Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  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.

  When 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.

  The 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 th
e 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.

  Smoking was not allowed in Ludvig and Alexia’s flat. After Hugo had smoked a second cigarette and the cab still hadn’t arrived, he glanced again at his watch. He’d now been waiting ten minutes, and he began to have doubts that the taxi was going to show up at all. Unfortunately, he’d left his mobile at home, and he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of shouting or tossing pebbles at the windows so far overhead.

  He turned to look towards Västerbron. It really wasn’t very far to go. Just across the bridge and then he could take the stairs down and walk through Rålambshov Park. After that it was a short distance along Norr Mälarstrand to the corner of John Ericssonsgatan, where he lived. It shouldn’t take him much more than twenty minutes, at most half an hour. The fact that it was so damned cold was the only thing that made him hesitate, but if he walked quickly, it shouldn’t be too bad.

  Hugo Malmberg was one of Stockholm’s most respected art dealers. He was part-owner of a large gallery in Gamla Stan. By making successful deals in the art world, he’d built up a small fortune during the eighties that had increased ever since.

  He set off at a brisk pace for Västerbron, wanting to get his blood moving. The cold made every breath painful. Sweden isn’t meant for human beings, he thought. If God does exist, He must have forgotten this corner in the northernmost part of Europe. The city had settled into a frozen torpor. The layer of ice covering the bridge railing glittered in the light from the street lamps. The bridge loomed up before him with its beautifully curved arch. Underneath it, solid ice stretched all the way to the heart of the city. He turned up his collar as far as it would go and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.

  He was annoyed to see the night bus drive past just as he stepped on to the bridge. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might take the bus. Below lay the small island of Långholmen with its bare trees and rocks. The old prison island in the middle of town now consisted mostly of woods and berths for boats around the perimeter. Up ahead, a short distance away, there was a staircase that led down from the bridge to the desolate island.

  Suddenly Malmberg noticed a figure below, moving among the trees. The man wore a dark down jacket and a knitted cap on his head.

  At the very moment when he passed the stairs, their eyes met. The man in the dark clothes was tall and seemed to have a muscular body under his jacket. He had a boyish face, and curly blond hair stuck out from under his cap.

  Malmberg couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was a strange situation. The two of them were alone, out in the cold night, and perhaps they should have exchanged greetings. The younger man seemed wildly attractive. Never mind, thought Malmberg. Right now he just wanted to get home as quickly as possible. His cheeks felt frozen. He began walking faster.

  Not a sound came from behind him. He didn’t know whether the man on the stairs was following in his footsteps or had gone off in the other direction, towards Södermalm. Finally Malmberg could no longer resist the temptation, and he turned around. He gave a start of surprise – the stranger was only a few yards behind him. He smiled and looked Hugo Malmberg right in the eyes.

  Not knowing how to interpret that smile, Malmberg continued on his way.

  As he approached the crest of the bridge, the wind picked up. The air was so raw and cold that he could hardly draw it into his lungs. Here he was, walking through central Stockholm, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing the city so desolate. Everything around him was frozen, as if the life and noise of the city had suddenly turned to stone, arrested in midstream. It was the same feeling that he got from art. An expertly done painting that moved him made everything else around him freeze for a moment, like a photograph – time and space stopped and he was alone, except for the painting in front of him.

  Now he caught sight of the stranger again: all of a sudden he was standing ahead of him. How had that happened? He was on the other side of the bridge, looking straight at Hugo.

  A feeling of uneasiness suddenly came over him. There was definitely something not quite right about this young man’s behaviour. The next second Malmberg realized how exposed he was, in full view in the middle of the bridge, with not the slightest place to hide if he was about to be attacked. He could run, of course, but his pursuer would undoubtedly catch him before he even managed to get up to speed.

  Over on Norr Mälarstrand he saw a lone taxi driving towards the centre of town. He continued walking, keeping his eyes on the man on the other side of the bridge. At the same time he heard the sound of an engine, which quickly rose to a deafening roar. An articulated lorry came speeding across the bridge in the other direction. He caught a glimpse of the driver’s face before the lorry thundered by.

  By the time the long expanse of the lorry had passed, the man on the bridge had vanished.

  On Saturday Knutas was woken by the phone ringing. He immediately recognized Sohlman’s urgent voice on the line.

  ‘We’ve found what we think is the murder site.’

  ‘Really? Where is it?’ Knutas was instantly wide awake.

  ‘Near Kärleksport. I think you’d better come over here.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  He jumped out of bed and into the shower.

  Still wrapped in the sheets, Lina sleepily stretched out her hands towards him. ‘What’s going on?’ she murmured, sounding tired.

  ‘Things are happening. I’ve got to go.’ He kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘I’ll ring later,’ he called as he dashed down the stairs. He threw together a sandwich, but his coffee would have to wait. That was an almost unbearable sacrifice. Coffee was his life’s elixir and he needed it to function in the morning.

  He drove down to the harbour as fast as he could and then continued along the wall to the small opening on the west side that was known as Kärleksport. By the time he arrived, a large area had already been cordoned off.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked Sohlman, who was peering through the gate when he got there.

  ‘This morning a witness found this.’ Sohlman held up a plastic bag containing a black leather wallet. ‘Nothing seems to have been taken, so we can definitely rule out the robbery theory.’

  ‘Wallin’s wallet?’ Knutas ventured.

  ‘Yes. He must have dropped it when he was attacked. There are indications that this was in fact the murder site. We found blood stains on the wall and a cigarette butt that’s the same brand as the one we found at Dalman Gate. Lucky Strike. It’s a very unusual brand, at least here on Gotland.’

  ‘No trace of his mobile?’

  ‘No, unfortunately not.’

  ‘And it’s possible to drive all the way up here by car,’ said Knutas, scanning the ground. ‘But I don’t suppose there are any tyre tracks to be found after all this time.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It hasn’t snowed since the night of the murder, and hardly any cars ever come through here. At least not in the winter. We might be in luck.’

  ‘It seems most likely that the perp followed him here from Snäckgärdsvägen. The question is, where was Egon Wallin going? Obviously into town, but then where?’

  ‘He must have arranged to meet somebody. Either at one of the restaurants that are open late on Saturday night, or at a hotel. I can’t imagine any other possibilities.’

  ‘Unless he was going to someone’s house,’ said Knutas. ‘He could have been on his way to a secret rendezvous with someone who lives here.’

  ‘That’s also poss
ible, of course.’

  Knutas sighed. ‘In any case, it’s good that you found the murder site. Where’s the witness?’

  ‘Being interviewed,’ said Sohlman. ‘In the meantime, we’ll keep working here.’

  ‘OK. I’m going to call in everyone who can make it to a meeting this afternoon. I hope you can do your work here discreetly so that we won’t have the press on our backs.’

  ‘That’s going to be difficult,’ said Sohlman. ‘We need to keep a large area blocked off for most of the day. I’m hoping to map out the precise route that he took.’

  ‘I have a feeling that the killer was very familiar with the area,’ Knutas mused. ‘What if we’re actually looking for a Gotlander?’

  *

  Back at police headquarters, he rang Lina and explained that he was going to be busy most of the day.

  Even though he’d been looking forward to having some time off, he was relieved that something was finally happening. Whenever an investigation came to a standstill for a number of days, he would start getting worried. He’d become more impatient over the years.

  It didn’t take long before Sohlman rang. He was also back at headquarters to do a technical examination of Egon Wallin’s wallet.

  ‘Can you come down here?’ he asked Knutas.

  ‘Of course.’

  Knutas hurried downstairs to the tech division, which was located in the basement of the building.

  Sohlman had spread out the contents of the wallet on a table with strong lights overhead. ‘Everything seems to be here: credit cards, cash, business cards. The wallet had fallen into a ditch and was completely covered with snow. It’s not so strange that nobody found it until today.’

  ‘How much did the witness handle it, do you think?’