Unspoken by Mari Jungstedt Page A

of mine,” Emma told the children. “He’s a TV journalist and lives in Stockholm.”
    “Do you work for a TV station?” asked the girl, wide-eyed.
    “I’ve seen you on TV,” said the boy, who was smaller and blonder.
    Johan was used to having children claim they had seen him, even though he knew it was very unlikely. He made an appearance only on those rare occasions when he did a stand-up, when reporters explain something with live video for the viewers.
    But he didn’t let on.
    “Is that right?”
    “Yes,” said the boy solemnly.
    “Next time don’t forget to wave, okay?”
    The boy nodded.
    “How are things going?” Emma’s question sounded rather indifferent.
    “Fine, thanks. I’m here with Peter. We’re doing a story on the Björkhaga campground.”
    “I see,” she said without interest.
    “What about you?”
    “I’m good. Fine. Just fine.”
    She glanced quickly around, as if she were afraid that someone might notice them.
    “I’m teaching, as usual. I’ve been really busy.”
    Johan felt a growing sense of irritation.
    “How long are you staying?” she asked.
    “I’m going home tomorrow or Thursday. It hasn’t been decided yet. It depends.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Silence settled between them.
    “Come on, Mamma.”
    Filip was tugging at her arm.
    “Okay, sweetie, I’m coming.”
    “Could we meet?”
    He was forced to ask the question, even though she had already said no.
    “No, I can’t.”
    Her gaze shifted away from him. He tried to catch her eye.
    The children were tugging at her. They didn’t care about him anymore. They wanted to move on.
    “Mamma,” they both called.
    Suddenly she looked him straight in the eye. And deep inside. For a second he felt everything stand still. Then she said exactly what he was hoping to hear.
    “Call me.”
    Örjan Broström’s apartment was on the fourth floor with windows facing Styrmansgatan. When they rang the doorbell, a dog started barking wildly. The barking was interspersed with a deep growl. They automatically took a step back.
    “Who is it?” a man’s voice said from the other side of the door.
    “The police. Open up,” ordered Wittberg.
    “Just a minute,” the voice said.
    It turned out that Broström was not alone. Two beefy men with shaved heads were sitting in the kitchen playing cards, drinking beer, and smoking. They spoke an Eastern European language. Estonian, guessed Jacobsson.
    “Who are your friends?” she asked as they sat down in the living room.
    “Some of my buddies from Stockholm.”
    “From Stockholm?”
    “That’s right.”
    Broström gave her a sullen look. He was wearing a black vest that accentuated both his muscular arms and his chalk white skin. Not to mention all the tattoos. To her horror, Jacobsson noted that he had something resembling a swastika tattooed on his shoulder. He had greasy dark hair and a hard expression on his face. He kept one hand on the collar of the snarling attack dog as he lit a cigarette. In silence he peered at them through the smoke. An old trick among criminals was to let the cops speak first.
    “Do you know Henry Dahlström?”
    “I can’t say that I really knew him. But I knew who he was.”
    “So you know what happened to him?”
    “I know that he’s dead.”
    “When did you last see him?”
    “Don’t remember.”
    “Think about it. We can always take you down to the station if that might help your memory,” Wittberg suggested.
    “Hell, that doesn’t really seem necessary.”
    He made a face that might have been intended as a smile.
    “Then you’d better start cooperating. You can begin by trying to recall when you last saw him.”
    “It must have been in town. That’s the only place I ever saw him. We weren’t really pals.”
    “Why not?”
    “With that guy? An old drunk? Why would I want to hang out with him?”
    “I have no idea, do you?”
    Wittberg turned to Jacobsson, who shook her head. She was having a hard time relaxing in the cramped