The Killer's Art (4 page)

Siv skidded on the icy bridge and almost fell, but she grabbed hold of the railing just in time. She looked up at the man again. He was dressed in a black, ankle-length leather coat and black trousers. On his feet he
wore a pair of low boots. He had dark hair and looked to be in his fifties.

She had a hard time distinguishing his facial features in the dim morning light. She took a few uncertain steps forward as she fearfully glanced around.

When she got close enough, everything seemed to come to a standstill inside Siv Eriksson’s head. She recognized the man; she knew him well.

She pulled her mobile out of her pocket and punched in the number for the police.

D
etective Superintendent Anders Knutas arrived at Dalman Gate half an hour after the call came in. Normally he would have stayed at police headquarters to divide up the job assignments, but this was something he had to see. A man who had most likely been murdered had been cold-bloodedly hoisted up for everyone to see in the middle of the biggest and grandest of the gates in the ring wall. This was something so out of the ordinary that he made an exception. The patrol that had arrived on the scene first had immediately sounded the alarm, saying that it didn’t look like a suicide; rather, there was every reason to believe foul play was involved. The reason for this was that the body had been hung several yards up in the air. It was also at least a yard away from either side of the wall. Nobody could have stood up there or climbed up to where the noose was attached in order to take his own life.

When Knutas arrived, both Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson and technician Erik Sohlman were already on-site. Karin looked even shorter than her five foot three inches, and her face was so pale it was almost translucent. She had walked over from her centrally located flat inside the wall. Knutas could tell at once that she had already seen the body. Karin never seemed to get used to the sight of corpses; but then neither did he.

A crowd of neighbours had gathered, and they were all looking up in horror at the body that hung in the gateway with its back to them. None of them would have believed that something as gruesome as a murder would ever take place on their peaceful street.

Dalman Gate was part of the ring wall in the middle of Norra
Murgatan, a long and narrow cobblestoned street that ran parallel to the wall’s eastern side. Low, picturesque houses lined both sides. It was downright idyllic, with lace curtains in the windows, ceramic pots made in the typical Gotland style, and little gardens behind fences. The houses closest to the wall had been built directly attached to it.

Jacobsson and Knutas walked past the cement sculpture in the shape of a sheep that prevented cars from driving through the gate and stepped over the blue-and-white police tape.

Knutas stopped short at the sight of the victim.

At first glance, it looked like a tragic suicide. The rope was attached to a strong hook that had been fastened to the portcullis above the gate. The dead man’s head was bent forward, his body was limp.

The scene reminded Knutas of the year before, when several people had been ritually murdered and then hanged.

‘I feel like I’ve seen this before,’ he said to Jacobsson.

‘I know. The first thing I thought about was finding Martinna Flochten last summer.’ Jacobsson shook her head and stuffed her hands further into the pockets of her down jacket.

When Knutas got close enough to see the face, he froze.

‘Dear Jesus, it’s Egon Wallin, the art dealer.’

Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman, who was in the process of photographing the body from various angles, lowered the camera and took a closer look at the man’s face.

‘You’re right, it’s him,’ he exclaimed. ‘My God. I was in his gallery only a week ago and bought a painting for my mother’s sixtieth birthday.’

‘We’ve got to get him down from there as soon as possible,’ said Knutas grimly. The body could be seen from the road, and by now people were starting to wake up.

He nodded towards Kung Magnus Road, where several cars had already pulled over. People were getting out and pointing towards the gate. In the morning light, the macabre scene was exposed to everyone who passed.

‘Hurry up now,’ Knutas urged his colleagues. ‘He’s hanging there as if he’s in a display window.’

He scanned the area. It was always hard to strike the right balance as to how much should be cordoned off, but all his years of experience as a detective had taught him that the larger the area, the better.

The police couldn’t yet rule out suicide, but if Egon Wallin had been murdered, which is what Knutas believed, then they would need to secure all conceivable evidence. He made a quick decision that they would need to isolate the entire green area, from Österport to Norderport. There were footprints everywhere, clearly visible in the snow, and some of them might belong to the killer.

Knutas studied the portcullis where the rope of the noose had been fastened. It seemed impossible for Egon Wallin to have managed the whole thing on his own. There was absolutely nothing to climb on. The noose was so high up that Knutas realized he would be forced to call in the fire department to get the body down.

He pulled out his mobile and rang Forensic Medicine in Solna. A medical examiner would fly over from the mainland in a police helicopter as soon as possible.

From experience Knutas knew that the ME would prefer them to leave the body untouched until he did his first examination, but in this case that wouldn’t be possible. The dead man was hanging there as if he were the victim of a public execution. If it turned out to be a homicide, the media frenzy would descend upon them before they knew it.

Knutas had no sooner thought this than he felt the first camera flash behind him. Alarmed, he turned around, only to witness more camera flashes.

He recognized the photographer from the newspaper
Gotlands Allehanda,
accompanied by one of the paper’s most persistent reporters. His face flushed with anger, Knutas brusquely grabbed her by the arm.

‘What in hell do you think you’re doing? This might be a suicide case. Right now we don’t know anything for sure. Absolutely nothing! The family hasn’t even been informed yet. He’s only just been found!’

‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked quickly as she pulled her arm away,
ignoring Knutas’s agitation. ‘I think it looks like Egon Wallin, the art dealer.’

‘Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s not certain that any crime has been committed here. Get out of here now and let us do our job in peace!’

Suicide at least was something that journalists in Sweden respected and didn’t usually report. Not yet, at any rate. But with the sort of developments that were occurring in the media, it wouldn’t be long before they began revelling in such cases.

Knutas was even angrier because he knew and respected Egon Wallin. Not that they’d actually spent much time together, but they’d met on various occasions over the years, and Knutas had always liked the man. There was something very straightforward and candid about him. An honest individual who had both feet on the ground and who was content with his life, unlike so many others who complained non-stop. He seemed to be a thoroughly decent guy who treated everyone well. A real mensch. They were about the same age, and Knutas had always looked up to Egon Wallin. He had an appealing aura about him that made people want to be his friend. And now here he was, hanging from the gate – dead as a doornail.

Every minute that passed without taking the body down was a torment. He was already dreading having to tell Wallin’s wife about the tragedy.

More journalists had appeared on the other side of the police tape. He did understand that they had a job to do. If this turned out to be a homicide case, the police would be forced to schedule a press conference.

Knutas was grateful at least that so far no TV crew had turned up. But the next moment he caught sight of Pia Lilja, the most zealous TV cameraperson he’d ever encountered. She worked with Johan Berg at Swedish Television. At the moment she was alone, but that didn’t prevent her from filming. They were in a public place, after all, and as long as she stayed outside the cordoned-off area, there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Knutas sighed. He cast one last look at the body before he left the scene, accompanied by Jacobsson.

It was going to be a busy day.

U
sually Sundays were calm in the editorial offices of the Regional News division at the headquarters of Swedish TV in the Gärdet district, and today was no exception. Johan Berg was feeling hung-over and worn out as he sat at his desk, listlessly scanning the daily papers. Absolutely nothing was going on. Not in Stockholm, on Gotland, or in Uppsala, which were the areas covered by Regional News.

The previous evening had turned out to involve far more drinks and had lasted much longer than he had planned. He’d gone out for a few beers with his best friend Andreas, who was also a journalist. They’d ended up at Kvarnen, and had then stupidly accompanied several colleagues from Swedish Radio’s Eko news programme to a party out in Hammarbyh͎jden. Not until four a.m. had he stumbled through the door of his one-bedroom flat on Heleneborgsgatan.

Adding to his distaste for spending Sunday on the job was the fact that the editor in charge was a substitute in whom he had very little faith. He had hardly taken off his jacket before she was enthusiastically proposing one mediocre assignment after another. She seemed to be nervously grasping at every straw. Good Lord, there were still ten hours left before the five-minute fluff piece they usually broadcast on Sundays. And besides, they had a report in the can.
Calm down, for God’s sake,
he thought morosely. The mere sight of her made him tired. She was also the newscaster, so she was the only person around to talk to. On Sundays the resources were so meagre that one person had to be both editor and newscaster.

He glanced through the various press releases that had been sent to the editorial offices over the weekend. Ninety-five per cent had to do with various PR gimmicks for different functions going on in town, including announcements about hip-hopper Markoolio being the master of ceremonies when the new Tumba Centre was opened, something about a lace workshop at Skansen, and publicity for a guinea-pig race at the Sollentuna exhibition hall.

He hated all these different ‘days’ that had been invented over the past few years. First there were Children’s Day and Book Day and Women’s Day, which were OK – but lately there had been a plethora of days that had to be celebrated. Days officially designated to honour cinnamon rolls, the suburbs, go-karts, and so on. This Sunday was apparently Mitten Day. What could that possibly mean? Was everybody supposed to go around wearing home-made mittens, waving their hands around and looking happy? What purpose could that possibly serve? Were they going to sell pastries shaped like mittens and exchange knitting patterns? He almost felt like doing a report on the topic just because it sounded so dumb.

The rest of the press releases were either from groups dissatisfied with the public-transportation system, or from obscure groups of activists protesting about everything imaginable: a dangerous road outside a school in Gimo, a day-care centre in Vaxholm that was about to be closed, or the long queue at the welfare office in Salem. Johan shook his head as he tossed one press release after another into the wastebasket.

The cameraman for the day showed up and joined him with a cup of coffee. They sat and commiserated about the fact that there were no worthwhile stories to report. Now and then Johan could feel the editor glancing at them, but he chose to ignore her. For just a little while longer.

He tried to ring Emma several times, but the line was always busy.
Should she really be spending so much time on the phone when she’s taking care of Elin?
he thought with annoyance. Yet he also felt the familiar stab of yearning. His daughter was now eight months old, but he saw her only sporadically.

He put down the phone and looked over at the editor’s desk; she was
putting in calls to all the small police stations in their area to find out if anything was going on that might be newsworthy.

He suddenly felt guilty and realized that he needed to pull himself together. It wasn’t her fault that he was tired and out of sorts. Or that Sundays were always hopeless news days. Maybe he could use his police contacts to fish out some tiny morsel that with a little effort could be turned into a story. Good enough for a Sunday, at least.

He was just about to pick up the phone on his cluttered desk when his mobile rang.

He recognized Pia Lilja’s voice at once. She was the cameraperson he most often worked with whenever he went over to Gotland. ‘Did you hear the news?’ she gasped.

‘No, what is it?’

‘They found a dead man hanging from one of the gates in the ring wall this morning.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘No, damn it. It’s true.’

‘Was it suicide?’

‘No idea, but I’m going to find out. I can’t talk any more. I’ve got to go and see what’s happening.’

‘OK. Ring me again as soon as you know anything.’

‘Sure. Ciao.’

Johan punched in the mobile number for Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas. When he answered, he sounded out of breath.

‘Hello, Johan Berg here.’

‘It’s been a long time. Are you back on the job again?’

‘Hey, don’t you ever watch Regional News? I’ve been at it for weeks.’

‘Good to hear that you’re back on your feet again. That’s what I meant.’

Johan chuckled. He’d been off sick for several months after having been stabbed in connection with a homicide case that he’d been involved with the previous summer. His wounds had been quite serious. Knutas had come to see him in the hospital several times, but that was a while ago, and they hadn’t spoken since. ‘So what’s going on over there?’

‘We found a dead man hanging from Dalman Gate this morning.’

‘Was it murder?’

‘Don’t know yet. That’s something the ME’s examination will determine.’

‘So there’s nothing to indicate that it might be murder?’