Unspoken by Mari Jungstedt

out and went over to a waiting taxi as they chatted merrily. They were well dressed, and Fanny smelled the strong scent of the woman’s perfume as they passed quite close to her. They didn’t notice that she had stopped to watch them.
    She was freezing in her thin jacket. Back home her mother was waiting in the silent and dark apartment. She worked the night shift at Flextronics. Fanny had met her father only a few times in her life, the last time when she was five years old. His band had been playing a gig in Visby, and he dropped by for a brief visit. The only thing she remembered about him was his big, dry hand holding hers, and his brown eyes. Her father was as black as night. He was a Rastafarian and came from Jamaica. In the photos she had seen, he had long tangled locks of hair. They call them dreadlocks, her mother had told her.
    He lived in Stockholm, where he played drums in a band, and he had a wife and three kids in Farsta. That was all she knew.
    She never heard from him, not even on her birthday. Sometimes she tried to imagine what it would be like if he and her mother had lived together. Maybe her mother wouldn’t drink as much. Maybe she would be happier. Maybe Fanny wouldn’t have to take care of everything: the cooking, cleaning, and laundry, taking Spot for a walk and doing the grocery shopping. Maybe she wouldn’t have a guilty conscience about going out to the stables if her father was around. She wondered what he would say if he knew how things were for her. But he probably didn’t care; she meant nothing to him.
    She was simply the product of his love affair with her mother.
    The first thing Jacobsson and Wittberg noticed was the group of sculptures. Almost two meters tall, made of concrete, and gathered in one place on the property. One depicted a rearing horse that was desperately whinnying at the clouds, another looked like a deer, a third was a moose with a disproportionately large head. Grotesque and phantomlike, they stood there in the pouring rain on the flat expanse of lawn.
    They dashed from the car to the house, whose roof extended over the simple porch, offering some protection. A typical one-story building from the fifties with a basement and dirty gray stucco facade. The steps were rotting, and there seemed to be an imminent risk that they might put a foot right through them. The doorbell was almost inaudible. After a minute a tall, stout woman in her seventies opened the door. She was wearing a cardigan and a floral-patterned dress. Her hair was thick and white.
    “We’re from the police,” Wittberg explained. “We want to ask you some questions. Are you Doris Johnsson, the mother of Bengt Johnsson?”
    “That’s right. Has he gotten mixed up in something again? Come in. You’re getting soaked.”
    They sat down on the leather sofa in the living room. The room was cluttered with things. In addition to the sofa group, there were three armchairs, a rustic chiffonier, a TV, pedestals for flowers, and a bookshelf. The windowsills were crowded with potted plants, and every available space in the room held glass figurines in various designs. They all had one thing in common: they depicted animals. Dogs, cats, hedgehogs, squirrels, cows, horses, pigs, camels, and birds. In various sizes, colors, and poses, they were enthroned on tables and benches, in windows, and on shelves.
    “You collect these things?” asked Jacobsson, rather foolishly.
    The woman’s lined face brightened. “Yes, I’ve been doing it for years. I have six hundred and twenty-seven pieces,” she told them proudly. “So what was it you wanted?”
    “Well, I’m sorry to say that we’ve brought some bad news,” said Wittberg, leaning forward. “One of your son’s friends has been found dead, and we suspect that someone killed him. His name is Henry Dahlström.”
    “Good gracious! Henry?” Her face turned pale. “He was murdered?”
    “Unfortunately, that’s probably what happened. We haven’t caught