The Killer's Art (16 page)

‘No, we don’t,’ Mattis agreed, shrugging his shoulders.

Judging by his expression, he wasn’t particularly worried.

‘We know that you had dinner at Donners Brunn after the opening on the night of the murder. What did you do after that?’

‘I didn’t go to the dinner,’ reported the manager. ‘I wasn’t feeling well, so I went straight back to the hotel.’

‘Is that so?’ Jacobsson frowned. She had assumed that Vigor Haukis was also at the dinner. ‘What did you do at the hotel?’

‘Just went to bed. I was so tired after all the rushing around and nervousness before the opening.’ He laughed, as if embarrassed.

Jacobsson turned to Mattis Kalvalis. ‘Tell me about that evening.’

‘OK. The opening went well, as I said. You could say it was a huge success. I had a great time, and it was interesting to talk to all the guests. People here are so open and enthusiastic,’ he said, looking pleased as he tugged at his green fringe. ‘There were lots of journalists, and I gave a bunch of interviews. Then afterwards we all went to the restaurant, except for Vigor, and that was really nice.’

‘How long did you stay at the restaurant?’

‘I left around eleven.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘Went straight back to the hotel. I had to get up early the next morning.’

‘And you didn’t meet anyone?’

‘No. The hotel is practically next door to the restaurant. I went up to my room and went to bed.’ ‘Did anyone see you?’

‘No. There’s nobody at the front desk at night, so the lobby was deserted.’

‘So nobody can vouch for the fact that you’re telling us the truth?’

‘No,’ said the artist, surprised. ‘Am I a suspect?’ His hand flew up to clutch at his chest.

‘I’m just asking standard questions that we ask everybody,’ replied Jacobsson, as if to reassure him. ‘It’s just routine.’

‘OK. I understand.’ Kalvalis smiled uneasily and cast a quick glance at his manager.

‘Why did the two of you go to Stockholm?’

‘I might as well tell you the truth about that. I know that I’d promised Egon that he could be my agent in Scandinavia, but I hadn’t yet signed the contract. During the opening, I was offered an even better agreement by another art dealer in Stockholm.’

‘Sixten Dahl?’

‘Yes, that’s right. He persuaded me to at least go and see his gallery and hear more about what he could do for me. So we decided during the opening that we’d go.’

‘Have you now signed a contract with Dahl?’

The artist threw out his hands. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. It’s so much better. And now it doesn’t really matter any more. Now that Egon is dead.’

A
fter the interview, Knutas and Jacobsson went to the pizzeria around the corner for a late lunch. They were the only customers. It was past two, and Knutas was faint with hunger. They each ordered a capricciosa pizza at the counter and then sat down at a table near the window with a view of the street. The sunshine was gone; they looked out at overcast skies and slushy snow.

‘I didn’t like having to let those two go,’ said Jacobsson, shaking her head. ‘There’s still too much that’s up in the air.’

‘I know,’ Knutas agreed. ‘But what could we do? We don’t have any reason for arresting them.’

Jacobsson took a sip of the light beer she had ordered. ‘This case just seems to get more and more complicated. First the murder of Egon Wallin; then we find out about his secretly planned move, the stolen paintings, and his wife’s love affair. What a mess.’

Their pizzas arrived, and they ate them in silence. Knutas gulped down his food so fast that he got the hiccups. He ordered a Ramlösa sparkling mineral water, which he swiftly downed to put a stop to the hiccuping. ‘There are two points of intersection,’ he then said. ‘Art and Stockholm. Wallin was on his way there, and Kalvalis apparently has a number of contacts in the city. Is there anything else that comes to mind?’

‘Secrets,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Both Wallin and his wife were keeping secrets from each other. Wallin managed to sell the gallery, buy a flat in Stockholm, and virtually arrange for the whole divorce without his poor wife finding out a thing.’

‘What about Mattis Kalvalis?’ murmured Knutas pensively. ‘What sort of secrets do you think he might have?’

He pushed aside his plate and gave his colleague a searching glance.
And what about you?
he thought.
Speaking of secrets.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked her.

‘What do you mean? With me?’ She looked worried.

‘Yes.’

‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’ ‘You’re a terrible liar.’

‘Now stop it,’ she said, although with a smile.

But Knutas’s expression was serious as he looked her in the eye. ‘Haven’t we known each other long enough for you to tell me what’s going on?’

Jacobsson blushed. ‘My dear Anders, nothing special is going on. Life just has its ups and downs, that’s all. You know how it is.’ ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

Karin gave a start. Even Knutas was startled by his boldness. He couldn’t believe he’d asked her such a question.

She stared at the half-empty beer glass she was holding, slowly turning it round and round. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said in a low voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that I’ve noticed that something is bothering you. Am I right?’

She sighed. ‘OK, I’m having some personal problems, but it’s nothing I want to discuss. Not at the moment.’

‘So when?’ he said crossly. All of a sudden he felt anger flaring up inside him. ‘When
do
you want to discuss things? Are you ever planning to tell me anything? We’ve worked together for fifteen years, Karin. If you have a problem, I want to help you. You should give me a chance to do something for you!’

Karin stood up abruptly, giving him a furious look. ‘Help me?’ she snarled. ‘How the hell can you, of all people, help me?’ Without giving him a chance to respond, she left the table and walked out of the restaurant.

Knutas stayed where he was, staring at the angry set of her back as she walked away.

He had no idea what had just happened.

W
hen the investigative team met on Wednesday morning, only a few people had called the police to offer any tips about the case, in spite of requests made through the media. ‘How could this happen? A man is murdered and hung from a gate in Visby’s ring wall for all to see, yet not a single person noticed anything.’ Knutas was interrupted by a sneeze that sprayed out over half the conference table. For weeks he’d been dragging around with this cold that he couldn’t seem to shake. He quickly apologized to his colleagues and wiped the table with a handkerchief that he dug out of his pocket.

‘If only we knew where the murder was actually committed,’ said Jacobsson with a sigh.

‘That’s bound to come out sooner or later,’ said Norrby soothingly. ‘At any rate, I can report that we’ve checked out the address in Stockholm where Egon Wallin was planning to move. Artillerigatan 38. It turns out that he bought the flat two months ago, on November the seventeenth, to be precise. A newly refurbished two-bedroom flat. It was almost fully furnished, with brand-new furniture, a new TV and stereo. The kitchen was fully equipped with dishes and utensils. He bought the flat through an advertisement, and paid 4.2 million kronor.’

Wittberg whistled. ‘That’s damned expensive. Did he have that kind of money?’

‘Apparently Östermalm is a very pricey neighbourhood. It’s also a corner flat with a balcony, on the sixth floor of the building. And it’s not small by any means, at over 1,000 square feet.’ Norrby paused for dramatic effect, running his hand through his hair. ‘And to answer your
question: yes, he did have the money. He’d just sold his gallery, and that’s probably how he paid for the flat. He also owned a number of stocks and bonds.’

‘Life insurance?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Yup. Worth three million. At his death, the money goes to his wife.’

‘All right then,’ said Kihlgårdleaning back in his chair and clasping his hands over his stomach. ‘So now we’ve got another motive. Maybe we should bring in Monika Wallin for another chat. There seem to be some gaps in the previous interview.’ He cast a quick glance at Knutas, who stirred uneasily. ‘She had a lover, and her husband’s death is going to make her rich. Two classic motives for murder.’

‘What about his children?’ Jacobsson interjected. ‘What do they

get?’

‘It looks as if they’re going to inherit quite a bundle. I can’t tell you exactly how much at the moment, but he was presumably worth several million,’ said Norrby. ‘His wife and children will share the inheritance equally, so there’s going to be plenty for each of them.’

‘So we have three people with plausible motives,’ said Jacobsson. ‘And we haven’t talked to the children yet. As for Rolf Sandén, her lover, he had both a motive and the necessary physical strength. Unfortunately he also has an alibi for the night of the murder. He was visiting a good friend in Slite and stayed overnight. The friend has confirmed that they were together all night.’

‘I’ve done some checking up on Egon Wallin’s business partners in Stockholm,’ Kihlgård went on. ‘First of all, Sixten Dahl, who bought the gallery without revealing his identity. Dahl didn’t say anything startling during the interview that was conducted in Stockholm. He also has an alibi for the night of the murder. He was sharing a hotel room here with a good friend from Stockholm, and they were together all evening and night. Well, I don’t mean they were “together” in that sense,’ Kihlgård quickly clarified. ‘We asked him about that. It turns out the hotel was fully booked, so there was only one room available. There was a convention in town at the same time, something to do with the Baltic Sea.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Jacobsson. ‘It was about the gas line between
Russia and Germany that’s supposed to run past Sweden on the bottom of the sea.’

‘Exactly,’ said Kihlgård. ‘And Dahl’s story has been confirmed both by the restaurant staff at Donners Brunn and by the receptionist at the hotel. They were back before eleven and went straight up to their room.’

‘But that doesn’t mean that they might not have gone out again later on,’ Jacobsson pointed out.

‘And it’s an interesting coincidence that they had dinner at the same restaurant as Egon Wallin and his party,’ said Wittberg.

‘Sure, but at the same time, there aren’t that many places to choose from, and it happens to be the closest restaurant to the hotel,’ said Knutas.

‘I think we’ll need to come back to this again later,’ suggested Kihlgård. ‘All right. It turns out that Sixten Dahl is going to move over here on a trial basis for six months to get the business going, and his wife will be coming with him. But that’s actually beside the point,’ he muttered, leafing through his papers as if looking for something. Then his face brightened. ‘Ah yes, here it is.’

With great deliberation he put on his glasses and took a bite of a cinnamon roll, which he washed down with some coffee. Everyone waited patiently as he brushed the crumbs from his lips, before he went on. ‘Egon Wallin bought a part ownership in an art gallery in Gamla Stan in Stockholm. It’s owned by four partners, and he was to be the

fifth.’

‘Who are the others?’ asked Knutas, who by now had recovered from his resentment at Kihlgård’s jab.

‘I have a list of the names here.’ Kihlgård pushed his glasses into place and read the names from the list. ‘Katarina Ljungberg, Ingrid Jönsson, Hugo Malmberg and Peter Melander.’

‘I recognize the name Hugo Malmberg,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I think he might have been at the gallery opening.’ She looked through the lists lying on the table in front of her. ‘Yes, I was right,’ she exclaimed happily. ‘He was interviewed in Stockholm. By someone named Stenström.’

‘Interesting. We’ll get on to that right away,’ said Knutas. ‘What stage had the business deal reached?’

‘It was all set,’ said Kihlgård. ‘He’d paid the required amount, and there don’t seem to be any anomalies.’

‘We need to talk to this Mr Malmberg as soon as possible,’ said Knutas. ‘And check up on the others too. We need to find out whether any of them has been mixed up in dealing with stolen paintings.’

‘And we may have another possible motive,’ said Wittberg. ‘One of the other partners may not have liked the fact that Egon Wallin was invited to join them.’

‘But would somebody go so far as to murder him for that reason? I don’t think so,’ said Norrby, shaking his head.

T
he cold was relentless, keeping everybody indoors. It was uncommonly quiet in Stockholm on this night in February. The temperature had dropped to minus 17°C, and everything seemed to have come to a standstill, frozen in place.

When Hugo Malmberg opened the door to Långholmsgatan, he was met by an icy wave of cold. He burrowed his face in his scarf and turned up his collar as he surveyed the deserted street. Still no taxi. It was close to three a.m. He lit a cigarette, stamping his feet on the ground as he waited, trying to keep warm. He considered going back inside until he realized that he’d forgotten the entry code. He glanced up at the fifth floor and the row of windows belonging to Ludvig and Alexia’s flat. No lights were on. They’d been quick to turn them off, no doubt glad that he’d finally left.

Yet another in a series of Friday-night dinners with well-prepared food, exclusive wine and good friends. The waistband of his trousers felt tight; he needed to be careful not to put on more weight. He’d been the last guest to leave, which was often the case. This time he and the host, his good friend Ludvig, had got embroiled in a discussion about the lack of interest in art in the cultural pages of the major newspapers. Literature seemed to take up all the space. By the time all the arguments had been voiced and their indignation vented, it was two thirty in the morning. The rest of the dinner guests had dropped out, one by one, but that didn’t prevent the two friends from continuing their lively debate. It was Ludvig’s wife Alexia who had to see the other guests out with a kiss on the cheek.

Finally even Hugo realized that it was time to go home, and Ludvig rang for a taxi. The cabs always showed up promptly, so he thought he might as well take the lift down and wait outside as he smoked the cigarette he’d been longing for all evening.