She picked up Elin and nuzzled her soft neck. Dinner would have to wait. She sat down on the sofa and punched in the number of Johan’s mobile. He answered at once.
‘Hi, sweetheart. How are things?’
‘Fine. How come you’re here? Has something happened?’
‘A man was found dead in Dalman Gate. He was murdered.’
‘Oh my God. When did it happen?’
‘This morning. Didn’t you hear about it on the radio? They’ve been talking about nothing else all day long.’
‘No, I missed it. Sounds awful. Do you know who it was?’
‘Yes, the art dealer on Stora Torget.’
‘What? Egon Wallin? Is that true?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, but everybody knows who he is. Was he robbed? Is that what happened?’
‘I don’t think so. It seems a little much to go about hanging a person in that way, so I suspect there’s something else behind it.’
‘You mean he was hanged from the gate? God, how macabre. It sounds like those horrible murders from last summer. Do you think somebody was incited by them?’
‘You mean a copycat killer? Let’s hope not. Although I don’t know exactly how Wallin was murdered, only that he was found hanging from the gate. The police aren’t saying much. But Pia and I are up to our eyeballs in work. We’re doing stories for Regional News, Rapport and Aktuellt.’
‘So you’re busy tonight?’
Johan’s voice took on a softer tone. ‘I was thinking of asking you whether I could come over later. After I’m done.’
‘Sure, do that. That would be great.’
‘I might not get there until around nine or even later, depending on whether anything happens about the murder.’
‘That’s OK. It doesn’t matter. Come over whenever you can.’
Knutas could hear excited voices coming from the conference room as he arrived for the meeting with the investigative team on Sunday evening. Everyone else was already there, crowded around one of the computers on the table.
‘Those damned reporters,’ growled Wittberg. ‘Don’t they have any brains at all?’ He tapped his finger on his temple.
‘What are you talking about?’ Knutas came over to join his colleague and find out what was going on.
The front page of the online version of the evening paper showed a photo of Egon Wallin hanging from Dalman Gate. The headline was simple and terse. ‘MURDERED’ it said in big black letters.
The only mitigating detail was the fact that the face was partially hidden by a police officer, making it impossible to identify the victim.
Knutas shook his head.
Wittberg went on. ‘Don’t they have any consideration for his family? Good Lord, the man has children!’
‘That picture isn’t going to turn up on the front page of the printed edition, is it?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘Surely that would be going too far.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s even worth holding press conferences any more,’ said Wittberg. ‘They just seem to get the reporters all worked up.’
‘Maybe we got a little ahead of ourselves this time,’ Knutas admitted.
He’d been foolish enough to let Norrby convince him that a press conference would calm down the media and give the police more chance to do their work in peace. But the result seemed to be the complete opposite.
He felt his irritation growing. A persistent headache throbbed at the back of his head.
‘The clock’s ticking, and we need to start talking about more important matters,’ he said, taking his usual seat at one end of the table.
Everybody sat down so the meeting could begin.
‘We’re now positive that we’re dealing with a homicide. I’ve received an initial statement from the ME, who agrees with Sohlman that the victim’s injuries speak quite clearly. The body will be transported by boat to the mainland this evening, to be taken to forensics. I’m hoping that by tomorrow we’ll have a preliminary post-mortem report. Wallin also has a number of peculiar facial injuries, and we’d like to find an explanation for them. Out of consideration for his family, we’ll wait to search both his home and the gallery. I just had an interesting conversation with one of his employees, a woman named Eva Blom. She told me that a sculpture is missing from the gallery. It’s a small piece made of Gotland limestone. It’s called “Yearning” and it was done by the sculptor Anna Petrus. Apparently it’s a smaller version of a sculpture in the garden at Muramaris. That artist residence, you know, located right before the Krusmynta estate.’
‘When did it disappear?’
‘On Saturday. According to Ms Blom, it was there when the gallery opened at one o’clock. She remembers it specifically because she went around the whole place to make sure everything was in order.’
‘When did they close the gallery?’
‘There were guests until around seven or eight. Then Egon Wallin, his wife, the artist and the gallery employees all went to Donners Brunn for dinner. They locked up the gallery and set the alarm, as usual.’
‘Is she sure about that?’
‘A hundred per cent sure.’
‘So that means the sculpture disappeared some time during the opening?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Is it valuable?’
‘No, apparently it’s quite small, and the material isn’t anything special. The artist is relatively unknown, so according to Ms Blom there wouldn’t be much point in stealing it to make money.’
‘Then why would anyone take it?’
The question was left hovering in the air, unanswered.
His eyes were stinging with fatigue, and Knutas realized that it was about time for him to go home. He hadn’t had a minute to himself all day, so he wanted to sit down in the privacy of his office to gather his thoughts for a moment.
He sank on to his old, worn oak chair with the soft leather cushion. He had decided to keep it, in spite of the extensive refurbishment that police headquarters had undergone six months earlier, when even the furniture had been replaced. He’d had this chair for his entire career in the criminal division, and he refused to let it go. He’d solved so many cases sitting in it. It could both spin around and rock back and forth, and that gentle movement always seemed to allow his thoughts to float freely.
The work had been so intense ever since Wallin’s body had been found in the morning that Knutas was having a hard time grasping everything that was whirling through his mind.
He shuddered when he recalled the sight that he’d encountered at Dalman Gate. Such a pleasant man. What was happening here on Gotland? The number of violent crimes had increased significantly during the past few years, especially murders. On the other hand, it was true that violence was increasing all over Sweden. He thought back to the days when someone breaking into a kiosk was considered front-page news. Nowadays that sort of incident hardly got any attention at all. The social climate had become more brutal on all fronts, and he didn’t care for this development.
He took out his pipe from the top drawer of his desk and began meticulously to fill it. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and began sucking on the pipe without lighting it.
The fact that the artist and his manager had vanished so mysteriously was disturbing. And it had turned out that they were accompanied by one of the art dealers who had been at the opening. Sixten Dahl. It had been impossible to reach any of them during the course of the day. Oh well, he thought. We’ll just have to keep at it tomorrow.
His thoughts drifted to Egon Wallin. He’d run into the art dealer many times in different situations. He and Lina had also visited the gallery now and then over the years, even though they usually just went to look. But one time he did buy a painting by Lennart Jirlow, a restaurant scene that reminded him of the place where Lina had worked in Copenhagen when they met. He smiled at the memory. It was for Lina’s fortieth birthday, and she had never been so happy about anything else he’d ever bought for her. Gi
fts were not Knutas’s strong point.
In his mind he conjured up an image of Wallin. The most striking thing about him was his attire. He usually wore a long leather coat and trendy-looking cowboy boots, which made him seem more like a big-city resident than a Gotlander. It was obvious that he dyed his hair a reddish blond, and the light suntan that he sported all year round was equally artificial.
Wallin’s appearance formed a stark contrast to that of his wife, who seemed colourless and ordinary; her face was so nondescript that it was hard even to remember what she looked like. Sometimes Knutas had rather cruelly wondered why Wallin took such trouble with his appearance while his wife clearly didn’t give a thought to her own.
Knutas actually knew very little about Wallin’s personal life. Whenever they met, they would exchange only a few words, and Knutas usually felt that the conversation ended too quickly. He would have liked to talk more with Egon Wallin, but had the impression that the wish was not reciprocated. Even though they were about the same age, they had no mutual friends.
Wallin’s children were much older than Knutas’s twins, Petra and Nils, who were nearly fourteen, so they hadn’t met through their children either. Wallin hadn’t seemed interested in sports, even though athletic events provided a strong sense of community on Gotland. Knutas himself swam regularly; he also played floorball and golf. He assumed that Wallin spent most of his time with art aficionados, and Knutas definitely didn’t belong to that social circle. He didn’t have a clue about art.
It was a rash choice for a crime scene, considering that the gate could actually be seen from Kung Magnus Road. A police vehicle could easily have passed by when the perpetrator was hoisting up the body. Maybe he was so doped up that he didn’t care.
Knutas immediately dismissed the idea. Somebody who was either drunk or on drugs wouldn’t have been able to carry out such a complicated plan. Another possibility was that the killer didn’t know that police headquarters was so close. Maybe he was from the mainland. The question was, what was his connection to Egon Wallin? Did the murder have something to do with his art dealings, or was it about something else entirely?
Knutas sighed wearily. It was past eleven p.m.
Sooner or later they would undoubtedly know the answer.
Johan woke up in the big double bed in the house in Roma. He stretched out his hand to stroke the smooth skin on Emma’s shoulder and touch a lock of her hair. From the cot he could hear a gurgling sound, which quickly got him out of bed. The room was dark, but he felt Elin’s soft body, warm with sleep, against his own as he lifted her up and placed her on the changing table.
With a light twist of the key he switched on the music box and hummed along with ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’. Elin grabbed hold of her feet and prattled with delight. He burrowed his head against her chubby belly, making a smacking sound so that she whooped with laughter. In the midst of the game he suddenly stopped and held perfectly still, with his face pressed against her little body. For several seconds he stood there like that while Elin relaxed and fell silent.
Finally he had a child, but it had been two weeks since he last saw her. What kind of life was this? She was growing up with her mother, sharing the daily routines with her. For Elin, Emma was the one who represented security. He was just a minor figure – someone who occasionally popped up like a jack-in-the-box and was around for a few hours, a day or two at most, only to disappear again. What sort of relationship was that? How had things got to this point?
When Johan was back in Stockholm and his days were filled with work, everything seemed more or less OK. It was in the evenings when he was at home that the sense of longing would set in. Of course, he’d only been discharged from hospital a couple of months ago, so they hadn’t really been living apart as parents for very long.
During the Christmas holidays they’d spent almost the whole time together, which had been great. After that, daily life had rolled along as usual, and the days had slipped by, one after the other, turning into weeks. He came over to Gotland as often as he could. But now he realized that he couldn’t keep on this way.
He picked up Elin, warmed up some formula in the microwave, and sat down on the sofa in the living room to give her the bottle. He was suddenly overcome by a great sense of calm. His old life had now come to an end. It was definitely over.
Emma appeared in the doorway, her light-brown hair tousled and longer than before. Previously her hair had reached to her shoulders, but now it hung to the middle of her back. It was thick and glossy. She stood there, wearing only knickers and his light blue T-shirt, peering at him sleepily. Even though she was pale and bleary-eyed, he thought she was beautiful. His feelings for her were so self-evident and clear, in spite of the fact that nothing else in their relationship seemed simple. Things had been complicated right from the start. Yet here he now sat, holding his daughter in his arms, with the woman he loved standing nearby. And now all the struggling had to come to an end. He didn’t care whether he could find a job as a journalist on Gotland or not. That shouldn’t be the deciding factor. He’d take any kind of work he could find, even at the check-out stand at Hemköp, or washing cars. It made no difference at all.
‘Are you already up?’ Emma yawned and headed for the kitchen.
‘Come here,’ he said as quietly as he could.
Elin was sleeping in his arms with her mouth open.
‘What is it?’
‘Sit down.’
Emma looked surprised, but sat down next to him on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. He turned to look at her. There wasn’t a sound in the room; it was as if she sensed that he had something important to say.
‘Enough is enough.’
Johan spoke calmly, his tone matter-of-fact.
A worried look appeared on Emma’s face. ‘What do you mean?’
Johan didn’t break the silence. Instead, he got up, went into the dimly lit bedroom and carefully placed Elin in her cot. She didn’t wake up. He closed the door and returned to the living room.
Emma watched him uneasily. Johan sat down on the sofa again and gently took her face between his hands.
‘I want to move over here,’ he said calmly. ‘Live here with you and Elin. You’re my family. I can’t wait any longer. All the stuff about my job and everything else will just have to be worked out. You have to let me take care of you, be a real father to Elin and a stepfather to Sara and Filip. I want to be your husband. Will you marry me?’
Emma gave him a stunned look. Several seconds passed. Tears began rolling down her cheeks.
It wasn’t exactly the reaction that he’d expected. ‘There, there, sweetheart.’
He leaned forward and put his arms around her. She started sobbing against his chest.
‘It can’t be as bad as all that,’ he said with an uncertain smile.
‘I’m just so tired,’ she wept. ‘I’m so damned tired.’
Johan didn’t really know what to say; a bit clumsily, he just kept stroking Emma’s back. Suddenly she began kissing his neck, and her kisses got more and more passionate. She pushed back her hair and searched hungrily for his mouth, keeping her eyes closed the whole time.
Desire flared up inside him, and he roughly pushed her back on to the sofa. He kissed her wildly, almost biting her lips. Emma responded with a low growl in her throat, and all of a sudden she wrapped her legs tightly around him. They made love on the sofa, then leaning against the table, against the windowsill, and finally on the floor. Afterwards, as he lay with her head resting on his arm, he found himself looking up at the underside of the coffee table, which was only a few inches from his sweat-covered forehead. He smiled as he kissed her cheek.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
As on most mornings, Knutas was walking to work along Östra Hansegatan and past the Swedish TV and Radio building. He saw lights on in the windows upstairs where Regional News now had its offices. He wondered whether Johan was already on the job. It wouldn’t surprise him.
> It was still dark outside, and the air was cold and brisk. The walk took less than twenty minutes and helped him to think more clearly.
When he opened the door to police headquarters, he felt the familiar tingling sensation that always came over him when starting on a new murder investigation. The fact that someone had been killed was of course terrible; at the same time, there was a certain excitement mixed with determination to catch the murderer. The hunt had begun, and that was something he enjoyed without feeling any shame. Knutas liked his job; he had felt that way about it ever since he was promoted to the criminal division twenty years earlier. He had thrived in his position as head of department for the past ten years – though he could do without the paperwork.
As usual, he greeted the girls at the reception desk and exchanged a few words with the duty officer before he went up the stairs to the criminal division on the first floor.
Every chair in the conference room was already occupied when he entered, two minutes before the scheduled start time. This first meeting after a major event had occurred was always special. The energy in the room was palpable.
Erik Sohlman started off by reporting on the latest news from the technical investigation.
‘The killer arrived by car on Norra Murgatan and drove all the way up to the gate. There are signs that the body was dragged; the marks on Wallin’s body also indicate that he was murdered somewhere else and then transported to Dalman Gate. All the items that were picked up in the Östergravar area will be studied, but they’re not really of great interest since the perpetrator probably never entered that area at all.’
‘A first interview was conducted last night with the victim’s wife, Monika Wallin,’ said Knutas. ‘We know that she was the last one to see Wallin alive. After the dinner at Donners Brunn on Saturday night, the couple returned to their terraced house on Snäckgärdsvägen. Mrs Wallin went to bed, but her husband said he wanted to stay up for a while. In the morning when she woke, he wasn’t there. He had apparently put on his coat and gone out. The rest we know.’
Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art Page 6
