Unspoken

of papers in the other. It was past eight o’clock, and everyone was present. He removed his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and took his usual place at one end of the table. Taking a gulp of the bitter coffee from the office coffee machine, he studied his colleagues as they chatted with each other.
    On his right sat Karin Jacobsson: thirty-seven years old, petite, with dark hair and brown eyes. On the job she was persistent and fearless, and she could be as irascible as a terrier. She was open and outgoing, but he knew very little about her personal life, even though they had been working together for fifteen years. She lived alone and had no children. Knutas didn’t know whether she had a boyfriend or not.
    He had spent all autumn without her working beside him, and he had missed her terribly. In connection with the homicides of the past summer, Karin Jacobsson had become the subject of an internal investigation regarding possible misconduct. The investigation was dropped, but the whole thing had taken its toll on her. She had been placed on leave while the investigation was ongoing, and then she had taken a vacation right afterward. He had no idea what she had done while she was away.
    Right now she was immersed in a quiet conversation with Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg. He looked more like a surfer than a police officer, with his thick blond hair and trim body. He was a twenty-seven-year-old playboy who constantly had new girlfriends, but his attention to his job was irreproachable. His talent for making contact with people had been of great use—as the head of an interrogation he was unbeatable.
    Lars Norrby, on the other side of the table, was the direct opposite of Wittberg: tall, dark, and meticulous to the point of being long-winded. He could drive Knutas crazy with his fussing over details. At work they knew each other’s habits inside out. They had joined the police force at the same time, and for a period they had patrolled together. Now they were both approaching fifty and were as familiar with the criminals on Gotland as they were with each other.
    Detective Inspector Norrby was the police spokesman, as well as the assistant head of the criminal investigation unit—a situation that did not always please Knutas.
    The technician of the group, Erik Sohlman, was intense, temperamental, and as zealous as a bloodhound; at the same time, he was incredibly methodical.
    Birger Smittenberg, the chief prosecutor, was also sitting at the table. He was originally from Stockholm, but he had married a woman from Gotland. Knutas valued his knowledge and his strong sense of involvement.
    Knutas began the meeting.
    “The victim is Henry ‘Flash’ Dahlström, born in 1943. He was found dead just after six p.m. yesterday, in a basement room that he used as a darkroom. If you haven’t all heard it already, he’s the alcoholic who was once a photographer. He used to hang out down on Öster, and the most distinctive thing about him was the camera that he always wore around his neck.”
    No one at the table said a word. Everyone was listening intently.
    “Dahlström was found with extensive contusions on the back of his head. There’s no doubt that he was murdered. His body will be transported to the forensic medicine lab in Solna sometime today.”
    “Did you find the murder weapon?” asked Norrby.
    “Not yet. We’ve searched both the darkroom and his apartment. Those are the only areas that we’ve cordoned off. Anything else would be pointless since the body has been lying there for a week, and Lord knows how many people have gone up and down the stairs during that time. Dahlström lived on the ground floor in a corner apartment. Right outside is the public passageway to Terra Nova. The whole area has been searched. The dark made our work more difficult, but the search was resumed as soon as it was daylight. Which was just a short time ago.”
    He looked at his watch.
    “Who called it in?” asked the prosecutor.
    “The body was discovered by one of the building superintendents. Apparently there are four of them. This one lives in the building across the way. His name is Ove Andersson. He said that a man claiming to be a good friend of the victim rang his doorbell around six p.m. yesterday. The man said that he hadn’t seen Dahlström for several days and he wondered where he might be. They found him in the basement, but when the superintendent went up to his place to call the police,