Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘But there could be a collector behind the theft,’ muttered Knutas.

  ‘I think it sounds like this whole thing has to do with art; that seems to be the key,’ said Kihlgård. ‘They’re both art dealers, a famous painting has disappeared, and on the day of the murder Egon Wallin held a successful gallery opening. We should be looking within the art world and forget about the homosexual element. We’re just bumbling about and can’t see the wood for the trees.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Knutas, happy that for once he and Kihlgård shared the same opinion. ‘They may have had illegal dealings on the side. Both were earning serious money; it’s possible that their income wasn’t always legally acquired.’

  ‘Maybe this is where Mattis Kalvalis and his shady manager come into the picture. He seems anything but a straight arrow,’ said Jacobsson. ‘He’s a drug user; you can see that from a mile away. What about an art gang with international branches, including the Baltics?’ she suggested.

  ‘Our first priority is to find out what has happened to Hugo Malmberg,’ Knutas interrupted her. ‘If we’re dealing with the same perp, what has he done with Malmberg? And what’s the next step?’

  ‘Unfortunately, it seems most likely that Hugo Malmberg is no longer alive,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Just before this meeting I checked to see whether Malmberg had received any threats, and it turns out that he did receive an anonymous threat in the mail, as well as some strange phone calls. He filed a police report a couple of weeks ago.’

  Knutas’s face flushed an alarming crimson. ‘What was done about it?’

  ‘Nothing, apparently. The police officer who took the report thought that Malmberg seemed paranoid, even though it stated in the report that he knew Egon Wallin well and they were supposed to have become business partners.’

  ‘Exactly when did these incidents occur?’

  Jacobsson glanced through her notes. ‘The first incident, which took place on Västerbron, was on February the tenth, although at the time Malmberg just thought that someone was following him and it wasn’t any sort of threat. But later he received a real threat, on the twenty-fifth.’

  ‘What kind of threat?’

  ‘A note that said “Soon”. With no sender’s name.’

  ‘“Soon”?’

  ‘Yes. Evidently that was all.’ ‘And that was two weeks ago?’ ‘That’s right.’

  Everyone in the room exchanged glances.

  ‘This is crazy,’ said Knutas tensely. ‘Egon Wallin is murdered here in Visby. At the same time another art dealer who has had a long-standing business relationship with Wallin receives one threat after another, but nobody bothers to tell us about it. What are those guys in Stockholm doing? This is a serious breach of duty.’

  Knutas was breathing fast through his nose. He picked up a glass of water from the table in front of him and took several big gulps.

  ‘Well, the only thing we can do now is press on. Sohlman is in charge of the scene-of-crime investigation in the hotel suite, and that’s taking place as we speak. The hotel has been partially cordoned off, and we’re continuing to knock on doors and collect information. Let’s hope we get some leads very soon. In the meantime, what do we think the perp might be planning?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I’m inclined to agree with Karin,’ said Kihlgård with a sigh. ‘Malmberg is probably already dead. All that remains is to see what the murderer will do with the body this time.’

  ‘Would he be brazen enough to hang it from Dalman Gate? Like he did with Egon Wallin?’ Jacobsson suggested.

  ‘Hmm. That seems unlikely,’ said Knutas. ‘To do that once, OK – but to dare to repeat such a manoeuvre? He must realize that we’re on his trail and that the hotel staff would discover that Malmberg was missing. Don’t you think?’

  ‘That’s not necessarily true,’ objected Kihlgård. ‘He may not be thinking rationally. He might be giddy from his success and starting to have delusions of grandeur. He might think he’s invincible. That’s happened before.’

  ‘Regardless, we need to keep the area around Dalman Gate under surveillance,’ said Knutas. ‘Better to be safe than sorry. We really have no idea who we’re dealing with.’

  ‘What about Muramaris?’

  ‘We’ll put the place under surveillance too. It’s always possible that he might decide to go back there.’

  Sverker Skoglund had been classmates with Egon Wallin from primary school all the way through secondary school. After that their ways had parted. Sverker had gone to sea and lived abroad for many years. When he returned to Gotland, he and Egon no longer had much in common. But their shared past prompted them to keep in touch with each other. The few times that they met in private, it felt as if they’d seen each other just the day before.

  Sverker was shocked by Egon’s violent death. Like many other people, he was horrified that his childhood friend should end his days in such a cruel way. He had missed the funeral service because he was working on an oil platform off northern Norway at the time. He would only have been given permission to leave if the deceased was a close family member.

  But now he had returned home, and the first thing he wanted to do was visit Egon’s grave. Norra Cemetery was deserted when he arrived. His vehicle was the only one in the car park.

  The snow had been shovelled off the pathways leading through the cemetery, and it was obvious that many people had walked out to the grave to show their respects to Egon. Apart from that, there were few visitors here in the wintertime.

  Egon Wallin had been buried in the family plot, which was visible from a distance. His family was well-to-do, and that was apparent from the size of the monument. At the very top was a cross. Wreaths and flowers were piled up at the base, bearing witness to the recent burial. After the night’s snowfall, nearly everything was covered with a frosty white blanket, but here and there a few flowers showed through, and Sverker could make out the contours of the wreaths under the snow.

  Just as he stepped on to the pathway that led to the iron fence around the grave, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. He paused for a moment, letting the sunlight warm his face. How quiet it was. How peaceful.

  Reluctantly he continued. He wondered whether he had really known anything about Egon. His friend had never let on that he had a lot of money. He never talked about it, although whenever they had dinner together Egon would always insist on paying the bill. But he didn’t boast about his wealth. He insisted on living in that terraced house, even though he could afford a much larger and more luxurious home. Of course, those particular terraces were uncommonly elegant and in a superb location. But still.

  Sverker wondered what had happened to his old childhood friend. Whether it was some lunatic who had chosen his victim at random. Whether Egon had been killed by chance, or whether there was some reason for his murder.

  He reached the enclosed area of the grave. In front was a row of wreaths, and at first that was all that Sverker saw. His eyes took in the velvet ribbons, the flowers and the printed greetings. Suddenly he caught sight of something on the frozen ground that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Under a heavy wreath with a pink-and-white ribbon from the Visby Art Association, a hand was sticking up through the snow. It was a man’s hand, with the fingers curled. Sverker Skoglund slowly moved his eyes, inch by inch, as he held his breath. The man was lying on his stomach next to the monument, with his arms by his sides. He was naked except for a pair of undershorts, and he was partially covered with snow. There were bruises and wounds all over his body. Around his neck was a noose.

  Sooner than he’d expected, Sverker Skoglund had received an answer to his question. There was undeniably a reason for his friend’s death.

  The call came in to Visby police headquarters at one fifteen in the afternoon. Twenty minutes later Knutas and Jacobsson climbed out of the first car to arrive at the site, followed closely by Sohlman and Wittberg. More police vehicles were on the way. Knutas took long strides as he headed towards the grave.<
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  ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘There’s only one person it could be.’

  Sohlman caught up with them and was the first to approach the body. He leaned down and studied the parts sticking up from the snow.

  ‘He’s covered with wounds. Burn marks from cigarettes and other signs of abuse. The poor devil seems to have been tortured before he was killed.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Is it Hugo Malmberg?’ Knutas let his gaze slide over the lacerated body.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ Sohlman carefully turned over the corpse. ‘Yes, it’s him all right.’

  Jacobsson gasped.

  Everyone bent down to look at the noose. There was no doubt that it was the work of the same person.

  Knutas straightened up and surveyed the deserted cemetery.

  ‘The body is still warm,’ said Sohlman. ‘He can’t have been dead very

  long.’

  ‘We need to search the area with police dogs. Immediately,’ said Knutas. He began issuing orders. ‘The killer may not have got far. He must have a vehicle. When the hell does the next ferry leave for the mainland? We have to stop it and search every single car. All the passengers have to be checked. This time he’s not going to get away.’

  Johan and Pia had worked like dogs ever since receiving the press release stating that Hugo Malmberg’s tortured body had been found lying on top of Egon Wallin’s grave. The murder launched a feeding frenzy in the media, and in Stockholm everybody wanted material for transmission before it had even been recorded.

  This second scandalous murder in Visby had also evoked strong reactions among the locals. All of the galleries in Visby had been closed, and the owners were meeting to discuss the situation. Speculation was running rampant, and everyone was wondering whether the killer was only after people involved in the art world. The police had held a chaotic press conference, with questions hurled from all directions by the fifty or so journalists who were present. The news had even spread to the rest of Scandinavia, and reporters from both Denmark and Norway had arrived in Visby during the day.

  After editing the final story for the evening news, Johan decided to stay in the office for a while. He was much too stressed to go home yet. He needed to gather his thoughts. Pia left as soon as they sent off the story because she was planning to go to the cinema. To the cinema? Now? thought Johan. Who could concentrate on watching a film after everything that happened here today?

  He sat down with a pen and paper and began to summarize the events, starting from the very beginning.

  The murder of Egon Wallin. The stolen paintings found in the storage room of his house.

  The theft of ‘The Dying Dandy’ at Waldemarsudde.

  The sculpture stolen from Wallin’s gallery, only to show up at Waldemarsudde at the same time as the painting was stolen. The original sculpture was at Muramaris. The perpetrator had stayed in a cottage there, at least when he committed the first murder. Then Hugo Malmberg was also killed, and his body was found on top of Egon Wallin’s grave.

  Johan wrote down the points of intersection between the two victims. Both were art dealers.

  Both were gay, as he understood it. Hugo was open about his sexual inclinations. Egon was not.

  They were planning to become partners in an art business in Stockholm. Partners, thought Johan. Were they also sexual partners? He considered that highly likely. He added ‘sexual partners?’ as another possible link between the two.

  He sat at his desk for a while, staring at what he had written. As he saw it, there were two main questions. He wrote them down.

  1. Why was ‘The Dying Dandy’ stolen?

  2. Was there going to be another victim?

  There was nothing to indicate that the murderer would stop his killing spree. There might be more people he wanted out of the way. Johan wrote down the word ‘dandy’. What exactly did it mean?

  He looked up the word on the internet and found this explanation:

  ‘Snob, fop. A dandy is associated with elegance, cold-heartedness, sarcasm, irony, androgyny or sexual ambivalence.’

  Did the killer view himself as a dandy? Or were his victims dandies?

  Johan thought about the various individuals who figured in the investigation. Pia had made a note of the names of everyone who had been invited to Egon Wallin’s gallery opening. She’d obtained the list from Eva Blom at the gallery, but Johan hadn’t asked Pia how she’d managed that. He wasn’t sure that he really wanted to know.

  What if I start with the list? he thought. It didn’t take him long to focus on one name. Erik Mattson. He was the Dardel expert who had made several statements on TV about the theft at Waldemarsudde. That was a strange coincidence. Mattson worked for Bukowski’s Auction House in Stockholm. Johan decided to ring him. He pulled up Bukowski’s website and found Mattson’s name and photograph. Talk about a dandy. Erik Mattson was wearing a pinstriped suit, with an ice-blue shirt and tie under an elegant waistcoat. His dark hair was combed back. He had even, regular features and an aristocratic nose, dark eyes and narrow lips. He was smiling at the camera; it was a slightly superior, even ironic smile. The classic dandy, thought Johan. He glanced at his watch. It was too late to ring now. Bukowski’s would be closed. He would have to wait until the morning. He sighed and got up to put some coffee on while thoughts whirled through his mind.

  Who was this Erik Mattson? Did he have any connection to Gotland?

  He had no clue where the idea came from; suddenly it just popped into his head. He glanced at his watch again. Eight forty-five. It wasn’t too late to ring. Anita Thorén picked up the phone herself.

  ‘Hi, this is Johan Berg from Regional News. I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the evening, but I have an urgent question that can’t wait.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ she asked in a friendly tone of voice.

  ‘Well, I’m doing some research, and I understand that you rent out the cabins to guests in the summertime. How long have you been doing that?’

  ‘Ever since we took over Muramaris in the eighties, actually. For almost twenty years now.’

  ‘Do you keep a record of who has rented the cabins?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve always kept a record.’

  ‘Do you happen to have access to it at the moment?’

  ‘Yes, my office is here at home.’

  ‘Have you got time to take a look at it?’

  ‘Of course. I have the ledger here somewhere. Wait a minute.’

  The ledger? thought Johan. What century is she living in? Hasn’t she heard of computers?

  After a minute she was back.

  ‘OK, here it is. I always enter the name, address and phone number of everyone who rents a cabin. I also record the amount they paid and how long they stayed.’

  ‘You don’t have the information computerized?’

  ‘No,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s embarrassing, but this is the way I’ve always done things. We’ve been renting out the cabins for twenty years, after all. I suppose it’s a form of nostalgia for me to keep things the way they were always done. Do you know what I mean?’

  Johan knew exactly what she meant. His mother was just learning to send text messages, even though he’d been trying to teach her for years.

  ‘Could you do me a favour?’ he said.

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘Could you check to see whether an Erik Mattson has ever rented a cabin?’

  ‘All right, but it will take a while. I’ll have to go through twenty years’ worth of records.’

  ‘Take all the time you need.’

  An hour later Anita Thorén rang him back.

  ‘That was so strange. Right after we talked, Karin Jacobsson from the police called and wanted to know the same thing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And I actually did find the name of Erik Mattson listed in the records. Several times, in fact.’

  Johan felt his mouth go dry.

  ‘Yes?’

/>   ‘The first time he rented from us was in June 1990 – so that was fifteen years ago. Rolf de Maré’s cottage. For two weeks, from June the thirteenth to the twenty-sixth, together with his wife, Lydia Mattson, and their three children. I have their names too: David, Karl and Emelie Mattson.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘The second time was two years later, in August 1992. But that time he didn’t bring his wife and children.’ ‘Was he there alone?’

  ‘No, he rented the cottage with another man.’

  ‘Do you have the man’s name?’

  ‘Of course. Jakob Nordström.’

  ‘And the last time?’

  ‘July the tenth to the twenty-fifth of the following year. Again with Jakob Nordström. So he rented the same place all three times. Rolf de Maré’s cottage.’

  It was on that Saturday in November that he realized he was capable of killing another human being. It had taken him two seconds to make up his mind. How he wished he hadn’t witnessed that scene, which had lasted no more than a moment. The images would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  At first he hadn’t intended to follow the man who was the focus of his interest; it was an impulse that made him do it. He was just going to walk past the gallery. He hadn’t yet decided how to deal with what he’d found out; he had no idea what to do about it. He was planning to put it all aside until he figured out his next move. But that wasn’t how things worked out. Maybe what happened was predestined. That was what he thought afterwards. And after what he’d been forced to see, there was only one option. The realization had struck him like the blow of a club. Brutally, irrevocably.

  He almost missed him. When he turned on to Österlånggatan, he saw Hugo Malmberg locking up the gallery, even though it was an hour before closing time. Curiosity got the better of him. He decided to follow Malmberg and find out why the man he was tailing had broken his routine.

  He followed a few yards behind, over to the bus stop on Skeppsbron. Malmberg was smoking a cigarette and talking to somebody on his mobile. Then the bus arrived. He dashed across the street to climb aboard, with Malmberg right in front of him. Uncomfortably close. If he simply reached out his hand, he could have touched the man’s arm.