Unspoken by Mari Jungstedt Read Free Book Online Page A

night a man was found dead in a basement on Jungmansgatan, in Gråbo.”
    “Of course.”
    “His injuries were such that we suspect he was murdered.”
    “How old was he?”
    “Born in 1943.”
    “Known by the police?”
    “Yes, but not because he had committed any crimes to speak of, although he was quite an inveterate alcoholic. He used to hang out downtown, drinking. A so-called local wino.”
    “Does it have to do with a drunken brawl?”
    “It seems so.”
    “How was he killed?”
    “I can’t discuss that.”
    “When was the murder committed?”
    “He’d been dead for several days. Maybe as long as a week.”
    “How could he be dead for so long if he was found in a basement?”
    “He was inside a locked room.”
    “A basement storage room?”
    “You could say that.”
    “Who found him?”
    “The building superintendent.”
    “Had anyone reported him missing?”
    “No, but a friend of his contacted the superintendent.”
    Knutas was starting to sound impatient.
    “I see. Who was it?”
    “Listen, I can’t tell you that. I have to go now. You’ll have to make do with what I’ve said, for the time being.”
    “Okay. When do you think you might have more to tell me?”
    “I have no idea. Bye.”
    Johan switched off his cell phone, thinking that the murder didn’t sound like something that Regional News would report on. Probably just an ordinary drunken fight that got out of hand. The story would be relegated to a few lines.
    The Stockholm subway system on a Monday morning in November must be one of the most depressing places in the world , thought Johan as he leaned against the window with the black wall of the tunnel whizzing past an arm’s length away.
    The car was filled with sallow-faced people, weighed down by worries and the daily grind. No one was talking; the only sounds were the usual clanking and rattling of the subway. A few coughs and some sleepy rustling of giveaway newspapers. People stared at the ceiling, at the ad placards, at the floor, out the window, or at some indefinite point in midair. Everywhere but at each other.
    The smell of wet clothing was mixed with perfume, sweat, and the dust burning on the heaters. Jackets were pressed next to coats, scarves next to caps, bodies against bodies, shoes against shoes, faces close to other faces, but without any sort of contact.
    How can so many people be gathered in one place without making a sound? thought Johan. There’s something sick about the whole thing .
    It was mornings like this that could really make him long to get away.
    When he emerged from the subway at Karlaplan he felt liberated. At least here he could breathe. The people around him were marching like tin soldiers toward buses, offices, schools, shops, the welfare center, a lawyer’s office, or wherever they happened to be going.
    He set off across the park near the church, Gustav Adolfskyrkan. The kids in the day-care center were outside, playing on the swing set in the biting wind. Their cheeks were as bright as ripe apples.
    The huge edifice of TV headquarters loomed in the November fog. He waved hello to the statue of TV star Lennart Hyland before he stepped through the front door.
    Up in the newsroom everyone was bustling around. The national morning news program was under way. At the elevators guests were hurrying past, along with anchormen, meteorologists, makeup artists, reporters, and editors—exiting the studios, or going to the bathrooms, or heading for the breakfast table. The row of picture windows offered a view of Gärdet, the big park in Östermalm, swathed in gray fog and swarming with lively dogs from the doggy day care on Grev Magnigatan. Brown, black, and spotted canines galloped around, playing on the big field and unaffected by the fact that it was a dreary Monday in November.
    Almost everyone was present for the morning meeting of Regional News: several cameramen, an early-morning editor, reporters, producers, and program planners. It was