Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  Sometimes he felt like her father, even though there were only thirteen years between them. Knutas had become dependent on having Karin Jacobsson as part of the team, and he certainly didn’t want to lose her.

  She paused for a moment before answering his question.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Her expression was inscrutable as she met his gaze.

  ‘Of course. I’m fine.’

  Even though he could see that something was bothering her, he knew better than to ask any more questions.

  Emma had been caught completely off guard by Johan’s sudden proposal of marriage. In a sense it was inevitable, as if they would have to come to that decision sooner or later. They had a child together, after all. By the time she had chosen to keep the baby and break up her marriage, she’d already made up her mind. And yet she had kept wavering back and forth. When she thought about how she’d behaved since meeting Johan, it seemed a miracle that he still wanted to be with her. That he hadn’t grown tired of her long ago.

  He had left the house for the city and his job a short time ago. He had kissed her before leaving, but had not said any more about the matter or pressed her for an answer. She had watched him walk down the snow-covered path towards his car, studying his dark curly hair, his brown leather jacket that was nicely worn, and his washed-out jeans.

  It was really quite simple: she loved him and it was obvious that they should get married. At the same time she was terrified that her relationship with Johan would end the same way as her marriage with Olle had. The dreariness of daily life would come creeping in once the elation of living together had waned. The excitement would fade, gradually but relentlessly leading to the point when they were no longer excited by each other. Their sex life would wither and become mechanical and obligatory because neither of them would have the energy to sustain the passion that once existed.

  She shivered under the blanket, where she could still smell Johan’s presence. They just couldn’t let that happen. She got up, stuck her feet in her slippers and put on the T-shirt that was still lying on the sofa. She went into the bedroom and leaned over the cot where Elin was sleeping.

  In the kitchen, sunlight was streaming in through the window. It was almost unreal after so many weeks of grey skies. She’d nearly forgotten what sunshine looked like.

  She made coffee and toast, then sat down in her usual place near the window and peered out at the snowy landscape. There was enough snow for the kids to go sledging, and that made her happy. There was a hill nearby, and the kids loved to take their sleds over there. Soon Elin would be old enough to go along with Sara and Filip.

  Right now they were staying with their father. She was actually getting used to this every-other-week existence and was now able to enjoy being alone with Elin half the time. She looked at the kitchen chair across from her. That was where Olle had sat all those years, drinking his green tea; the smell had always made her slightly sick. Johan didn’t drink green tea, thank God.

  She wondered what other bad habits would come to light if they moved in together. Things Johan hadn’t mentioned yet, but which would become apparent as soon as he moved in with all his belongings.

  That’s where he’ll sit from now on, she thought, trying to picture Johan occupying the chair opposite. How long would love last this time around?

  She sighed and put another slice of bread in the toaster. She realized that she was still suffering the effects of a failed marriage, and that her thoughts were much too negative. There was nothing to indicate that this time things would go just as badly.

  After she finished eating and cleared away the breakfast things, she looked in on Elin again. She was still asleep.

  As she left the bedroom, Emma caught a glimpse of herself in the small round mirror in the hall. She stopped, took the mirror from its hook and carried it back to the bedroom. Then she lay down on the bed and held the mirror overhead.

  For a long time she lay there, staring up at her face, so pale in the wintertime. Her eyes looked sleepy and sad, her lips colourless; her hair was still lovely, flowing over the pillow. Who was she really? And what did she want? She had given birth to three children, yet she still felt like a lost little girl. In her heart she didn’t know what to make of the person she saw in the mirror. She was loved by many, but she felt rootless. She’d never been a particularly self-confident person.

  Suddenly she realized that she’d never made any of her own choices. Not really. She had allowed circumstances to steer her. When she met Olle, he had courted her and usually taken the initiative. He was cute, pleasant, considerate, and very much in love with her. Had she simply slipped into the relationship like a passive dolt?

  She moved the mirror a bit further away, and stared into her own eyes. What was she thinking? It was time to make up her own mind about what direction her life was going to take.

  And when it came right down to it, the decision wasn’t hard to make. Not at all.

  Late in the afternoon Knutas received answers to several important questions. Wittberg came into his office and dropped on to the chair in front of his desk. His hair was tousled, his cheeks red with excitement.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this. There’s so damned much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin.’

  ‘Just go ahead and start.’

  ‘I got hold of Sixten Dahl, Mattis Kalvalis and his manager, Vigor Haukas. It’s true that they all travelled together to Stockholm. At the gallery opening Dahl made the artist an offer he couldn’t refuse. Since he still hadn’t signed the contract with Egon Wallin, he agreed to go and see Dahl’s gallery on Sunday, to meet his co-workers and discuss the details of the offer. So far, nothing strange about that. But when it comes to the sale of the gallery here in Visby, it turns out that Egon Wallin sold it to a certain Per Eriksson from Stockholm.’

  ‘Yes, we already know that.’

  ‘What we didn’t know was that Per Eriksson is just a front. The real owner is Sixten Dahl.’

  Wittberg leaned back with a triumphant smile.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Knutas had to take out his pipe. ‘We’re going to have to do some more digging into that. Are those two guys from Lithuania coming back here?’

  ‘They’re already at the hotel. But they’re leaving for home tomorrow, late in the afternoon. I took the liberty of telling them to be here tomorrow at noon.’

  ‘Good. What about Sixten Dahl?’

  ‘The Stockholm police are going to interview him early in the morning.’

  ‘Great job, Thomas.’

  The phone rang. It was the ME, who wanted to give Knutas a preliminary post-mortem report. The superintendent placed his hand over the receiver.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘You can bet there is.’

  ‘We’ll take it up at the meeting later. I have the ME on the phone.’

  Wittberg left.

  ‘Starting with the cause of death,’ said the ME. ‘Wallin was strangled several hours before he was hanged from the noose. Judging by his injuries, he was probably attacked from behind and strangled with a sharp wire, such as piano wire. He has defensive marks on his arms, skin scrapings under his fingernails, and scratches on his neck, all indications that he fought back. At the same time the wire cut deep into the flesh so that—’

  ‘Thanks, that will be sufficient. I don’t need to know any more at the moment.’

  Knutas had grown more sensitive over the years. He could no longer tolerate hearing detailed descriptions of a victim’s injuries.

  ‘Of course.’

  The ME cleared his throat and then let a slight hint of disappointment enter his voice as he went on. ‘As far as the rest of the injuries go, he has several cuts on his face, a bruise over one eyebrow and a scratch on his cheek. He probably sustained these injuries in connection with the assault and when his body was dragged along the ground.’

  ‘Can you say anything more about the ti
me of death?’

  ‘I can’t fix the time any closer than to say he was most likely killed between midnight and five or six in the morning. That’s all I have right now. I’ll fax over a copy of the results right away.’

  Knutas thanked the ME for his call and put down the phone. Then he rang the main number for the National Criminal Police office and asked to be connected to Inspector Martin Kihlgård. The relationship between the two of them was complicated, but right now Knutas needed help from the National Police. Since Kihlgård was enormously popular with his Gotland colleagues, it would be foolish to ask for anyone else. Knutas listened to the phone ringing for a long time before Kihlgård answered. It was obvious that he was eating something.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, his voice muffled.

  ‘Hi, it’s Anders Knutas. How are things?’

  ‘Knutie!’ exclaimed his colleague with delight. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ring. Wait just a minute, I need to finish what I’m eating.’

  A frantic chewing could be heard on the other end of the line, followed by a couple of gulps of some sort of liquid. That was finished off by a quick belch. Knutas grimaced. Kihlgård’s insatiable appetite always got on his nerves, along with the fact that his Stockholm colleague insisted on calling him Knutie, even though Knutas had repeatedly asked him not to use that nickname.

  ‘All right, I guess I’ll live now. But I’m glad you rang, because I was starting to think that nothing much was happening over here.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ said Knutas drily. ‘We need your assistance.’

  Briefly he explained the facts of the case as Kihlgård listened, murmuring his agreement now and then. Knutas could picture him sitting in his cluttered office in the NCP building in Stockholm, his huge body weighing down his chair, his long legs propped up on another chair. Kihlgård was six foot three and must have weighed well over 220 pounds.

  ‘There’s certainly a lot of action over in your neck of the woods. Sounds like the wild West.’

  ‘Yes, I keep wondering where this is all heading,’ said Knutas with a

  sigh.

  ‘I’ll gather up a few colleagues, and we’ll probably catch the first flight over tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Knutas. ‘See you soon.’

  He’d gone past the place several times. At first he wanted to go inside, but decided to wait. Each time he went there, he put on a slight disguise. Just to be on the safe side. There was always a risk that he might run into somebody he knew. He’d decided to do everything in the proper order and take his time. Slowly but surely he would make his approach, so that when the time was right he could ruthlessly launch his attack. First he wanted to get to know his victim. Afterwards it would be too late.

  Right now he stood watching the man on the other side of the windowpane, trying to gather his courage to go inside. Not because he was afraid of the man; rather, he was afraid of himself. That he might not be able to stop himself from assaulting him. He took several deep breaths. Self-control was usually his strong point; at the moment he wasn’t so sure.

  He noticed that he was breathing hard and knew that wouldn’t do. He took a walk around the block to calm his nerves. When he came back, the man was on his way out, carrying a big bag in his hand. He headed for the subway.

  He followed the man. After three stops the man got off and took the escalator up to the street level, crossed the street and disappeared into the premises of one of the city’s largest and most exclusive gyms. He followed, paying the fee at the check-in counter. It was shockingly expensive. They wanted 150 kronor for one visit.

  The gym was almost deserted at this time of day. A few machines clattered, and music was thumping. A girl in leggings and a tight-fitting leotard was using a step machine while reading a book. After a while the man he was following came out of the locker room. He began running on a treadmill; it looked pathetic.

  Since he hadn’t brought any workout clothes, he couldn’t join in, which was a shame. It would have been great to run right next to the man and provoke him in some way.

  Even though he’d made the decision to proceed slowly in order to prolong the suffering as much as possible, he was seized by a strong desire to think up something right now, just to give the man a scare. He went into the toilet to make sure that his disguise was still in place.

  When he came out, the man had moved over to the weight-training equipment. He was lying on a bench and lifting the weights overhead. From a distance he watched the man add more and more weight. Finally he lay there, gasping loudly with the effort. Each end of the barbell had 88 pounds on it.

  Cautiously he glanced around before approaching. The man was lying on his back and didn’t notice him. No one was near; the girl on the step machine was in a different room and had her back to them. The other guy who had been in the weight-training room had now left. But he needed to be careful.

  At the last second he stopped himself. Something made him pause and then retreat a couple of paces. It wouldn’t be good to get too eager right now. That would wreck everything. He had to restrain himself, not try any mischief that might ruin it all. What if he was arrested by the police before he was ready? That would be disastrous.

  He went up the half flight of stairs to the gym’s café, sank down on a chair and tried to concentrate on breathing calmly.

  After a while he stood up to get a glass of water, but was suddenly overcome by nausea. He had to rush to the nearest gents’, which happened to be in the weight-training room.

  Strong convulsions surged through his body and he vomited into the toilet. He was mortified to discover tears running down his face. For a long time he sat on the floor, trying to gather his wits. Would he really be able to carry out the plan he had devised?

  All of a sudden somebody knocked on the door. He froze, and his heart began pounding fast.

  He swiftly got to his feet, moved to the sink and splashed water on his face. Then he flushed the toilet several times. When he opened the door he almost had a heart attack. There stood the man, asking him with a worried look whether everything was all right.

  For what seemed like an eternity but was actually only a few seconds, he stared into those grey-green eyes that showed both worry and sympathy. Then he muttered that he was OK and pushed his way past.

  At the meeting later in the day, Knutas informed the investigative team of Martin Kihlgård’s imminent arrival. His announcement was met with scattered applause.

  The cheerful, boisterous inspector from the NCP was not only a skilled officer but also a clown who had lightened the mood at many a dismal morning meeting when an investigation had seemed at its most hopeless. One person who was particularly fond of him was Karin Jacobsson, and right now she was beaming. Knutas hadn’t seen her look so happy in a long time. Occasionally he thought the two of them might be sweethearts. At the same time, the very idea of those two as a couple seemed ridiculous. Karin weighed only half as much as Kihlgård and she hardly reached up to his chest. He was also fifteen years older; not that the age difference would in itself be a hindrance. But Kihlgård seemed much older, as if he belonged to a different generation. Knutas thought he actually bore a strong resemblance to the old slapstick film star Thor Modéen from the forties. Sometimes they seemed ludicrously alike. But Kihlgård’s jovial exterior was deceptive. He was an incisive police detective: tough, analytical and completely fearless.

  When the excitement over the welcome news had died down, the meeting continued with a discussion of what had been uncovered so far. Thomas Wittberg had been out knocking on doors and had gathered some interesting information from Snäckgärdsvägen, where the Wallins lived.

  ‘First of all, it appears that Monika Wallin has a lover,’ Wittberg began.

  ‘Is that right?’ said Knutas in surprise.

  He hadn’t picked up any clue that something like this was going on when he had interviewed Egon Wallin’s widow the previous day.

  Everyone sitting at the table was
paying close attention.

  ‘She’s sleeping with a neighbour, Rolf Sandén. He lives in the same row of terraced houses. He’s been a widower for a number of years, and his children have all moved away. He’s a construction worker who took early retirement. Apparently they’ve been fooling around for years, according to the neighbours. Just about everyone said the same thing, except for an old woman who seemed almost blind and deaf, so it’s not so strange that she hadn’t noticed anything. If Egon Wallin knew nothing about their affair, then he was the only one in the whole neighbourhood.’

  ‘The neighbour, Rolf Sandén – have you got hold of him?’ Knutas asked Wittberg.

  ‘You bet. He’d just come home from the mainland when I rang the bell, but he was on his way out again. I made an appointment to interview him tomorrow. At any rate, he was quite talkative and readily admitted to his affair with Monika Wallin. Considering the circumstances, I thought his behaviour rather odd; he seemed almost exhilarated. It seems crazy to act so happy when your neighbour and the husband of your mistress has just been murdered. He should have at least pretended to show some sympathy.’

  ‘He probably sees his chance now,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Finally able to make their relationship public after all the sneaking around in secret. Maybe he’s really in love with Monika Wallin and has been waiting to take her to the altar.’

  ‘Maybe he’s the one who did it,’ Norrby interjected.