The Killer's Art (3 page)

Erik wanted to get plenty of rest before Saturday. He had a lot on his agenda. He was going to start the day by visiting the place he loved above all others, although he hadn’t seen it in years.

Right after breakfast he jumped in the car and set off. The day was overcast, and the weather forecast predicted snow. But he wasn’t going far. His destination was just five or six kilometres north of Visby.

Just as he was about to turn down the driveway marked by a sign that said ‘Muramaris’, he noticed a car coming out. That surprised him. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be coming here in the wintertime.

The parking area close to the road was designated for visitors, but since it was February it was deserted. When he got out of the car, he paused on the gravel path to face the sea, which was only just visible
from this distance. Far below, the waves rolled in, as steady and inevitable as the passing of the years.

On either side of the path stood dense rows of trees, growing low to the ground and crooked, clearly stunted by the harsh autumn storms. He knew that there were no neighbouring houses.

As he walked down the long slope, his eyes filled with tears. It was so long ago that he was last here. The treetops whispered around him, and the gravel crunched beneath his feet. He was alone, and that was precisely what he wanted. This was a sacred moment.

As he rounded the bend and saw the house, snow began to fall. The flakes gently drifted down from the sky, settling softly on top of his head. He stopped to study the area spread out below: the dilapidated main building, the gardener’s residence, and further away the red-painted cottage that had its own special history.

What a contrast it all was to the last time he was here. Back then it was summertime, and they had stayed for two weeks, just as the visiting artist and his lover had done, although that was almost two hundred years earlier.

Erik had enjoyed every second they were here, sleeping in the same room where the artist had slept, simply being under the same roof, eating breakfast in the kitchen where he had once sat; not even the old cast-iron stove had changed since then. The walls could have told stories that Erik could only imagine.

Right now he had a panoramic view of the home called Muramaris. The name meant ‘hearth by the sea’. The rectangular, sand-coloured main house had two storeys and had been built of limestone. Its architectural style was a unique blend of Italian Renaissance, with a loggia facing the sea, and a traditional Gotland estate. Large windows with white mullions graced each side, opening on to the woods, the water, and the austere Baroque garden at the back with its sculptures, fountains, flagstone paths and decorative flower beds.

The man who’d had such an influence on Erik’s life had often visited this place, spending sunny summer weeks here, swimming, taking walks
along the beach, painting, and spending time with the controversial artist couple who had built their dream house on this plateau at the beginning of the twentieth century. Even though so many years had passed since then, the artist’s presence was still strong.

With some difficulty Erik opened the green wooden gate; it moved reluctantly, creaking loudly. He wandered around to the back. The house had stood empty for years, ever since the new owner had taken over, and the neglect was evident. The stucco was peeling off, the wall surrounding the property had crumbled in several places, some of the sculptures in the garden were now missing, and the once-so-proud building was sorely in need of renovation.

He walked slowly along the flagstone path. Unlike the house, the garden had retained some of its former grandeur, with carefully pruned hedgerows. Near the pond in the middle of the garden he sat down on a bench. It was damp and cold, but that didn’t bother him any more than the snow, which was coming down harder now. His eyes were fixed on a particular window belonging to the guest room on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. It was there that one of the most myth-shrouded paintings in Swedish art history had been created. At least that was the rumour, and there was no reason to doubt the claim. The artist had worked on the large oil painting during the same year that he had designed the garden here at Muramaris, in the midst of a raging world war. The year was 1918.

That was when Nils Dardel painted ‘The Dying Dandy’. Erik whispered the words as he sat there on the bench.

The dying dandy. Just like himself.

A
fter a successful opening reception the whole gang from the gallery celebrated with a fancy dinner at the Donners Brunn restaurant in central Visby. Mattis Kalvalis sat in the middle and seemed to enjoy all the attention. Everyone at the table was in high spirits, and Egon Wallin thought the evening was a happy ending to his old life. They sat at the best table in the magnificent cellar dining room, basking in the glow of the candles, the superbly prepared food beautifully arranged on their plates.

He raised his glass for yet another toast, and they all cheered for the new star in the firmament of art. Just as the shouts died out, two new guests appeared: Sixten Dahl, in the company of a younger man whom Egon had never seen before.

They greeted everyone politely as they went past, and Sixten once again praised the exhibition, giving the artist a long look.
What the hell is he up to now?
thought Egon. As luck would have it, they sat down at a table on the other side of the room so that Egon was sitting with his back to them.

Later, when he got up to go to the gents’, he discovered Mattis Kalvalis and Sixten Dahl together in the restaurant’s smoking room. They were alone, deeply immersed in what looked like a serious conversation. Anger surged up inside Egon at once. He opened the glass door.

‘What are you doing?’ he snapped in Swedish to Sixten.

‘What’s wrong with you, Egon?’ said his competitor, feigning surprise. ‘We’re having a smoke, and this is the smoking room.’

‘Don’t try any tricks. Mattis and I have a contract.’

‘Is that so? I heard that it wasn’t signed yet,’ said Sixten, stubbing out his cigarette and nonchalantly heading out of the door.

Naturally Mattis didn’t understand a word of what was said. Yet he seemed visibly ill at ease.

Egon decided to let the matter drop. He merely turned to the artist and said, ‘We have a deal, don’t we?’

‘Of course we do.’

It was past eleven by the time Egon and his wife finally returned home. Monika wanted to go to bed at once. He explained that he was going to sit up for a while, to unwind and reflect on his day. He poured himself a glass of cognac and sat down in the living room.

Now it was just a matter of waiting. He thought about the incident at Donners Brunn, but decided it had been nothing. Of course Sixten would keep trying. But the contract with Mattis was going to be signed the next day. They had agreed to meet at the gallery. Besides, the opening had been a success. He was confident that Kalvalis would remain loyal.

He took a big gulp of the cognac. The minutes crept by. He tried to stay calm and restrain his eagerness. If Monika followed her usual routine, she would spend ten minutes in the bathroom, then crawl into bed and read a few pages of a book before turning off the light and falling asleep. That meant that he had to wait about twenty minutes before he could leave the house and walk over to the hotel. There wouldn’t be anyone on duty at the front desk this late at night, so there was no risk of being recognized.

His whole body was looking forward to the rendezvous.

H
is wife’s night-time regimen took longer than he had estimated, and Egon Wallin was feeling extremely annoyed by the time he finally set off. It was almost as if she had known that he had plans and so had read her book for longer than usual. Maybe even several chapters.

He had tiptoed past the bedroom several times, as quietly as he could, noting that her light was still on as his body itched with eagerness, almost like eczema. Finally she turned off the light. Just to make sure that she was actually asleep, he waited another fifteen minutes. Then he cautiously opened the door and listened to her regular breathing before he dared leave.

When he came out on to the street, he breathed a sigh of relief. Anticipation burned on his lips and tongue. Briskly he set off. The lights were out in most of the windows that he passed, even though it was Saturday and not yet midnight. He had no desire to run into a neighbour – around here everybody knew everyone else. They had bought the terraced house when it was new and their children were young. Their marriage had been relatively happy, and their lives had taken the expected path. Egon had never been unfaithful, even though he did a great deal of travelling for his job and met all sorts of people.

A year ago he had gone to Stockholm on one of his customary business trips. Passion had struck him like lightning, and in the course of one night, everything changed. He had been completely unprepared. Suddenly his life had assumed a new purpose, a new meaning.

Having sex with Monika had become almost unbearable. Her response to his half-hearted initiatives had been cool over the last few
years. Their activities in bed finally ceased altogether, which was a great relief; they never spoke about the matter.

But now he felt desire burning inside him. He chose the quickest route past the hospital and the hills near Strandgärdet. He would be there soon. He took out his mobile to say that he was on his way.

Just as he was tapping in the number he tripped and fell. In the dark he hadn’t noticed the big tree root sticking up in the path ahead of him. He hit his head hard on a rock, and for a few seconds he lost consciousness. When he came to, he felt blood running from his forehead and down his cheek. For a moment he just sat there on the cold ground. Fortunately he had a tissue in his pocket so he could wipe off the blood. The cuts on his forehead and right cheek were quite painful.

Damn it,
he thought.
Not now.

Cautiously he touched his face with his fingertips. Luckily the cuts didn’t seem serious, but a big bump had started swelling above his right eyebrow.

Feeling dizzy, he had to walk slowly at first, but he soon reached the wall. From there it wasn’t very far to the hotel.

He had just passed the small opening in the wall facing the sea, the so-called Kärleksport, or Gate of Love, when he suddenly sensed the presence of someone very close by. All of a sudden he felt something sweep past his ear before he was pressed backward.

Egon Wallin would never make it to his intended rendezvous.

S
iv Eriksson woke as usual several minutes before the alarm clock rang. It was as if her body knew when it was time to get up, and she managed to turn off the clock before her husband Lennart was woken by the noise. Cautiously she got out of bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. It was Sunday, after all.

She padded out to the kitchen in the pink woolly slippers that her husband had given her for Christmas and put on the coffee. Then she took a hot shower and washed her hair. After that she ate her breakfast in peace and quiet, while she listened to the radio and let her hair dry.

Siv Eriksson was looking forward to this day. Her work hours were shorter on Sunday, only from seven to noon. Then Lennart was going to pick her up so they could celebrate the fifth birthday of their only grand-child. Their daughter and her family lived in Slite, in northern Gotland, so it would be a bit of a drive. Siv had taken care of the presents, which were neatly wrapped and sitting on the table in the hall. Lennart would bring them along when he left the house; she had written a note to remind him.

After finishing her coffee and brushing her teeth, Siv got dressed. She gave the cat some food and fresh water. He didn’t show any interest in going outside, just looked at her lazily before curling up in his basket. She glanced at the thermometer in the window, noting that it had got even colder; it was now minus 10°C. She’d better wear both a hat and a scarf. Her woollen coat was old and a little too snug.

The flat where they lived was on the top floor of a building on Polhemsgatan, with a view of the northeast side of the ring wall. When
Siv came out on to the street, it was still quite dark. The walk to the Wisby Hotel where she worked was a couple of kilometres, but that didn’t bother her. She liked to walk, and besides, it was the only exercise she ever got. She enjoyed her job setting out the cold buffet; she and a colleague were also in charge of the breakfast service. At this time of year the hotel had few guests, which suited her just fine as she was not the type of person who thrived on stress.

She cut across the street and set off along the path near the football pitch, where the grass was covered with a thin layer of snow. In the car park outside the municipal offices for culture and recreation, she slipped on the icy asphalt and almost landed on her back.

At the crossing on Kung Magnus Road, which ran parallel to the east side of the ring wall, she paused for a moment to look in both directions, even though it really wasn’t necessary. On Sunday mornings there was little traffic, but Siv Eriksson was a cautious person who never took any unnecessary risks. She walked through Östergravar, a small grassy area next to the wall. This particular section of her route was so isolated that it always made her rather nervous early in the morning when it was still dark. But she would soon reach the medieval ring wall that enclosed the central part of the city. There she would pass through Dalman Gate to enter the city proper. The gate was part of the Dalman Tower, sixty feet high and one of the grandest of the medieval defence towers.

About thirty yards away from the gate, Siv Eriksson stopped abruptly. At first she couldn’t believe her eyes. Something was dangling from high up in the opening. For several bewildering seconds she thought it must be a sack. But when she got closer, she realized to her astonishment that a man was hanging by a rope that had been fastened to the grating above the gate opening. It was the type of portcullis that could be lowered in ancient times if an enemy was about to attack.

The man’s head was bent forward, and his arms dangled limply at his sides.