Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  They needed to have another talk with everyone who knew him. Someone might have noticed something, maybe seen a new, unfamiliar face around Wallin. And the fact that he must have known his killer – that definitely narrowed the field of interest. It was true that Egon Wallin’s circle of acquaintances was unusually large, but it made things significantly easier knowing that the perp was probably somebody close to him.

  The platform was crowded with patiently waiting travellers who had become inured over the years to commuter-train delays caused by frozen switches, snow-covered tracks, carriages that fogged up in the cold and doors that refused to open. There was always something. Stockholmers had been forced to live with this commuter chaos for as long as anyone could remember.

  With distaste he studied the people huddled around him. There they stood like helpless drudges, freezing in their woollen coats and down jackets, wearing jeans and gloves and moon boots, their noses running and their eyes watering in the cold. The temperature was minus 17°C. Disconsolately, they stared with vacant expressions at Swedish Rail’s information boards reporting delayed and cancelled trains. He stamped his feet impatiently on the ground in an attempt to stay warm. Damn this cold, how he hated it. And how he hated these poor sods all around him. What pitiful lives they led.

  Leaving their homes in the dark of early morning, many of them stood in the biting wind of icy-cold bus shelters and then sat jolting back and forth in buses, breathing in the smell of wet wool, exhaust fumes and mould, on their way to catch the commuter train. There they waited once again until the train finally showed up. When it arrived at last, the commuters were jammed together, station after station, until the train reached central Stockholm half an hour later.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the train finally rolled into the station. He pushed his way on board to get a seat next to the window. His head ached, and even though the light was dim inside the carriage, he squinted to keep out as much of it as possible.

  The train ride into town was a torment. He managed to squeeze in next to a fat woman who was sitting on the outer edge of the seat. He leaned his head against the window and looked out so as to avoid seeing the people around him. The train chugged past one suburb after another, each drearier than the last. He could have avoided this commute, could have been living an entirely different life. As usual, the thought made the acid rise up from his stomach. His body reacted instinctively, physically. He felt ill whenever he thought about how his life might have looked. If only.

  Impatience had begun to creep over him, and he could feel that something would have to happen soon. He couldn’t wait much longer. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his expression calm. Sometimes he was scared that he had taken on more than he could handle.

  He got out at Central Station and fell into step with the rushing crowds. He followed the flow of people through the swinging doors and headed for the subway. The train was already at the platform, and he sprinted the last few yards. Gamla Stan, the Old Town, was only one station away.

  Monika Wallin got in touch with Knutas before he had a chance to contact her. He was on his way to work when she rang his mobile. She sounded upset.

  ‘I’ve found something. I want you to come over here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you on the phone. But I was going through our storage room last night, and I discovered something that I’m certain you’ll want to see.’

  Knutas glanced at his watch. He was going to be late for the morning meeting, but it couldn’t be helped. Fortunately he’d decided to drive to work this morning. Even though it wasn’t far to Snäckgärdsvägen, which was on the other side of the hospital, it would be much faster by car. Instead of pulling into police headquarters, he drove past and turned on to Kung Magnus Road, circling the roundabout near the classic Norrgatt pastry shop before he headed towards the hospital. When he pulled into the small parking area, he saw Monika Wallin standing there waiting for him. She was wearing a pink down jacket, and he was surprised to see that she had also put on pink lipstick.

  ‘Hi,’ she greeted him, her voice sounding a bit strained. She held her hand out to him. Even her gloves were pink.

  Then she led the way to the terraced house. The storage room was at one end of the building, and the door was open. Monika Wallin stepped inside the poorly lit space, which was much larger than it seemed from outside. It was cluttered with all sorts of things. The Wallins’ house was neat and tidy, but this was a whole different story. Jumbled together were clay pots, old skis, shovels, lampshades, bicycle tyres, cardboard boxes, tools and gardening equipment.

  ‘The storage room was Egon’s domain,’ said Monika Wallin apologetically. ‘I never came in here. I’ve always refused because it’s so messy. I couldn’t even change a light bulb because I never knew where to find one.’

  She sighed and looked around in resignation. They were standing close together in the only empty patch left on the floor. The walls were lined with shelves filled with all kinds of gadgets, and in the far corner was a table piled high with boxes.

  ‘Over here,’ she mumbled, leading Knutas along the narrow passage-way that she had apparently cleared in order to reach the very back of the storage room. There he saw a door, which was unlocked.

  ‘It leads to the furnace room. It’s connected to the laundry room, and there’s a door from the inside too. But we put a dryer in front of it, so now this is the only way to get in.’

  Knutas followed as they entered a smaller room. Here everything was very orderly. Cardboard boxes were neatly stacked along the walls. On one side stood a kitchen table, old-fashioned but nice-looking. Monika Wallin moved aside a piece of chipboard and lifted up a tarpaulin. Knutas’s curiosity grew. He leaned forward eagerly to see what was underneath.

  She pulled out a small box, placed it on the table and moved the tissue paper inside.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I have no idea where it came from.’ Knutas looked down at the contents of the box.

  There was a painting inside, no bigger than a sheet of A4 paper. The scene showed part of the Royal Palace in Stockholm, and Riddarholm Church was visible in the background. Otherwise the painting was dominated by the waters of Stockholm’s rapids. Judging by the golden colour reflected in the palace windows, it was the light of the setting sun that the artist had captured. Knutas was no art connoisseur, but even he could tell that this was a fine painting. He didn’t see any signature.

  ‘Who painted this?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m not really an art expert. I mostly took care of the administrative side of the business, but if I were to make an educated guess, I’d say it’s a Zorn.’

  ‘Anders Zorn?’ exclaimed Knutas with astonishment. ‘Then it must be worth a lot.’

  ‘If it’s a real Zorn, yes. But there are more.’

  The next painting was a little bigger and had a beautiful gold frame. The motif was so recognizable that Knutas immediately knew who the artist was. Two plump, naked women, their skin white but their cheeks flushed red, on a shore that was undoubtedly Lake Siljan.

  ‘Now this one has to be a Zorn, right?’ he said excitedly. He looked for a signature and found it in the lower right corner of the painting.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. Here he stood in this little storage room in Visby, looking at work by one of Sweden’s most famous artists of all time. It was crazy.

  Monika Wallin had more paintings to show him. There was one with a horse motif by Nils Kreuger, one with several sparrows in the snow by Bruno Liljefors, and another of two boys looking at an apple tree with a villa in the background. It was signed ‘C.L.’ – Carl Larsson.

  Knutas had to sit down on a stool in the cramped space.

  ‘You had no idea that these paintings were here?’

  ‘Of course not. We’ve never had them in the gallery, we didn’t buy them, and there’s no documentation anywhere.’

  ‘They all appear to be by famous artists. What do you think
they’re worth?’

  ‘A fortune,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Altogether we’re probably looking at millions of kronor.’

  ‘Have you looked through any of the other boxes in here?’

  ‘No. I can’t handle it any more. You’ll have to take over.’

  ‘We’ll need to do a search of your house. You realize that, don’t you?’

  She nodded and threw out her hands in a gesture of surrender.

  While they waited for reinforcements from police headquarters, Monika Wallin served Knutas coffee. That was when Knutas decided to take up the delicate issue. He chose to get right to the point.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me when I was here before that you’re having an affair with Rolf Sandén?’

  Apparently Monika Wallin had been expecting the question. Her expression didn’t change. ‘I thought it was of no interest to the case whatsoever.’

  ‘Everything to do with you and your husband is relevant to the case. Did Egon know about it?’

  She sighed heavily. ‘No, he didn’t. He didn’t notice a thing. He stopped paying any attention to me long ago.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Rolf and I had it all arranged so well. We met in the daytime, when Egon was at the gallery. I do a lot of my work at home. Usually I go to the gallery only on Mondays.’

  ‘Evidently your neighbours were aware of what was going on.’

  ‘I suppose that’s unavoidable in this neighbourhood. Not that I care. We don’t socialize with anyone from around here.’

  ‘Except you and Rolf?’

  ‘Yes, except for us.’

  The paintings found in the Wallin storage room were confiscated by the police and sent by the next plane to Bukowski’s Auction House in Stockholm. There they would be identified and valued. Erik Mattson received them on Tuesday afternoon.

  It took him less than an hour to identify them and confirm that they were genuine. All were originals. The larger Zorn painting with the Dalecarlian women on the shore of Lake Siljan was valued at between three and four million kronor. The others were worth several hundred thousand each. He calculated the total value to be between four and five million kronor. The works were registered, and after he looked them up in the databases, it turned out that they had all been stolen.

  Both Zorn paintings were stolen three years earlier from a collector in Göteborg. The Carl Larsson painting had been taken from an exhibition in Falun the previous year, and the painting by Bruno Liljefors had disappeared during a move from an estate on Gotland just a few months earlier.

  When he was finished with his appraisal, Mattson immediately rang Knutas.

  ‘Bugger!’ exclaimed the superintendent. ‘Every one of them stolen? Are you sure?’

  ‘Definitely. You can look them up yourself in your files.’

  ‘And you’re sure that they’re genuine?’ ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Knutas put down the phone and then punched in the direct number for the team at the NCP. He asked them to look into the facts of the thefts – how they had been carried out, and whether there were any suspects.

  He stared out of the window, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  So Egon Wallin had been involved in the theft of paintings on a national scale, or had at least acted as a fence, which was just as serious. Knutas was shocked. Was he such a poor judge of character? He had always regarded Egon as such a law-abiding man. What else didn’t he know about him?

  The search of the Wallin home was going to be conducted later in the day. The gallery would also be searched. Knutas was looking forward to hearing the results.

  The fact that the Wallin home was cordoned off and searched by the police did not go unnoticed by the media. The neighbours had seen the paintings being carried out of the storage room, and a rumour that they’d been stolen instantly began circulating.

  ‘I had a hunch about this whole thing,’ said Pia eagerly as they drove towards Snäckgärdsvägen. ‘I knew there was something fishy about Egon

  Wallin.’

  When they arrived, the area around the house was swarming with activity. The site had been blocked off and several police cars were parked outside. A group of neighbours was boldly watching the police go about their work. Johan caught a glimpse of Monika Wallin through the kitchen window. He felt sorry for her.

  He went over to one of the officers who was standing guard. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I’m not answering that question. You’ll have to talk to the police spokesman or the head of the investigation, Anders Knutas.’ ‘Is either of them here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t you at least explain why you’ve blocked off the area?’

  ‘A discovery has been made on the property that is of interest to the police. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Does this have to do with stolen paintings?’

  The officer’s expression didn’t change. ‘I’m not at liberty to say anything more.’

  Johan and Pia tried talking to some of the neighbours, but they could say only that they’d had no idea the Wallins were hiding stolen paintings in their house. But several of them told Johan to talk to the area’s gossip queen, who lived at the very end of the block. If anyone knew anything about this, she would.

  The woman, who looked to be at least eighty, opened the door even before they rang the bell. She was tall and thin, with her silver hair pulled back in a chignon. The dress she wore was quite elegant, as if she were about to go out.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Are you from the police? I’ve already told them everything I know.’

  The woman didn’t seem to take in the fact that Pia was holding a big TV camera.

  They introduced themselves.

  ‘You’re from the television station? Well, I never.’

  She laughed with embarrassment and automatically reached up to smooth her hair. ‘Ingrid Hasselblad,’ she introduced herself, stretching out her skinny arm to shake hands. Her fingernails were neatly manicured and painted red. Suddenly she threw the door wide open.

  ‘Come in, come in. May I offer you a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Johan and Pia exchanged looks. Coffee often meant that the interview would take longer than really necessary, but this time it might be worth it.

  She showed them into the living room. There was a marvellous view, with the sea so close that it felt as if the waves might splash up against the window.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  The woman disappeared. When she came back with the coffee tray, Johan noticed that she’d touched up her lipstick and added a bit too much rouge to her cheeks.

  The coffee was weak and the almond cakes dry, but both Pia and Johan said how good they tasted.

  ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ Ingrid Hasselblad asked Pia, pointing at the gemstone in her nostril.

  ‘No, not at all. I can’t even feel it.’ Pia smiled.

  ‘That seems to be the fashion nowadays. It’s not something that older folks like me can understand.’ She brushed away a crumb from her dress. ‘I was a model in my younger days. But that was a long time ago.’

  ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions – about the Wallins,’ said Johan, thinking that he’d had enough of the chit-chat. ‘Would it be all right if we filmed you while we talk?’

  ‘Go ahead. That should be no problem.’

  Ingrid Hasselblad straightened her back and smiled at the camera, as if she thought she was posing for a still photograph.

  ‘Let’s just pretend that the camera isn’t here, and it’s just you and me talking,’ said Johan.

  ‘By all means.’

  Ingrid Hasselblad didn’t move from the pose she had taken, a rigid smile on her lips.

  ‘OK, if you wouldn’t mind just turning to face me,’ Johan directed her, ‘and we’ll do a little practice run before we turn on the camera. Just to get in the right f
rame of mind.’ He signalled to Pia to start filming. ‘What did you see at the home of Egon Wallin?’

  ‘Earlier today I was out shopping and happened to walk past their house. That’s when several policemen came out of the Wallin storage room carrying paintings.’

  ‘What did the officers do with the paintings?’

  ‘They carried them over to a police car. The paintings were covered up, but when they placed one of them inside the car, the covering slipped off and I got a peek at it.’

  ‘Do you know what kind of painting it was?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it looked like a Zorn.’

  ‘Can you describe the painting?’

  ‘It was of two plump women with white skin, the way they always look in a Zorn painting. There was green grass around them, and they were near a lake or a river. There was water, in any case.’

  ‘Have you ever noticed anything unusual going on at the Wallin house before?’

  ‘I’ve seen him carrying paintings in and out, but I never thought anything of it. They own an art gallery, you know. So it’s not so strange that he keeps works of art at home.’

  ‘Have you ever seen Monika Wallin carrying paintings?’

  ‘No-o-o,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘I don’t think I ever have.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  Now Ingrid Hasselblad blushed under her rouge. ‘Well, yes, there is something.’

  Johan perked up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That Monika, she’s been having an affair. With Rolf Sandén, who lives right next door to me.’ She nodded furtively at the wall. ‘They’ve been carrying on for several years now, meeting in the daytime when Egon was at work.’