‘Can you describe Rolf Sandén? What sort of person is he?’
‘He’s been a widower for a number of years. Oh, his wife was so nice and kind, but unfortunately she died in a car accident. Their children moved out long ago.’
‘Doesn’t he work in the daytime?’
‘He’s on a disability pension. Used to work in construction, but he injured his back. Even though he’s still a young man, only fifty. He had a big fiftieth birthday party last summer.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘He likes playing the horses, and I’ve heard that he’s addicted to gambling.’
‘Who told you that?’ Johan was listening with interest. This was getting better and better.
‘People talk. It’s common knowledge that Rolf Sandén is a notorious gambler. Everybody knows that.’
With an effort Ingrid Hasselblad twisted around to look at Pia. ‘Shouldn’t we get started now? I think I’d better go and touch up my lipstick.’
As soon as Knutas returned from buying a sandwich for lunch, he could hear that Kihlgård and his colleagues from the National Criminal Police had arrived. Martin Kihlgård’s bellowing laugh was unmistakable. Loud voices and bursts of laughter issued from the conference room; it sounded like happy hour in a cocktail bar. It was always the same. As soon as Kihlgård turned up, the mood in the criminal division lightened appreciably.
No one noticed Knutas as he pushed open the door. Kihlgård was standing with his broad back to the door, and he had clearly just finished telling one of his countless stories, since everybody seated at the table was doubled over with laughter.
‘And then he went and crammed the whole thing in his mouth,’ Kihlgård went on, his voice excited as he threw out his arms. ‘Every damned crumb!’
This punchline evoked yet another burst of laughter that practically made the walls shake. Knutas deliberately surveyed the room and then discreetly tapped Kihlgård on the shoulder. The inspector’s face, when he turned around, expressed nothing but delight.
‘Hey, there you are, Knutie, old boy. How’s it going?’
Knutas almost disappeared in Kihlgård’s wide embrace. He gave his colleague an awkward pat on the back.
‘Fine. Just fine. You seem to be in top form.’
‘It’s rocking fine, as the girl said!’
Kihlgård gave another roar of laughter, and the whole investigative team joined in.
It wasn’t merely Kihlgård’s jokes that prompted laughter; everything about him was comical. His wild head of hair stuck out in all directions, as if he’d never owned a comb. He had a ruddy complexion, and he was slightly pop-eyed. He often wore brightly coloured V-neck shirts that fitted snugly around his paunch. The fact that he liked to wave his hands around when he talked and was almost always eating merely reinforced his clownish demeanour. It was hard to guess his age; he could be anywhere from forty to sixty. But Knutas happened to know that Kihlgård was three years older than himself, which made him fifty-five.
After Knutas had greeted the colleagues that Kihlgård had brought with him from Stockholm, the meeting could begin. Knutas gave his report and then cast an inquisitive glance at his colleagues from the mainland. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘There are undeniably plenty of avenues to follow up,’ began Kihlgård. ‘The part about the thefts is interesting. And they weren’t just any old paintings. He wasn’t exactly a small-time crook, was he?’
‘I wonder how long he played the role of a fence. If that was what he was doing,’ said Jacobsson.
‘It could have been going on for a long time. But I think we would have got wind of what he was up to,’ said Knutas, sounding worried.
‘To think that he dared keep the paintings in a storage room,’ said Wittberg. ‘Isn’t that odd? The place could have burned down or something else might have happened. Somebody could even have broken in and stolen them.’
‘Maybe it was just a temporary hiding place for those particular paintings. An exception,’ said Norrby.
‘But why did he still have them in his possession when he was so careful about all the other preparations? With the moving and everything else?’ wondered Jacobsson.
‘He was probably planning to sell them in Stockholm,’ Knutas suggested. ‘Presumably he had a contact over there.’
‘Did he have a computer?’ asked Kihlgård.
‘Of course,’ said Knutas. ‘Both at home and at the gallery. We searched his house today, so we’ll be going through his computer files.’
‘The sale of the gallery must have stirred up a lot of emotions, both for his wife and the employees. How did they react? Not to mention the fact that he’d sold it to that Sixten Dahl.’
‘Monika Wallin seemed quite unmoved by the sale of the gallery when I talked to her,’ said Knutas. ‘But of course she could have been just putting on a show. We’ll need to investigate the matter further. And we’ll have to ask for more help from Stockholm with finding anyone else who was working with him. Plus we need to search the flat that Wallin was planning to move into.’
‘Yes, he must have had good contacts in Stockholm,’ muttered Kihlgård. ‘Doesn’t his wife know anything about that?’
‘Not according to what she’s told us so far,’ said Knutas curtly. He was annoyed that he hadn’t thought to ask the widow more questions when he interviewed her. ‘We’ll need to talk to her again.’
‘What about the guests at the gallery opening?’ Kihlgård went on. ‘Do you have a list of who was invited?’
‘Yep, I’ve taken care of that,’ said Jacobsson, holding up a big piece of paper. ‘I’ve divided them into three groups. The first column lists all those who received an invitation. The second column shows the names of those who were invited and actually came. The third lists other guests, meaning those people the employees could remember coming to the opening without an invitation.’
‘Are there any interesting names?’
‘Absolutely. A couple of well-known art dealers from Stockholm. And we know that Wallin had business dealings with both of them. Hugo Malmberg, who has a gallery in Gamla Stan, and of course Sixten Dahl, whom we already know,’ said Jacobsson. ‘He was supposed to be interviewed this morning, but we haven’t yet heard from Stockholm how it went. Regardless, he’s of particular interest because he was competing with Egon for the Lithuanian artist, and also because he bought the gallery here in Visby, using a front man.’
‘I suppose you’ll want to bring those two over here and interview them yourselves?’ Kihlgård cast an enquiring glance at Knutas as he tore open a bag of sweets: Ahlgren’s foam cars. There was a pause before Knutas answered. ‘Not at the moment.’
‘Considering that Egon Wallin was secretly planning to move to Stockholm, and he was also dabbling in stolen paintings, don’t you think it’s highly interesting that two art dealers from Stockholm would come to the gallery on the very day that Wallin was murdered?’ Kihlgård tossed a handful of foam cars into his mouth.
Knutas could feel himself growing more and more irritable. He couldn’t be in the same room as Kihlgård for five minutes before the man began to infuriate him. ‘That’s something we’ll have to consider eventually. But right now I think it’s important to hear back from Stockholm about the interview with Sixten Dahl.’
He gathered up his papers and got to his feet, indicating that the meeting was over.
Knutas needed some fresh air.
His stomach was growling with hunger. It was late, well past lunchtime. The dry sandwich that Knutas had bought had done nothing to quell his hunger pangs, but right now he had no time to think about trivial matters like food. He needed to interview Mattis Kalvalis and his manager before they returned to Lithuania.
In the lavatory he splashed some water on his face and popped a mint in his mouth.
When he came down to the reception area, they were already there waiting for him. He hadn’t met the artist before, just seen a photo of him. Mattis Kalvalis looked out of place in police headquarte
rs, to say the least.
The most extraordinary thing about him was his hair: it was black except for his fringe, which had been dyed neon-green. From one ear hung a long chain, and he was dressed in red leather trousers and a jacket of the same bright green as his fringe. With this peculiar attire he wore a pair of light-blue high-top trainers that reminded Knutas of the kind he used to wear as a kid.
Mattis’s manager, who was sitting next to him, was the polar opposite. He looked like a Russian miner with his burly body and rough features. He was dressed in a fur cap with ear flaps and a puffy, dark-blue down jacket. His palm felt sweaty when Knutas shook hands with him.
In stumbling English, Knutas offered a few words of greeting and then led the way up to the criminal division. Luckily the meeting of the investigative team was over, so he found Jacobsson and Kihlgård at the coffee machine. He motioned for Karin to join him.
Both of the Lithuanians declined a cup of coffee as they sat down on the visitors’ sofa in Knutas’s office. Knutas allowed Jacobsson, who spoke excellent English, to conduct the interview while he listened and observed the two men sitting opposite him. It was actually an advantage to play the role of observer. He’d be able to see every change of expression that the questions might produce and notice if the person being interviewed looked shifty-eyed.
Jacobsson began by switching on the tape recorder and giving the usual introductory information.
‘Can I smoke?’ asked the artist as he dug a cigarette out of a crumpled pack in his jacket pocket.
‘I’m afraid not.’
The gaunt, eccentric-looking man paused with the cigarette halfway to his lips. Then he stuffed it back into the pack without changing expression.
Jacobsson studied the handsome features of his young, pale face, which was marred by deep furrows. There were dark shadows under his eyes. Mattis Kalvalis looked as if he hadn’t slept in several days. He seemed uncomfortable as he sat there on Knutas’s sofa, crowded up next to his corpulent manager.
After asking the standard questions to establish the identity of the interviewees, Jacobsson turned to the artist.
‘How well did you know Egon Wallin?’
Kalvalis hesitated before answering.
‘Hmm, not very well. He was easy to talk to, on a professional level, but we’d met only a few times.’ ‘Where did you first meet?’
‘It must have been a year ago,’ he said, glancing at his manager, who nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, that’s right. It was last spring in Vilnius. He was attending some sort of conference, I think.’
Again he looked at the man sitting next to him. His manager pursed his lips and nodded.
‘How did you happen to meet?’
‘We were seated at the same table at a dinner arranged by the Society for the Promotion of Lithuanian Artists. He’d seen my work. I had a show at a small gallery in Vilnius at the time, and he said that he liked what I did. The next day we met for lunch, and he offered to be my agent here in Scandinavia.’
‘And you accepted at once?’
‘No, of course not. I was actually getting a lot of attention from that exhibition, which was my first, and there was a bunch of PR in the newspapers. I had offers from all over, but Egon Wallin’s was the best.’
That caught Knutas’s attention. He wondered how Egon Wallin could have beaten the other agents so easily. He scribbled a few words in his notebook.
‘What exactly did he offer you?’ Jacobsson fixed her gaze on Mattis Kalvalis. Her eyes were just as dark as his.
‘He wanted to sell my work over here, and he would take twenty per cent.’
‘Why was that such a good deal?’
‘Everybody else wanted to take twenty-five per cent. And besides, he seemed to have good contacts.’
Kalvalis smiled briefly. At the beginning of the interview he had acted very nervous, but now he seemed to be relaxing.
‘That certainly seems to be the case, considering it was your first show here,’ said Jacobsson. ‘As I understand it, nearly everything was sold.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the publicity has been great,’ his manager interjected, speaking for the first time. ‘Mattis has been in every major newspaper this weekend, and commissions for more paintings have been pouring in. Egon Wallin was a good man to work with; we could tell that right from the start. Now we don’t know what’s going to happen.’
‘No, we don’t,’ Mattis agreed, shrugging his shoulders.
Judging by his expression, he wasn’t particularly worried.
‘We know that you had dinner at Donners Brunn after the opening on the night of the murder. What did you do after that?’
‘I didn’t go to the dinner,’ reported the manager. ‘I wasn’t feeling well, so I went straight back to the hotel.’
‘Is that so?’ Jacobsson frowned. She had assumed that Vigor Haukis was also at the dinner. ‘What did you do at the hotel?’
‘Just went to bed. I was so tired after all the rushing around and nervousness before the opening.’ He laughed, as if embarrassed.
Jacobsson turned to Mattis Kalvalis. ‘Tell me about that evening.’
‘OK. The opening went well, as I said. You could say it was a huge success. I had a great time, and it was interesting to talk to all the guests. People here are so open and enthusiastic,’ he said, looking pleased as he tugged at his green fringe. ‘There were lots of journalists, and I gave a bunch of interviews. Then afterwards we all went to the restaurant, except for Vigor, and that was really nice.’
‘How long did you stay at the restaurant?’
‘I left around eleven.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘Went straight back to the hotel. I had to get up early the next morning.’
‘And you didn’t meet anyone?’
‘No. The hotel is practically next door to the restaurant. I went up to my room and went to bed.’ ‘Did anyone see you?’
‘No. There’s nobody at the front desk at night, so the lobby was deserted.’
‘So nobody can vouch for the fact that you’re telling us the truth?’
‘No,’ said the artist, surprised. ‘Am I a suspect?’ His hand flew up to clutch at his chest.
‘I’m just asking standard questions that we ask everybody,’ replied Jacobsson, as if to reassure him. ‘It’s just routine.’
‘OK. I understand.’ Kalvalis smiled uneasily and cast a quick glance at his manager.
‘Why did the two of you go to Stockholm?’
‘I might as well tell you the truth about that. I know that I’d promised Egon that he could be my agent in Scandinavia, but I hadn’t yet signed the contract. During the opening, I was offered an even better agreement by another art dealer in Stockholm.’
‘Sixten Dahl?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He persuaded me to at least go and see his gallery and hear more about what he could do for me. So we decided during the opening that we’d go.’
‘Have you now signed a contract with Dahl?’
The artist threw out his hands. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. It’s so much better. And now it doesn’t really matter any more. Now that Egon is dead.’
After the interview, Knutas and Jacobsson went to the pizzeria around the corner for a late lunch. They were the only customers. It was past two, and Knutas was faint with hunger. They each ordered a capricciosa pizza at the counter and then sat down at a table near the window with a view of the street. The sunshine was gone; they looked out at overcast skies and slushy snow.
‘I didn’t like having to let those two go,’ said Jacobsson, shaking her head. ‘There’s still too much that’s up in the air.’
‘I know,’ Knutas agreed. ‘But what could we do? We don’t have any reason for arresting them.’
Jacobsson took a sip of the light beer she had ordered. ‘This case just seems to get more and more complicated. First the murder of Egon Wallin; then we find out about his secretly planned move, the stolen paint
ings, and his wife’s love affair. What a mess.’
Their pizzas arrived, and they ate them in silence. Knutas gulped down his food so fast that he got the hiccups. He ordered a Ramlösa sparkling mineral water, which he swiftly downed to put a stop to the hiccuping. ‘There are two points of intersection,’ he then said. ‘Art and Stockholm. Wallin was on his way there, and Kalvalis apparently has a number of contacts in the city. Is there anything else that comes to mind?’
‘Secrets,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Both Wallin and his wife were keeping secrets from each other. Wallin managed to sell the gallery, buy a flat in Stockholm, and virtually arrange for the whole divorce without his poor wife finding out a thing.’
‘What about Mattis Kalvalis?’ murmured Knutas pensively. ‘What sort of secrets do you think he might have?’
He pushed aside his plate and gave his colleague a searching glance. And what about you? he thought. Speaking of secrets.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked her.
‘What do you mean? With me?’ She looked worried.
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’ ‘You’re a terrible liar.’
‘Now stop it,’ she said, although with a smile.
But Knutas’s expression was serious as he looked her in the eye. ‘Haven’t we known each other long enough for you to tell me what’s going on?’
Jacobsson blushed. ‘My dear Anders, nothing special is going on. Life just has its ups and downs, that’s all. You know how it is.’ ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
Karin gave a start. Even Knutas was startled by his boldness. He couldn’t believe he’d asked her such a question.
She stared at the half-empty beer glass she was holding, slowly turning it round and round. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said in a low voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that I’ve noticed that something is bothering you. Am I right?’
She sighed. ‘OK, I’m having some personal problems, but it’s nothing I want to discuss. Not at the moment.’
‘So when?’ he said crossly. All of a sudden he felt anger flaring up inside him. ‘When do you want to discuss things? Are you ever planning to tell me anything? We’ve worked together for fifteen years, Karin. If you have a problem, I want to help you. You should give me a chance to do something for you!’
Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art Page 12
