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have been made by a blow that missed its mark. We’ve taken blood samples, of course. We also found a cigarette butt in the basement hallway, and hairs that don’t seem to have come from the victim. Everything has been sent to SCL but, as you know, it will take a while before we get any answers.”
    He took a sip of coffee and sighed. The response from SCL, the Swedish Crime Laboratory in Linköping, usually took at least a week, more often three.
    Sohlman went on. “As far as evidence goes, we’ve found footprints in the flower bed outside the basement window. Unfortunately, the rain made them impossible to identify. On the other hand, we did get some footprints in the hallway outside the darkroom, and in the bestcase scenario they should tell us something. The same footprints were in the apartment—which, by the way, was filled with bottles, ashtrays, beer cans, and a lot of other junk. We’ve secured quite a few fingerprints, as well as the footprints of four or five different individuals. We also searched the apartment.”
    The photos of the mess in Dahlström’s place sent a clear message: The apartment had been completely turned upside down.
    “Dahlström must have had something valuable at home, but I wonder what it might be,” said Knutas. “An alcoholic living on welfare doesn’t usually have assets of any great value. Did you find his camera?”
    “No.”
    Sohlman cast another glance at his watch. He seemed eager to get away.
    “You said that you found a cigarette butt in the basement. Could the murderer have waited outside the darkroom for Dahlström to come out?” asked Jacobsson.
    “Quite possibly.”
    Sohlman then excused himself and left the room.
    “In that case, the perp knew that Dahlström was inside the darkroom,” Jacobsson went on. “He may have stood in the entryway for hours. What do the neighbors say?”
    Knutas leafed through the investigative report.
    “We kept knocking on doors until late last night. We haven’t got all the reports in yet, but the neighbors in that stairwell confirm, as I mentioned, that there was a party at the apartment last Sunday. A bunch of people came staggering through the front door around nine p.m. A neighbor who encountered them in the entryway guessed that they had been to the racetrack because he heard some remarks about various horses.”
    “Oh, that’s right, Sunday was the last race day of the season,” Jacobsson reminded herself.
    Knutas looked up from his papers. “Is that right? Well, the track isn’t very far away, so they could have easily walked or bicycled home afterward. At any rate, there was a big racket in the apartment, according to the neighbors. A lot of noise and partying, with both male and female voices.
    “The woman next door reported that the man who is probably Bengt Johnsson rang her doorbell first, to ask her whether she had seen Dahlström. She referred him to the building superintendent.”
    “Does her description of him match what the super told us?” asked Norrby.
    “Yes, for the most part. An overweight man, younger than Dahlström, about fifty, she thought. Mustache and dark hair pulled back in a ponytail—a biker-type hairstyle, as she expressed it. Wearing shabby clothes, she also said.”
    Knutas gave a little smile.
    “He had on dirty, loose-fitting jeans, with his stomach hanging out. A blue flannel shirt, and he was smoking. She recognized the man because she had seen him with Dahlström several times.”
    “Everybody knows who Henry Dahlström is, but what do we actually know about him?” asked Wittberg.
    “He’s been an alcoholic for years,” replied Jacobsson. “He usually hung out at Östercentrum or at the bus station with his buddies. Or at Östergravar in the summer, of course. Divorced, unemployed. He had been living on a disability pension for over fifteen years even though he didn’t seem completely destitute. He paid his rent and bills on time, and he kept mostly to himself, according