Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  He felt sick at the sight of the elegant woollen coat, the scarf nonchalantly flung over his shoulder. That self-confident, pompous man who thought he was invulnerable; so far he was happily unaware that his life was about to be shattered. Malmberg got off the bus near the NK department store on Hamngatan. He turned down Regeringsgatan and headed along the street for a while, then turned left on to a side street. He smoked another cigarette. Cars passed and people strolled by, going home or on their way into the city. Still curious, he continued following the man. He’d never been in this part of town before.

  He was careful to keep a good distance between them, and for safety’s sake, he stayed on the opposite pavement. As luck would have it, there were still enough people about to prevent him drawing attention to himself. Suddenly the man he was following disappeared. Swiftly he crossed the street to stand in front of the nearest building. The facade had seen better days, and the display window had been painted black, making it impossible to see inside. A small sign on the metal door said ‘Video Delight’, lit up in red and gold. This must be where Malmberg had gone. It wasn’t hard to guess what type of video shop it was. He waited a minute before entering.

  Inside he found a stairway illuminated with tiny red lights that led him downstairs. There he found a big video shop offering nothing but porn films, all the hard-core kind. Sex toys were also for sale, and there were small booths for private viewings. Behind the counter stood a young girl wearing a black hoodie. She seemed completely unaffected by the place; she might as well have been selling pastries or sewing supplies. She was chatting happily with a guy her own age as he put price tags on DVDs. Everywhere were close-up images from porn films on big-screen TVs. A few male customers were making their selections from the films.

  Slowly he walked around, looking for the man he’d been following. The place was bigger than it had seemed at first glance. He peeked into one of the small, cramped booths. All he saw was a black vinyl recliner in front of a huge TV screen, an ashtray, tissues, a wastebasket and a remote control. Nothing else.

  *

  He made a quick survey of all the empty booths; Malmberg seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth. Puzzled, he went over to the red-painted counter and asked the girl if there were any other rooms.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, pointing to a door that he hadn’t noticed before. ‘In there. But it’s only for guys. Homos, you know.’ A small sign on the door said ‘BOYS ONLY’. ‘And there’s a fee. Eighty kronor.’

  ‘OK,’ he said and paid her the money.

  She cast a deliberate glance at a basket on the counter. It was full of condoms. ‘They’re free,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Well, you can have two for free. If you need more, you have to pay.’

  He shook his head, opened the door and went inside.

  It was even darker in there, and the stairway was narrower and steeper than the first one.

  The only sound was the roar of the air conditioning. There was a fresh, almost herb-like fragrance, almost as if it were a spa. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found a long, narrow corridor stretching out in front of him. It was dimly lit, with red neon lights along the ceiling. The walls were painted red, and the floor was black. On either side were booths that seemed to be the same as those upstairs. Several doors were closed, and faint groans were audible through the thin walls.

  A guy who looked to be about twenty-five was standing at a booth with the door half open. As he passed, he caught sight of someone sitting inside. The guy was obviously going to go in and keep the customer company.

  Everywhere were screens showing porn films. He wondered where Malmberg had gone. Maybe he was sitting in one of these booths, enjoying himself. He found the thought disgusting.

  A man came out of one of the rooms, and his face lit up. The man tried to tempt him into the room without saying a word, just using blatant body language to indicate what he wanted. He hurried past.

  The place was unbelievable. The corridors were like a labyrinth, and he soon lost track of where he’d entered. All he saw were more booths and pictures.

  He started feeling dizzy, and he longed to get out of there. He tried to find his way back, hurrying in the direction that he thought would lead to the stairs. He turned out to be mistaken. Instead he ended up in front of a door at the end of the corridor where he had heard the moaning. Cautiously he opened the door just enough to peer inside. He was looking at a small movie room. On one wall was a screen showing the same type of films that he’d already seen a hundred times over during his brief visit here. All of the furnishings were black – the walls, ceiling, floor, sofa and armchairs.

  At first he saw only three bodies that were fully engaged on the sofa in front of the screen. He immediately recognized Malmberg as one of the men. Then he saw the face of another, who might have been in his fifties. The man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. The face of the third person wasn’t visible. He was younger, and the two older men were leaning over him. They were all naked, and none of them seemed to notice his presence. All of their attention was focused on each other.

  He was seized by a sense of unreality – as if the scene unfolding before his eyes couldn’t possibly be happening.

  Just as he was about to turn round and leave, he saw the face of the third man.

  Two seconds. That was all it took to recognize him.

  Quickly he shut the door. For a moment he stood outside, leaning against the wall. Sweat was pouring down his face. He wanted to scream.

  He stumbled back along the corridor and finally managed to locate the stairs to the exit. He avoided looking at the girl standing behind the counter.

  Out on the street he blinked in the light. A woman pushing a pram walked past. Daily life was proceeding as usual. When he turned the corner, he threw up. Not only because of what he’d just witnessed, but because of what he was going to have to do.

  On Friday morning Jacobsson knocked on Knutas’s office door as soon as he turned up at police headquarters. Her eyes were shining with eagerness.

  ‘Listen to this – I’ve uncovered some damned interesting stuff. I tried to ring you last night, but nobody answered.’

  ‘Come on in.’

  ‘I checked out Hugo Malmberg’s background. You’ve got to hear this.’ She sat down on the sofa in Knutas’s office. ‘He lived alone in a gorgeous flat on John Ericssonsgatan in Kungsholmen, and for years he was part owner of that gallery on Österlånggatan. He was openly gay, and I had the impression that he always had been, but that turned out not to be true. He was once married to a woman named Yvonne Malmberg, but she died a long time ago, back in 1962. So that’s over forty years ago. And guess how she died.’

  Knutas shook his head without saying anything.

  ‘She died in childbirth. To be more precise, in the maternity ward at Danderyd Hospital.’

  ‘What about the child?’

  ‘It was a boy. He survived and was given away for adoption when he was only a few days old.’

  Knutas whistled.

  ‘And that’s not all.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Do you know who rented Rolf de Maré’s cottage out at Muramaris several times?’ She went on without waiting for an answer. ‘That valuer at Bukowski’s. Erik Mattson.’

  Johan had a busy three days ahead of him. On Friday he took the first plane back to Stockholm. He’d made an appointment to meet Erik Mattson at Bukowski’s Auction House at ten o’clock. Then he was going to have lunch with his youngest brother. In the afternoon, the head of the news bureau wanted to see him. Some time in between he really needed to squeeze in a meeting with Max Grenfors to discuss a pay rise. In the evening there was going to be a family dinner at his mother’s house out in Rönninge, and on Saturday morning he’d made an appointment to meet the person who was going to sublet his flat. Johan had received permission to lease the flat for a year. The prospective tenant was a colleague from Swedish TV in Karlstad who had been hired for a temporary posit
ion in the sports division.

  Then on Saturday afternoon Johan had to fly back to Visby because he and Emma were planning to meet the pastor at four o’clock. What a schedule, he thought as he sat on the plane, squashed next to a man who must have weighed over three hundred pounds. He didn’t have the energy to change seats.

  Erik Mattson was just as elegant in person as on the photo on the web page of the auction house. He was an attractive man with a distinct sexual aura; Johan wondered if he was gay.

  They sat down in a empty conference room, and Erik served coffee and Italian biscotti. Johan chose to get right to the point.

  ‘I understand that you’ve stayed at Muramaris many times. Why is that?’

  ‘I was there for the first time when I was nineteen. Some of my friends and I were studying art history at the university, and we were on Gotland for a cycling holiday. Even back then I was fascinated by Dardel’s work, and I knew that he’d spent several summers at Muramaris.’

  He smiled at the memory.

  ‘I remember how we went down to the beach and pictured Dardel walking along the same stretch of shoreline almost a century earlier. We imagined him with Rolf de Maré, Ellen and Johnny, and all the other artists who came to visit. What a life they lived. Filled with love, art and creativity. Carefree in so many ways, and removed from reality,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘And then you returned later on?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, sounding distracted. ‘When my ex-wife Lydia and I were still married, we once rented Rolf de Maré’s cottage, and we took all the children along. That was years ago. But it wasn’t a very successful holiday. It’s not a practical place for young children. Steep steps down to the beach and not much of a play area. And the cottage isn’t very big.’

  ‘But you went back again?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been there twice since then.’

  ‘Who went with you, if I might ask?’

  ‘A friend of mine. His name is Jakob,’ replied Mattson tersely. Suddenly he looked uncomfortable. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’

  ‘There are actually two reasons,’ Johan lied. ‘Partly to get some background material for our report on the murder on Gotland. But I also happen to think that Muramaris is an interesting place, and I’d like to do a documentary about it for Swedish TV.’

  ‘Really?’ Erik Mattson’s voice suddenly took on renewed energy. ‘That’s fantastic. There’s so much to tell, and the place is spectacular inside. Have you seen the amazing sandstone fireplace that Ellen created?’

  Johan shook his head. He studied Mattson intently. ‘So you’ve been married. How many children do you have?’

  ‘Three. But what does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was just curious. You said that you took “all” the children along, so I was picturing a whole flock.’

  ‘I see.’ Erik Mattson laughed. He looked relieved. ‘I’ve got only three. But they’re not kids any more. They’re all grown up now. Living their own lives.’

  Johan didn’t really know what compelled him to take that route on his way home. But after having a pleasant dinner at his mother’s house in Rönninge and seeing all his brothers, he found himself driving past Erik Mattson’s building on Karlavägen. He parked the car outside and looked up at the lovely facade. It was an impressive, well-kept building with an ostentatious front entrance and a profusion of flower beds. Without knowing what he expected, Johan got out of the car and went over to try the door. Locked, of course. There were lights on in most of the windows. Earlier in the day he’d checked to see which flat belonged to Mattson, and now he saw that there too the lights were on. There was both an intercom and a keypad that required a code number. On impulse, Johan pressed the number next to Mattson’s name. He tried again several times with no response. Then he heard a man’s voice, but it wasn’t Mattson’s. There was loud music playing in the background. The man sounded speedy and slightly drunk.

  ‘Hi, Kalle. You’re late. We almost left without you, damn it.’

  The man cut off the connection. But there was no buzzing sound, so he hadn’t unlocked the door. Johan hurried back to his car. After several minutes three men came out of the entrance; one of them was Erik Mattson. They were all in high spirits and stood outside the door for a moment. Johan slouched down so as not to be seen, but he could hear their voices.

  ‘Where the hell did he go?’

  ‘He wasn’t mad, was he?’

  ‘Naw, not Kalle. He must have decided to go on ahead.’

  The two men that Johan didn’t recognize seemed to be about the same age as Mattson. Attractive, fashion-conscious professionals from Östermalm wearing expensive suits under their coats, and with their hair slicked back.

  They walked past Johan’s car without noticing him and disappeared into Humlegården Park. Johan got out of his car and followed. When they reached Club Riche they went inside. The place was packed, and Johan was lucky that there wasn’t a queue. The music was pounding, and everyone was walking around with drinks in their hands.

  If only he could stay out of sight. Mattson would recognize him at once, since they’d met earlier in the day. On the other hand, it really wouldn’t be so strange to see a journalist in Club Riche on a Friday night. This thought was immediately reinforced when he found some of his colleagues at the bar.

  He kept an eye on Mattson, who was mingling with the crowd. He seemed to know everybody. Johan noticed that he downed one drink after the other without seeming to be affected.

  All of a sudden Mattson was gone. Johan left his friends and walked around looking for him. He started getting worried. Had he lost the guy? Then he saw him talking to an older man. They were standing close together and seemed to be having an intimate conversation.

  The older man abruptly headed for the exit and disappeared. A couple of minutes later Mattson also left the club. Outside, Johan saw both men get into a cab. He jumped into the next taxi and told the driver to follow. Johan didn’t really know what he was doing. He had to get up early the next morning and clean the flat before his tenant arrived. Then he had to pack his suitcase and fly to Gotland. He didn’t have time to be playing spy games.

  The taxi ride was a short one. The cab stopped outside a battered-looking doorway in a back alley in central Stockholm. Mattson and the older man got out. Johan quickly paid the taxi driver and got out to follow them. Down a staircase he found himself in a sort of video shop. There he paid the entrance fee so he could proceed even further down into the depths of the building.

  It didn’t take long for Johan to understand what Erik Mattson was mixed up in.

  Johan and Pia were in charge of the story for the Sunday broadcast; Gotland was where the hottest news events were happening, for a change. Johan told his colleague what he’d discovered in Stockholm when he tailed Erik Mattson.

  Pia’s eyes opened wide. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘It sounds unbelievable. But do you think he’s the murderer?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Have you told the police about this?’

  ‘No, I wanted to confirm all the details first.’

  ‘So you don’t think we can use this for our report in some way?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s premature. I need to do more research first, find out more about Mattson.’

  That evening as Johan drove home, his head was filled with contradictory thoughts. Erik Mattson worked at Bukowski’s Auction House and was one of Sweden’s top experts on twentieth-century Swedish art. At the same time, he frequented obscure gay clubs and prostituted himself. Johan couldn’t make sense of the whole thing. It couldn’t be because Mattson needed the money. He was an enigmatic figure, and Johan was becoming more and more convinced that he’d had something to do with the murders. And the theft of the painting. He was an expert on Nils Dardel, after all.

  His ponderings were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile. It was Emma, who wanted him to buy some nappies on
his way home.

  *

  To Johan’s disappointment, Elin was already in bed for the night by the time he got home. How quickly we get used to new routines, he thought. Before, he was used to being away from her for weeks on end; now he hated not being able to say goodnight and nuzzle her neck before she went to sleep.

  Emma had made salmon pasta, and they had a glass of wine with their dinner. Afterwards they curled up together on the sofa, sharing what was left of the wine.

  ‘So what did you think of the pastor? We’ve hardly had any time to talk about it,’ said Emma, stroking his hair.

  ‘She was all right, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you still think we should get married in a church?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like.’

  They’d had this discussion many times since they agreed to get married. Emma wanted to get the wedding out of the way without a lot of fuss.

  ‘I’ve already gone through the whole circus once before,’ she said with a sigh. ‘That was enough.’

  ‘But what about me? Doesn’t what I want count for anything?’

  ‘Of course it does. But can’t we find some sort of compromise? It’s OK that you don’t want to go to New York and get married at the consulate, even though I think that would be terribly romantic. I can understand that you want all of our family and friends to be present. But not in a church, and not in a white dress, and definitely not with an awful cake that we have to cut together.’

  ‘But sweetheart, I want to walk down the aisle with you. I want to wear a tux and see you in a white wedding gown. That’s a dream image that I’ve always had in my mind.’

  He looked so serious that Emma had to laugh.

  ‘Are you for real? I thought only girls had those kinds of fantasies.’