Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘A few weeks ago. I’d have to check my notes to be more precise about the date. I think I wrote it down.’

  She opened her bag and took out a little pocket calendar. Knutas held his breath as she looked through it.

  ‘Let’s see now … He rented it from the sixteenth until the twenty-third of February.’

  Knutas closed his eyes and then opened them again. Egon Wallin was killed on the nineteenth. The dates matched.

  ‘Who was this person? What was his name?’

  ‘Alexander Ek. From Stockholm.’

  ‘How old was he? What did he look like?’

  Anita Thorén looked at Knutas in surprise. ‘He was young, maybe twenty-five or so. Tall and well-built. Not overweight but very muscular. Like a bodybuilder.’

  ‘Did you ask him for ID?’

  ‘No, I didn’t think that was necessary. And besides, he seemed so nice. I also had the feeling that he’d been here before, but he said he hadn’t when I asked.’

  That was enough for Knutas. He cast a quick glance around the cottage. Then he took Anita Thorén by the arm and practically pushed her outdoors.

  ‘We’ll talk more about this later. We need to cordon off the cottage and bring in the techs to go over the whole place. No one is allowed to set foot inside until that’s been done.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Wait just a minute.’

  Knutas rang Prosecutor Smittenberg on his mobile to obtain a search warrant. Then he rang Jacobsson and asked her to make arrangements to have the area blocked off and to bring in the police dogs.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Anita Thorén eyed Knutas nervously as he finished his phone conversation.

  ‘The dates when the cottage was rented out match the timing of the murder of the art dealer Egon Wallin. The theft of “The Dying Dandy” may be connected to his murder. And it’s possible that the researcher who rented the place is involved.’

  It took twenty-four hours before the media got wind of the fact that the police had blocked off Muramaris and were searching Rolf de Maré’s cottage. On Tuesday afternoon someone was out taking a walk in the area and happened to see the blue-and-white police tape around the cottage. That’s when the rumours started to fly. The police refused to comment on their actions, citing the need for keeping under wraps the preliminary investigation that was under way.

  Johan was about to burst with frustration because no one would tell him anything. He and Pia were back at the editorial offices after going out to shoot whatever they could get at Muramaris. They’d been forced to plod through the woods to take pictures. Even then they only got partial shots of the grounds. The police had blocked off the car park.

  As usual, Grenfors had rung Johan to demand a story to headline the news broadcast. Johan had been unable to contact either Anita Thorén or anyone else willing to make a statement. He was tearing his hair out, staring vacantly into space as Pia edited the footage they had shot.

  ‘I’ve got no text,’ he said. ‘The only thing I can report is that we have nothing to report! The police aren’t talking. Nor is the owner, and there aren’t any neighbours in the area. What the hell are we going to do?’

  Pia stopped typing on the computer keyboard and took her eyes off the screen, with its sweeping image of the woods and the imposing building just visible in the background. She took out a small tin of snuff and took a pinch.

  ‘Hmm … who the hell might know something? Wait a minute, there’s a restaurant out there that’s open in the summertime. And I know a girl who usually works there. It’s a long shot, but I can try ringing her.’

  Ten minutes later they were on their way to Muramaris again to do a piece-to-camera. Johan was going to report on the latest news on-site with the house in the background, even though it was barely visible because the grounds had been blocked off by the police. But it would be much more effective on TV. Pia Lilja’s friend turned out to be the girlfriend of Anita Thorén’s son, and she was surprisingly well informed. She knew about the police searching the place, and she told them about Nils Dardel’s connection to Muramaris. She also said that it was presumably there that he had painted the stolen work of art. She said she’d heard that the police suspected that the perpetrator had rented Rolf de Maré’s cottage just before Egon Wallin was murdered.

  The story on the TV news startled him so badly that he nearly spilled his coffee. Of course he had expected it. The connection was bound to come out eventually; he knew that. But not so soon. He studied the reporter standing there with Muramaris in the background; he recognized the man from earlier reports. He was annoyed by the reporter’s manner of speaking. So self-confident, even though he didn’t have a clue as to what this was all about.

  It was bad enough that he had the police on his heels; now he also had to worry about journalists. There was something about the reporter’s face that he found especially irritating. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Then his name appeared on the screen. Oh, that’s right, it was Johan Berg.

  Tonight he wasn’t sitting in front of the TV alone, and he had to make a real effort not to reveal how upset he was. He had to maintain a neutral expression. That was almost worse than anything else. Pretending that nothing was going on, that everything was the same as usual. He would have liked to shout to the whole world about what he had done and why. Those two seconds had been burned into his soul, and the evil wouldn’t go away until he’d carried out everything he had planned. Only then would he be free. After he had washed away the shit. Done a thorough clean. Then they could start over again, and everything would be fine.

  Today he’d done an extra-long workout at the gym. The more he worked out, the better control he felt he had over himself. It somehow provided a release for his frustration, nervousness and doubt. When he studied his body in the countless mirrors in the weight-training room, he felt strong. His reflection spoke loud and clear – he’d be able to carry it out. No one was going to catch him. Not the police, not some cocky reporter who thought he was hot stuff because he was on TV. Fucking idiot. Just let that guy try and stop him.

  The man who had rented the cottage at Muramaris had used a false name. There was no Alexander Ek with the address he had given. He had paid cash, and the van he’d been driving was traced to a carrental company in Visby. The police spent a long time interviewing the gardener, even though he had been away most of the week in question. But on the day when the guest arrived, he’d seen the man’s vehicle and even noticed on the back window the name of the rental agency, which he was able to recall. The van had been rented for the same period as the cottage, also under a false name. All indications were that the perpetrator was indeed the man who had rented the cottage at Muramaris. Rolf de Maré’s cottage was combed for evidence.

  Both blond and pitch-black strands of hair were found in the bed and bathroom. Cigarette butts, the Lucky Strike brand, were scattered outside on the ground. In a bag of rubbish forgotten behind the cottage, the police found a used bottle of foundation make-up and disposable coloured contact lenses that were bright blue.

  The fact that the police had cordoned off Muramaris attracted a lot of attention, and when representatives from the local media arrived on the scene, they began asking the usual questions. Knutas had instructed Norrby not to say anything about the link between Muramaris and Egon Wallin’s murderer. Yet strangely enough, Johan Berg included that information in his report on the evening news. Knutas was at least grateful that the journalist didn’t know more of the details. The passenger lists from the ferries had been examined, and Alexander Ek was found to be one of the passengers who arrived from Nynäshamn on the morning of Wednesday 16 February. He returned on Sunday 20 February. He did not take a car aboard the ferry.

  ‘So at least we now know when the killer arrived and departed,’ said Jacobsson when the investigative team gathered for a meeting at police headquarters late that night.

  ‘He rented a car from Avis in Östercentrum,’ Sohlman went
on as he motioned for Jacobsson to turn off the lights. ‘It was a white van like this one. The van is being searched at the moment. The tracks in the snow at Norra Murgatan match the tyre tread on this vehicle, so there’s no longer any doubt. The van was definitely used by the perp.’

  On Wednesday morning, only a few minutes after Knutas had arrived at work, Karin Jacobsson knocked on the door of his office. ‘Come in.’

  He could tell from her expression what she wanted to discuss. He felt a lump rise in his throat. It was as if his own fate were about to be determined. It was crazy that Karin could have such a strong effect on him. Ever since he presented his proposal to her on Monday, he’d tried not to think about the matter, but he’d been having nightmares about Karin vanishing and leaving him all alone. Their fifteen years together on the job had made a big impression on him. It wasn’t so easy just to let it all go. He would never find anyone else like Karin.

  Without giving away what she was thinking, Jacobsson sat down opposite him. Knutas didn’t say a word, awaiting the verdict.

  With each second that passed, he felt more discouraged.

  ‘I accept, Anders. I’ll stay. But on one condition. I don’t want to have anything to do with the press.’

  Then she gave him a big smile, revealing the gap between her front teeth that had always delighted him.

  Knutas was so relieved that he felt dizzy. This was too good to be true. He jumped up from his chair, rushed around the desk and pulled his dear colleague to her feet to give her a hug.

  ‘Thank you, Karin! Wonderful. I’m so happy! You won’t regret it. I promise!’

  For a brief moment she stood motionless in his embrace. Then she gently pulled away.

  ‘You’re welcome, Anders. I think it’s going to be both fun and exciting for me.’

  ‘When this investigation is over, I want to take you out for a fancy dinner. We have to celebrate!’

  He glanced at his watch. He would have just enough time to talk to Norrby before the meeting started. He wanted to announce the news that Karin was going to be his deputy as soon as possible. Then a thought occurred to him.

  ‘Does Martin know about this?’

  ‘Yes, I told him yesterday evening.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘It was no problem. You know how he is. Don’t worry about it.’

  Knutas had assumed that Lars Norrby would have a strong reaction, but not this strong.

  ‘What the hell are you telling me? Is that the thanks I get after all these years? We’ve worked together for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years!’

  His colleague had straightened up to his full height and was angrily staring down at Knutas as he sat in his old chair, feeling more uncomfortable than he’d ever felt before.

  Norrby spat out his words.

  ‘And what the fuck were you planning for me to do? Sit and twiddle my thumbs behind a desk, waiting to retire? What did I do wrong?’

  ‘Lars, please, calm down,’ Knutas admonished him. ‘Sit down.’

  He’d never seen his soft-spoken and amiable colleague react so forcefully. He’d explained to him that he’d had to offer Karin something dramatic in order to keep her on the force, but Norrby wasn’t buying that argument.

  ‘So is that what you have to do to get ahead in this place? Threaten to quit? Damn it, how low can you get?’

  ‘But Lars,’ said Knutas, ‘please, let’s be realistic. You and I are the same age, and I have no intention of throwing in the towel for a long time yet. I suspect that I’ll be sitting here until they literally chuck me out. That’s ten more years, at most, if I retire before I turn sixty-five, which is what I’m planning to do. Then somebody else will have to take over. Karin is fifteen years younger than we are. By then she’ll have the experience and the influence. Besides, you’re an excellent spokesman for the department, and that’s what I want you to consider your primary concern from now on. Nobody is better at it than you are. And of course you’ll keep the same salary.’

  ‘How decent of you,’ Norrby hissed. ‘I wouldn’t have believed this of you, Anders.’

  He slammed the door when he left the office.

  Knutas stayed sitting at his desk, unhappy with the conversation and with himself. He hadn’t even managed to mention the most sensitive issue. That he’d decided to take Lars Norrby off the investigative team.

  The tolling bells of the cathedral could be heard in every lane and alleyway in Visby.

  Inside, the pews gradually filled up. A restrained air of gloom hovered over the mourners. Everyone seemed to be thinking about how brutally Egon Wallin had ended his days. No one deserved such a fate, and a controlled anger was evident even on the pastor’s face. The art dealer had been highly popular, with a warm demeanour and a good sense of humour. His family had enriched the city with art for more than a century, and he himself had made major contributions to see that art flourished. Many people would be coming to the service to honour him today.

  Knutas had positioned himself next to the imposing church doors and was discreetly studying the guests. A black-clad Monika Wallin arrived, escorted by her son on one side and her daughter on the other. The investigation has really come to a standstill, Knutas thought.

  Lately they’d made no progress whatsoever. All the evidence and new information still hadn’t produced anything concrete that would move the investigation forward. In his darkest moments, Knutas had begun to think they might never solve the murder. When the theft took place at Waldemarsudde, he thought they were close to finding the killer. But that hadn’t happened. Not yet, at any rate.

  He sighed to himself as he caught sight of Karin Jacobsson among the crowd. It hadn’t taken long for everyone to react to the news that she was going to take over the role of assistant superintendent as of June 1. The criminal division quickly became divided into two camps – one in favour of the decision, the other against it. Knutas was astonished that the appointment had created such a deep divide. Those opposed to it were primarily his older male colleagues, while those applauding the appointment were the women and the younger members of staff.

  One person who had truly surprised Knutas was Thomas Wittberg. He and Karin had always been good friends at work, but he was among those who had reacted most strongly to the news that she was going to be promoted. A chill had set in between the two of them as soon as the news was announced. Outwardly Karin didn’t show any sign that it bothered her, but Knutas knew that she was hurt.

  It was amazing what happened to people when conditions changed and something unexpected occurred. Then everybody’s relationships came into play, and it became very obvious who your real friends were.

  Knutas scanned the crowd of mourners. Many seemed to have close ties to the family. They offered warm greetings to Monika Wallin, who still hadn’t taken her seat. She was standing in the entrance, just inside the church doors along with her son. The man looked tense and resolute and seemed visibly upset by the whole situation.

  There were a number of people that Knutas didn’t recognize. Several middle-aged men arrived as a group, and he assumed that they must be business associates from the art world. He wondered whether Egon Wallin’s prospective partner in Stockholm, Hugo Malmberg, would show up. To his dismay, Knutas realized that he wouldn’t recognize the man if he did appear. How stupid of him. He’d seen Malmberg only in a photograph that was ten years old, and it was a long time since he’d looked at the picture. He should have brushed up on everything about the case before the funeral. He didn’t understand how he could have been so dense.

  The group of men had their heads together, and they were talking in low voices, as if they didn’t want any outsiders to hear what they were saying. Could Malmberg be one of them?

  Knutas’s thoughts were interrupted as he caught sight of the artist Mattis Kalvalis. It wasn’t hard to pick him out in the crowd. He was wearing a long, pink-and-black-checked tweed coat and a bright-yellow scarf. Today his hair was red and sticking out in a
ll directions. His face was as white as chalk, and he had outlined his eyes with kohl.

  To think that he came all the way from Lithuania for Egon Wallin’s funeral, thought Knutas. They hadn’t really known each other very long. But maybe they’d had a closer relationship than they’d let on. Knutas’s suspicions were instantly aroused; he hadn’t been able to let go of the idea that there may have been something going on between those two.

  Knutas waved at the artist, and Mattis Kalvalis came over to say hello.

  ‘Are you here just for the funeral?’ Knutas ventured to ask in stumbling English.

  He thought he saw Mattis’s eyebrow twitch slightly.

  ‘Actually I’m on my way to Stockholm, but I wanted to be here today. Egon Wallin meant a lot to me. We hadn’t worked together very long, but in that short time he accomplished a lot on my behalf. And besides, he was a good friend. I really respected him.’

  Mattis Kalvalis seemed to mean what he said. Knutas hadn’t noticed before how slender he was. He had sloping shoulders, and his coat looked too big for his thin body. He wondered if Kalvalis was on drugs. His movements were abrupt, and what he said always sounded so disjointed. Even Knutas, with his lousy English, could hear that.

  It was a lovely service. Almost every seat in the cathedral was taken.

  The only awkward moment was when Egon Wallin’s son stumbled as he approached the coffin and almost fell on to an enormous marble vase that was filled with white lilies. He dropped the rose he was holding, and the stem broke. Knutas felt truly sorry for the man. He murmured something inaudible; then with a tormented expression he placed the rose on top of the gleaming black coffin.

  There was nothing to do but admit it. The police investigation of Egon Wallin’s murder had come to a standstill. Knutas was becoming increasingly convinced that the guilty party was not a Gotlander, maybe not even Swedish.