The Killer's Art (10 page)

‘Are you aware that both the artist and his manager have left the hotel?’

‘What? No, I didn’t know that.’

‘They went to Stockholm yesterday morning. Do you know why they might have gone there?’

‘No idea.’ Monika Wallin looked genuinely surprised. ‘Mattis was supposed to come in today to sign the agent contract with Egon. Although that’s no longer relevant, of course.’

‘When are they due to return to Lithuania?’

‘Tuesday afternoon. I know that for certain because we had planned to have lunch together before they left for the airport.’

‘Hmm.’ Knutas cleared his throat. ‘Let’s go back to the night of the murder. Did anything significant happen during dinner at Donners Brunn?’

‘No. We ate a good meal, had plenty to drink, and enjoyed ourselves. By then Mattis had calmed down; it was probably just nervousness, and he was finally able to relax. He told us lots of funny stories from Lithuania, and we all laughed so much that we cried.’

‘When did the party break up?’

‘We left the restaurant around eleven. We said goodnight outside, and then everyone went their separate ways. Egon and I took a cab home. I went to bed almost at once, but he said that he wanted to stay up for a while. That wasn’t unusual. I fade away when it gets late, but he’s always been a night owl. I almost always go to bed before he does.’

‘Where did you see him last?’

‘He was sitting in his chair in the living room,’ she said pensively.

‘His wallet and mobile were both missing when he was found. Did he leave them at home?’

‘I’m sure he didn’t. Egon never went anywhere without his mobile. He always had it with him, even when he went to the gents’. And I find it
hard to believe that he’d leave the house without his wallet. Besides, I would have found them in the house, but I haven’t.’

‘Shall we try to ring his mobile? It might be hidden somewhere,’ suggested Knutas.

‘Absolutely.’

Monika Wallin got up to get her own mobile. She punched in a number. Nothing happened. She tried again as she walked through the house.

‘Nothing,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I just get his voicemail.’

‘OK,’ said Knutas. ‘Thanks for trying. Could you write down his number for me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Just one more thing about Saturday. We’ve heard that a sculpture has disappeared from the gallery.’

‘Yes, it’s very annoying. One of the guests must have taken it.’

She seems very composed for a woman whose husband has just been murdered, and in such a macabre fashion,
he thought.
And then to find out that her husband was planning to leave her and move out without even telling her.

Knutas wondered if he would have behaved the same way if Lina had been murdered and hanged like that. He thought he would probably have been sedated in the psychiatric ward of Visby Hospital. He shuddered inwardly and quickly brushed aside the thought.

‘You have two children, is that right?’ he went on.

‘Yes. A son who’s twenty-three. He lives in Stockholm. And a daughter who’s twenty. She’s studying to be a doctor in Umeå.’

‘What does your son do?’

‘He works at a day-care centre.’

‘I see.’

‘The children will be here later today.’

‘I understand,’ said Knutas. ‘Pardon me for asking such a personal question, but how was your relationship with your husband?’

Monika Wallin answered instantly, as if she’d been expecting the question. ‘Safe and boring. We had a good marriage in the sense that we
were good friends, but over the years it had become more like a brother–sister relationship. We ran the the gallery together, but otherwise there wasn’t much.’

‘Why did you stay together? It couldn’t have been for the children’s sake.’

Knutas could have bitten his tongue. He ought to tread more carefully with a new widow. The words had just come out before he could think about what he was saying. But Monika Wallin didn’t seem upset.

‘We both felt that things were fine as they were. The gallery took up almost all of our time; he devoted himself to art and his business trips, while I took care of the administrative work. We lived side by side but rarely crossed paths. The fact is, I think he’d found someone else.’

She stretched, and Knutas realized that he was actually beginning to think she was rather elegant. Upon closer inspection, her hair wasn’t mousy at all; it had a soft, ash-coloured sheen in the light coming through the window. Her complexion was smooth and clear. Her colourlessness was in fact quite beautiful.

‘Why do you think so?’

‘We no longer had any sex life. In the past Egon always had great needs in that area.’

She cleared her throat.

‘There were other signs, too. He seemed unusually happy and pleased after his trips to Stockholm. He began taking more interest in his appearance, and he stayed up late at night, sitting in front of his computer. He said that he was working, but I could tell he was chatting online with someone.’

‘But you never confronted him about this?’

‘No. Why should I do that? It wouldn’t have made any difference any more. Our relationship was no longer what it had once been.’ ‘So you have no idea who it might have been?’

‘No clue at all.’

T
he murder of the art dealer Egon Wallin in Visby had grabbed the attention of the whole country. Pia Lilja was the only one who had captured photos of the victim as he hung from the gate in the ring wall, and every Swedish newspaper had wanted copies. Max Grenfors, who was the head of Regional News, had been overjoyed when he rang Johan’s mobile on Monday morning, and he offered high praise for the previous day’s reporting.

‘Terrific! Great job. And amazing photos. Pia is unbeatable!’ ‘But shouldn’t you—’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve already called to congratulate her,’ Grenfors interrupted, as if he knew what Johan was going to say. ‘Have you seen the morning papers? All of Sweden is talking about the murder. And everybody is going to wish they had your job today,’ he continued effusively. ‘Just so you know, you’re going to have to send in a report by lunchtime and another one for the afternoon broadcast.’

Sometimes Johan got tired of his boss’s cynicism. Pia’s photo of the body hanging from the gate had been splashed across the front page of the evening papers. Since every Swede at some time in his life visited Gotland on summer holiday, the picture had stirred strong emotions. That morning, Johan had already seen the story top the morning news on TV. Max Grenfors had wanted to show footage filmed at the scene, but he was stopped by the powers-that-be at the national news bureau who thought that would be going too far.

Johan drove into the car park outside the TV and Radio building on Östra Hansegatan and pulled into the spot reserved for Regional News.

The editorial office used to be housed in a small building inside the ring wall, but it had now been moved here, to the former premises of the decommissioned A7 military regiment. The building had previously been used as a stable for the military’s horses, and the architect had wanted to preserve vestiges of its history in the renovation. This was especially evident in the doors, columns, and wide panels of the walls. The colour scheme was mostly brown and white. Everything had been nicely done, and most of the occupants seemed happy with the move, even though the location was not as central as before. Regional News had been assigned two new rooms on the second floor with a view of the park. Pia was sitting in front of the computers, and she glanced up at once when Johan came in.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Anything new going on?’

‘No, but check this out.’ She waved him over to the chair next to her. ‘Every damned newspaper has my photo. Have you seen this?’

She clicked on the websites of various papers. Poor Egon Wallin was on the front page of every one of them.

‘Shit,’ said Johan in disgust. ‘Whatever happened to ethics? Even Grenfors was hesitant about using it, for once.’

‘Yes, but at the same time it’s a fucking good picture,’ muttered Pia without taking her eyes off the screen.

‘But think about his family. How do you think his children will feel when they see every paper in the country using that picture of their father on their placards? And why do you carry a still camera around when you’re supposed to be filming for TV?’

Pia heaved a deep sigh and looked up at Johan.

‘Remember I’m a freelance. I always take a still camera with me. And I happened to get an opportunity to take a picture from an angle that no one else could get. Good Lord, it’s fine to be nice and considerate if you’ve got a monthly salary. I’ve got bills to pay. I’m going to be living off this photo for months. And by the way, of course I realize this must be rough for his family. But we’re in the news business, and we can’t be super-considerate about everybody involved in what goes on in the world at the cost of filing our reports. I think the photo is OK, because
it only shows the body from a distance and not his face. And besides, his children are adults. And no one would be able to recognize him.’

‘No one outside the family, maybe,’ said Johan drily. ‘So have you heard from Grenfors?’

He wanted to change the subject to avoid further discussion. Johan was very fond of Pia, but when it came to ethics, they had widely different views. Trying to persuade her to adopt his own, more cautious take on the matter was like pounding his head against a brick wall. The worst part was that the editors, with Grenfors in the lead, usually agreed with Pia. People who ended up caught in the middle were generally given little consideration, in Johan’s opinion; he thought it was possible to report the news without trampling on others. Besides, in his position as reporter, he was responsible for the content, and it was his name that appeared on the TV screen.

Whenever the discussions were at their most heated, Grenfors would shout at Johan that he was a damned bleeding-heart reporter, meaning that he always thought too much about the consequences of his reporting.

There was a school of journalism that advocated remaining neutral when it came to consequences; Grenfors belonged to that school, but Johan did not. He thought that journalists had a responsibility that extended beyond the publication of an interview. And this was especially true of crime reporting, when both the victim and family members became part of the story. This responsibility particularly came into play with TV because of its enormous and widespread impact.

He was tired of this discussion, which was constantly coming up. Every day there were new positions to be taken, which always promoted new disputes. He and Pia had spent half of Sunday evening bickering about the photo of Egon Wallin. Johan had been against publication, but both Pia and the editorial management disagreed with him. In the end he was forced to go along with a brief shot from a distance showing the body hanging from the gate. By then only a few minutes remained before the broadcast, and they risked having the entire spot dropped if no decision was reached.

B
ut today was a new day, and Johan and Pia had agreed to start off with the gallery, provided it was open after the events that had occurred. They at least hoped to find someone working there.

As they drove, Pia peeked at him from under the straggly black fringe that hung into her eyes. ‘You’re not angry, are you?’

‘Of course not. We just happen to disagree.’

‘Good,’ she said, patting his knee.

‘I wonder who that was inside the gallery yesterday,’ said Johan, just to change the subject.

‘Maybe it was an employee who saw us arrive and didn’t feel like talking,’ said Pia. ‘They must have to clean up the place after an opening.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘And maybe they needed to have a chat about what happened,’ said Pia, swerving to miss a big orange cat that ran across the road.

She expertly steered the car through the narrow cobblestoned streets and parked in the middle of Stora Torget. That was no problem in the wintertime when the open marketplace was empty of all the booths and vendors’ stalls that filled the square in the summer.

Pia set up her equipment on the street and began filming. Just as she turned on the camera, a plump older woman wearing a sheepskin coat and cap came walking over with a bouquet of flowers in her hand.

Johan quickly approached with a microphone. ‘What do you think about the murder?’

The woman looked a bit hesitant at first, but quickly collected herself. ‘It’s dreadful that something like that could happen here, in little Visby.
And he was such a nice man, Egon. Always friendly and amiable. It’s hard to believe that this has actually happened.’ ‘Why are you bringing flowers here?’

‘It’s the least I can do to honour Egon. Everybody is terribly shocked.’

‘Does it make you scared?’

‘You do start thinking about the fact that a crazy man might be on the loose. And whether it’s even safe to go out any more.’

The woman had tears in her eyes. She fell silent and waved her hand to indicate that Pia should stop filming. Johan asked whether he could use her in his report. She agreed and clearly spelled her name for him.

A modern sign made of steel was posted between the medieval masonry anchors in the rough stone facade, stating that the name of the gallery was Wallin Art. In the display window was a photograph of Egon Wallin with a lit candle in front of it. When they tried the door, they found that it was locked, but they could see people moving about inside. Johan pounded on the door and managed to catch a woman’s attention. She came over and opened the door for them. A bell rang as they entered. The woman introduced herself as Eva Blom. At a counter stood another woman, printing the words ‘Closed due to death of the proprietor’ on a piece of paper.

‘We’re planning to stay closed today,’ Eva Blom explained, giving them a forced smile. ‘I assume that Monika wouldn’t want us to try to conduct business as usual. Especially considering all the reporters who’ve been ringing, both yesterday and now this morning.’ She cast a glance at Pia, who was already in the process of filming the picture of Egon Wallin in the window.

Eva Blom was evidently fond of red. She wore a black jumper and skirt, with bright-red lipstick that looked good against her milky-white complexion. She looked up at Johan, her blue eyes staring at him from behind red-framed glasses. ‘What do you want?’