the windows, Knutas was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat behind him. The detective was so startled that he jumped and dropped his pipe on the ground. A man was standing right behind him.
    “Can I help you with something?”
    Stefan Eriksson was almost six foot six inches tall, by Knutas’s estimate. He had on a blue down jacket and a black knit cap.
    Knutas introduced himself. “Could we go inside to talk? It’s starting to get cold.”
    “Of course, come with me.”
    The man led the way inside. Knutas was practically knocked down by two Dobermans, who seemed beside themselves with joy.
    “So you’re not afraid of dogs?” asked Eriksson without making any attempt to calm the animals.
    They sat down in what must have been the good parlor. To think that people still have rooms like this , thought Knutas. A remnant of bygone times .
    Stefan Eriksson was clearly fond of antiques. A mirror in an elaborate gold frame hung on the wall. Next to it stood a bureau with curved legs and lion’s claw feet; along one wall stood a grand cabinet with rounded feet. The room smelled stuffy and dusty. Knutas felt as if he were sitting inside a museum.
    He declined the offer of coffee. His stomach growled, reminding him that lunchtime was long past.
    “Well, I don’t really understand what you want. I’ve already talked to the police,” said the tall man, who had sat down on a plush armchair. The dogs had settled at his feet, with their eyes fixed on their master.
    “I need to ask you a few additional questions, but first I would like to express my condolences.”
    The man sitting across from him did not change expression.
    “It’s true that Fanny was my cousin, but we hardly knew each other. And we’re not real cousins, anyway. My father—”
    “I know about the family ties,” Knutas interrupted him. “How often did you see each other?”
    “Very rarely. Sometimes at someone’s birthday celebration. There