Unspoken

reach him. He would have to ask Leif if he could borrow his cell. He also wanted to call Lina and tell her about their dramatic adventure. There was no phone in the house, in spite of all the other modern conveniences.
    They warmed themselves up with some Irish coffee as they made dinner.
    Leif prepared the salmon with an expert hand. He started by slitting open the fish with a sharp knife. Then he removed the guts and pulled the backbone away from the filets. Anders felt his mouth watering as he watched Leif brush the filets with oil, sprinkle them with herbs, and place them on a bed of coarse salt. Then he put the fish in the oven to bake.
    When it was ready they hungrily launched into the salmon, washing it down with strongbeer. They talked about the day’s drama. What an adventure. It could just as easily have ended in disaster. Outside the window the wind was blowing harder, and more snow was on the way.
    After a number of shots of whiskey with their coffee, they were both feeling fairly intoxicated. They listened to some music and talked about trivial things, and by the time Anders went upstairs to bed, it was two in the morning. Leif had passed out on the sofa.
    Anders fell into bed and should have fallen asleep instantly. Instead he was wide awake, thinking about the investigation, about Kingsley. According to Jacobsson’s text message, the suspect was supposed to return home later today. The case that had consumed all his thoughts, day and night, for the past month would most likely be solved just in time for Christmas Eve. He was looking forward to enjoying Christmas dinner with his family and relatives without having to think about the murder. He suddenly felt a great longing for Lina and the kids. He had an urge to get in the car and drive straight home.
    He realized that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. It was fruitless to try, so he got dressed and tiptoed down the stairs. The sofa in the living room was empty, so Leif must have gone to bed even though he hadn’t heard him.
    Anders sat down on one of the leather armchairs and started to fill his pipe. He lit it and inhaled deeply. He liked smoking when he was alone. He seemed to enjoy it more.
    A painting caught his attention. It was of a woman with a dog resting on her lap. The woman was young and slender and wore a sleeveless red dress. Her eyes were closed, and her head was tilted toward one shoulder, as if she were asleep. Her lips were the same color red as her dress. The dog was looking out at the viewer. It was a beautiful painting.
    Knutas leaned forward to see who the artist was. He got up from the armchair and ran his finger along the gilded frame. Moved his eyes to the wallpaper, which was a pale yellow with a slightly brighter border. Next to the painting stood a chair with a high back, richly decorated, and two turned posts with knobs. The details were merging into a puzzle, and slowly he realized where he had seen this chair before. It was without a doubt the distinctive chair back that was visible in Dahlström’s photographs. Norrby, who was interested in antiques, had explained that it was an English Baroque chair.
    At first he was overcome with utter confusion. How could Dahlström have taken pictures of Fanny in Leif’s house? Had he and some companion exploited her in the summer house without Leif’s knowledge? Did it happen while Dahlström was building the sauna?
    His thoughts moved on and in his mind everything began coalescing to create an appalling pattern. Leif owned a horse at the stable and he had hired Dahlström. His appearance matched the description. It could just as well have been Leif in the photos. His friend of twenty years. An electric shock wave of ice-cold instinct shot through his body, making its way into every nook and cranny. He lost his grip on his pipe, which fell to the floor, scattering bits of tobacco over the rug.
    He took another look at the painting to make sure that he was right. No, no. He couldn’t believe it, refused to believe it. The thought passed through his mind that he should just go to bed and pretend that he hadn’t noticed anything. He should bury his head in the sand and go on as usual. Part of him wished that he’d never seen that painting.
    He tried to convince himself that there must be some other answer. Suddenly it occurred to him that Leif had been out in the boathouse the night before. What was he doing out there?
    He had to go and take a look. Quickly he put on his