Read Unspoken for Free Online Page B

been stained dirty yellow from nicotine.
    “I haven’t seen him in several days, but sometimes he just takes off, you know.”
    Jacobsson turned to the other man.
    “What about you?”
    He was still staring straight ahead. His face is actually quite handsome, underneath all the dirt and stubble , she thought. His expression was defiant, showing a strong unwillingness to cooperate. She restrained a desire to stand right in front of him and wave her arms to force him to react.
    “Can’t remember.”
    Wittberg was starting to get annoyed.
    “What did you say?”
    “Why do you want to know? What did he do?” asked the older man in the cap.
    “He’s dead. Someone killed him.”
    “What the hell? Is that true?”
    Now both men looked up.
    “Yes, I’m afraid so. He was found dead last night.”
    “Are you fucking kidding me?”
    “What we need to do now is try to find the person who did it.”
    “Sure, that’s obvious. Come to think of it, I think the last time I saw him was at the bus station about a week ago.”
    “Was he alone?” “He was there with his buddies—Kjelle and Bengan, I think.”
    “How did he seem?”
    “What do you mean by ‘seem’?”
    “How did he act? Did he seem sick, or was he nervous in any way?”
    “No, he was the same as usual. He never really says much. He was a little drunk, of course.”
    “Do you remember what day that was?”
    “It was probably Saturday because there were a lot of people downtown. I think it was Saturday.”
    “A week ago?”
    “That’s right. But I haven’t seen him since then.”
    Jacobsson turned to the other man.
    “What about you? Have you seen him since then?”
    “Nope.”
    Jacobsson suppressed the annoyed feeling that had begun to prickle at her throat.
    “Okay. Do either of you know whether he’d spent time with any strangers lately?”
    “No idea.”
    “Is there anyone who might want to harm him?”
    “Not Flash, no. He never got into fights with anybody. He kept a low profile, if you know what I mean.”
    “Sure, I understand,” said Jacobsson. “So do you happen to know where his pal Bengan might be? Bengt Johnsson?”
    “Is he the one who did it?”
    Behind the alcoholic fog, the older man looked genuinely surprised.
    “No, no. We just want to talk to him.”
    “Haven’t seen him in a while, have you?”
    “Nope,” said Jonas.
    He was chewing gum so hard that his jaws made a cracking sound.
    “The last time I saw him he was with that new guy from the mainland,” the older man said. “The guy named Örjan.”
    “What’s his last name?”
    “I don’t know because he hasn’t lived here on Gotland for very long. He was in the slammer on the mainland.”
    “Do you know where we can find Bengt Johnsson?”
    “He lives on Stenkumlaväg with his mother. Maybe that’s where he is.”
    “Do you know the address?”
    “Nope.”
    “All right then. Thanks for your help. If you see or hear anything that has to do with Flash, you should contact the police immediately.”
    “Sure,” said the man with the cap, and then he, too, leaned back against the wall.
    Johan Berg opened the morning paper as he sat at the kitchen table in his apartment on Heleneborgsgatan in Stockholm. The apartment was on the ground floor facing the courtyard, but that didn’t bother him. The Södermalm district was the very heart of the city, and in his eyes there was no better place to live. One side of the building faced the waters of Riddarfjärden and the old prison island of Långholm with its bathing rocks and wooded walking paths. On the other side the shops, pubs, cafés, and subway were all within easy reach. The red subway line went directly to Karlaplan, and from there it was only a five-minute walk to the editorial headquarters of Swedish TV.
    He subscribed to several daily newspapers: Dagens Nyheter, Svenska Dagbladet , and Dagens Industri . Currently Gotlands Tidningar was also in the stack that he plowed through each morning. After the