Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

The investigation involved so many theories, hints and leads that had taken them in all sorts of different directions, and it seemed impossible to pull them together into a coherent whole. When it came down to it, Knutas wasn’t even sure any more that the murder and the theft at Waldemarsudde were connected. Maybe the sculpture had been left there simply to confuse the police.

  Knutas had been in contact with Kurt Fogestam in Stockholm, but even there the police had reached an impasse.

  One positive thing was that the media frenzy had gradually died down, and the investigative team was now able to do its work undisturbed. Again and again they had gone over all the information that had come in and all the witness statements, but nothing had moved the case forward. Knutas was disappointed that they’d made no progress with the paintings that were found in Egon Wallin’s home, or with the mysterious renter at Muramaris. They still hadn’t identified or located the man.

  The Agricultural Ministry hadn’t commissioned any sort of report on the future of the sugar industry, and no one there knew anyone by the name of Alexander Ek. The analysis of the strands of hair found in the hired van showed that they belonged to Egon Wallin. So it was now crystal clear: the man who had rented the cottage was the perpetrator. But where was he?

  Hugo Malmberg lay in bed in his suite at the Wisby Hotel, unable to sleep. The funeral had been a torment. He’d been foolish enough to believe that he’d feel better after attending. But the sight of Egon’s family, relatives and friends had merely made him realize how alone he was.

  It was absurd to think that a person could mean more after his death. When Egon was alive, they’d had a relationship, of course. It had been passionate and exciting in many ways, but Hugo hadn’t been in love. There was a certain infatuation in the beginning, but that had cooled after a while. After the first thrill was gone, he usually tired very quickly of his lovers. He and Egon had met whenever possible, without demands or expectations. They had both thoroughly enjoyed the hours they spent together, but afterwards they each returned to their own lives, almost forgetting about one another until the next time they met. At least that had been Hugo’s experience.

  Now, after Egon’s tragic and violent death, he suddenly felt a much greater longing for him than when his Gotlander lover had been alive.

  Maybe he was getting old. He would turn sixty-three at his next birthday. There was something about the funeral that made him start thinking about the past. His solitude frightened him. An emptiness had crept in, and he thought a lot about the decision he had made long ago, which he now regretted. Of course, he had a large circle of acquaintances, but there was no one who truly cared about him. It was somehow such a basic assumption that somebody would be there to take care of a person when he reached old age. Someone close, with whom he had a deep connection.

  Yet he’d had a good life; he couldn’t complain about that. He’d had a successful career and made plenty of money. That gave him a freedom that he’d always enjoyed. He’d been able to buy whatever he liked, done things that interested him. And he’d travelled to all parts of the world. He’d been able to satisfy his needs, and his work was both interesting and stimulating. The only thing his life was really missing was a deeper love relationship. Maybe that would have been possible with Egon. If he had lived.

  Egon had had a marvellous attitude towards art. He could talk about a work of art for hours, or focus on one small detail in a painting, or speculate endlessly about what an artist’s intention might have been with a specific work. Maybe that was precisely what Hugo was lacking. There was a genuine quality about Egon, an unfeigned joy and a curiosity about life.

  It would be a long time before Hugo Malmberg returned to Gotland. If ever. For him, the island would always be too strongly associated with Egon. He wanted to forget about everything, the whole heinous story. He no longer cared who the murderer might be. The first thing he was going to do when he got home was to book a trip to somewhere sunny and warm. Maybe Brazil, or Thailand. He deserved a few weeks’ holiday after everything he’d been through.

  He gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed. He stuck his feet into the slippers provided by the hotel and put on his dressing-gown. From the minibar he took out a little bottle of whisky which he emptied into a glass, then went over to the sofa to sit down. He lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke.

  It would be damned nice to get home.

  At that moment he heard a clattering sound outside the window. The suite was on the second floor, but there was a roof right outside. It was an old building that had been constructed with multiple terraces and levels.

  He went over to the window, pulled aside the curtains and looked out, feeling uneasy. A faint light issued from a streetlamp below, but it didn’t reach far in the dark. There was nothing to see. It was probably just a cat. He closed the curtains and went back to the sofa, taking a gulp of the whisky, which warmed his throat wonderfully as he swallowed. He remembered that on Friday he was invited to a major social event at Riddarhuset, the House of the Nobility. That would be nice. He had many friends of noble birth.

  Another clattering sound. He gave a start and glanced at his watch. It was 2:15 in the morning.

  Quickly he stubbed out his cigarette, got up and switched off the lights. The room was suddenly pitch dark. Then he crept over to the window, took up a position against the wall and waited. The next second he heard a rattling noise followed by a thud. It sounded as if someone were right above him. He wasn’t sure what to do; he didn’t dare look out, for fear of being seen, in spite of the darkness. Then a light flickered outside. Through a gap in the curtains he saw the beam of a torch directed straight at his window.

  With every muscle on full alert, he waited another minute.

  Then he obeyed an impulse and picked up a table lamp with a heavy porcelain base. He took off the lampshade and carefully set it on the floor. Then he firmly gripped the base of the lamp. It was the best weapon he could find. He stood to one side of the window in a corner of the room; he’d managed to slip behind the heavy curtain to hide. The only thing he could think about was Egon’s terrible fate. And the threats that he’d received himself: the note in his letterbox and the mysterious phone calls.

  An ice-cold sensation settled in the pit of his stomach. Someone was out for revenge, and now it was his turn.

  Just as he had predicted, it wasn’t long before a creaking sound broke the silence, as if somebody were trying to prise open the window. Apparently using a crowbar. The wood gave way. Gloved fingers appeared, groping in the meagre light. They unlatched the second window.

  Then a leg appeared, followed by another. A tall, large man dressed in dark clothing leaned in through the window and then landed on the floor only a few feet from Hugo. The man’s face was covered by a black knitted ski mask pulled over his head, with holes for his eyes.

  Hugo pressed his body against the wall as best he could, hoping that this uninvited guest would move past without noticing him.

  The suite was located in a corner of the hotel building, and the rooms within it were arranged in a circle. They were in the living room – the intruder could choose to turn left into the bedroom or go right into a smaller sitting room. For several moments the masked man stood motionless, and Hugo could hear his rapid breathing.

  The darkness was intense. Silently he prayed that the man wouldn’t be able to smell his presence. Presumably he stank of both whisky and cigarette smoke. The man turned and for several terrifying seconds Hugo was convinced that his hiding place had been discovered. But then the stranger crept towards the bedroom doorway and was swallowed up by the dark.

  Hugo backed away from the curtains, keeping his eyes fixed on the bedroom. Behind him was the sitting room, the entrance hall, and then the door to the hotel corridor. He could still make his escape. It seemed unreasonable to try overpowering such a beefy intruder. He wouldn’t have a chance. Thoughts whirled through his mind – he had no sense of time, he couldn’t even guess how many seconds
had passed.

  Just as he was considering throwing himself at the door, he felt someone grab his wrist. The lamp he was holding fell to the floor with a crash. He tried to yell, but no sound came out. As if he realized that it would do no good.

  An air of listless dejection hovered over the morning meeting on Wednesday. Knutas thought it was ridiculous what a difference his announcement of Karin Jacobsson’s promotion had made to the general morale. Now Wittberg refused to sit next to her, and Norrby seemed to have developed an antipathy to everyone and everything. Earlier that morning Jacobsson had complained of the matter to Knutas when they had coffee together, wondering if it was really worth all the trouble. He understood how she felt, but he urged her to be patient. Given time, Norrby was bound to mellow, and even Wittberg would come round. Knutas assumed that Wittberg had ambitions and might even have expected the position himself.

  It was impossible to satisfy everyone.

  Right now Wittberg sat at the conference table looking sullen, even though Knutas happened to know that he was actually doing quite well. His girlfriend, who was no longer new, had moved in with him, and that seemed to be having a good influence. He was more alert and lively than Knutas had ever seen him before. So it was especially annoying that he should begrudge Jacobsson the promotion.

  ‘I’ve done some more checking on Rolf Sandén. You know, Monika’s lover,’ Wittberg began. ‘He does have an alibi for the night of the murder, but it’s not exactly watertight. His friend who says that they were together might be lying. Rolf Sandén likes to play the horses, and it turns out that he has big gambling debts. He owes a lot of people money.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Knutas frowned.

  ‘On the other hand, Monika Wallin claims not to have known anything about his gambling problem or the fact that he’s up to his ears in debt.’

  ‘OK, then that’s a possible motive. He’s also a former construction worker. With strong muscles, in other words.’

  ‘But isn’t he on disability leave?’ objected Jacobsson.

  ‘For a bad back, yes,’ Wittberg rebuffed her. ‘That doesn’t mean that he’s not strong.’

  ‘Even so,’ Jacobsson persisted, ‘do you really think he could hoist a body so high up if he’s having back problems?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Wittberg with a sigh. ‘Surely you don’t think we should rule him out, do you?’ He shook his head as if that was the stupidest thing he’d heard in a long time.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Norrby. ‘Maybe he’s been faking the back problems to get on sick leave. That happens all the time. Or doesn’t anybody ever try to cheat the welfare system in your world?’

  His voice was dripping with sarcasm. Norrby and Wittberg exchanged looks.

  Without warning Jacobsson stood up so abruptly that her chair fell over. She stared at Wittberg with such fury that he looked both surprised and alarmed.

  ‘That’s bloody well enough of that!’ she exclaimed, fixing her eyes on her colleague. ‘What a petty, jealous, conceited idiot you are. That’s enough! Do you have such a sodding big ego that you actually begrudge me my promotion? We’ve worked together for years, Thomas – and I’ve been on the force twice as long as you have. Why are you so against me being the deputy superintendent? Tell me your reason right here and now – come on!’

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Lars Norrby.

  ‘And you’re no better. Going around sulking as if I was the one who made this decision! If you have anything to complain about, talk to Anders, but stop whining and snapping at me like a child. I’m sick of both of you, and I refuse to put up with it any longer. So let’s drop it – do you understand?’

  Jacobsson ended her furious outburst by picking up her chair and slamming it against the wall. Then she left the room. The door banged shut behind her.

  Before anyone managed to say another word, Knutas’s mobile rang.

  By the time he’d finished the conversation, he looked even more sombre.

  ‘That was the Wisby Hotel. Hugo Malmberg checked in yesterday morning. He attended Egon Wallin’s funeral and was going to spend the night at the hotel. But he didn’t check out today, and he wasn’t on the plane back to Stockholm. When the hotel staff went into his room, they found all of his belongings still there. The window had been prised open, and there were traces of blood on the floor.’

  ‘And Malmberg?’ asked Kihlgård.

  ‘Gone,’ said Knutas, reaching for his jacket, which was draped over the back of his chair. ‘Disappeared. They can’t find him anywhere.’

  The Wisby Hotel was located on Strandgatan near Donners Square, close to the harbour. It was a beautiful and venerable luxury hotel. There was a noticeably uneasy mood in the lobby when Knutas, Kihlgård, Sohlman and Jacobsson all came through the door just fifteen minutes after the front-desk manager had notified the police that Hugo Malmberg was missing. After a brief greeting, the officers asked to see the room.

  The suite was on the second floor. To the manager’s horror, Sohlman immediately fastened police tape to the door.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ the man asked, sounding worried. ‘That makes it quite clear that this is a crime scene, and it will make our guests nervous.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sohlman. ‘It can’t be helped.’

  He sounded as if he meant what he said. Ten years earlier a female night clerk had been murdered at the Wisby Hotel – it was one of only three unsolved homicides in Gotland’s history. The murder had attracted national attention, and the case had popped up in the news for years afterwards. Now and then it was still discussed on crime shows on TV.

  Sohlman was the first to enter the suite, and he motioned for the others to wait. They crowded into the doorway.

  Cautiously he took a look around. The rooms seemed stuffy and smelled of smoke. The bed was unmade, and someone had knocked a table lamp on to the floor. In the living room a half-empty glass stood on the table, along with an ashtray containing several cigarette butts.

  Sohlman pulled aside the heavy curtains and discovered at once that the window had been forced open. Malmberg’s clothes had been neatly folded and placed on a chair near the bed, and his suitcase stood in the small entrance hall.

  ‘How many people have been in the rooms?’ Sohlman asked the manager after completing his survey of the suite.

  ‘Just myself and Linda, who’s working at the front desk today. She was the one who noticed that he hadn’t checked out. A cab had been ordered, and the driver came into the hotel to pick him up and take him to the airport. But as you can see, he’s missing.’

  ‘Did both of you come into the suite?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said the manager uncertainly. ‘We did. But we were only inside for a minute, at most,’ he said apologetically, as if he now realized that it might not have been such a good idea.

  ‘OK, but I don’t want anyone else to come in here,’ said Sohlman to the others. ‘Someone has forced open the window, and there are clear traces of blood on the floor, as well as signs of a struggle. From now on, we need to consider this a crime scene. What sort of exits are there?’

  The manager showed them the fire escape at the end of the corridor. The stairs went down the back of the building and out into the courtyard. From there it was a simple matter to walk out to the street. It was even possible to drive a car to the bottom of the stairs.

  Sohlman rang for backup and stayed behind to take charge of the scene-of-crime investigation. Knutas arranged for the hotel employees to be interviewed, and officers began knocking on doors and asking guests whether they’d seen or heard anything during the night.

  As soon as Knutas was back at police headquarters, he summoned those members of the investigative team who were in their offices to a meeting. Judging by the focused attention of everyone in the room, Jacobsson’s outburst earlier in the day was forgotten for the time being. For the first time in days, Knutas felt the old sense of camaraderie come back to the team. He quickly summa
rized what he knew about Hugo Malmberg’s disappearance.

  ‘What do we really know about his relationship with Egon Wallin?’ asked Kihlgård.

  ‘They were colleagues and met occasionally whenever Wallin was in Stockholm, but as I understand it, they mostly discussed business matters,’ said Knutas.

  ‘So you think that the fact that they both are, or were, gay has nothing to do with the case?’ said Jacobsson, sounding dubious. ‘I disagree. There are actually several things connecting them now. They were both art dealers, they used to meet in Stockholm, and they were both homosexuals. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Are we looking for a gay man in the art world of central Stockholm?’ asked Kihlgård. ‘If so, that would certainly narrow our search.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Or it could be that we should just focus on their homosexuality.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Wittberg objected. ‘Where does the theft of the painting come in?’

  ‘You’re right. That damned painting, “The Dying Dandy”,’ said Jacobsson pensively. ‘Is he trying to tell us something by choosing that particular painting and no others? Maybe it has nothing to do with Nils Dardel; maybe it’s the motif and the title of the painting that are important. Isn’t a dandy a man with androgynous traits? A well-dressed snob, an elegant fop who frequents exclusive drawing rooms? That applies to both Egon Wallin and Hugo Malmberg.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Wittberg eagerly. ‘That’s a crystal-clear connection. The murderer is so refined that he stole one of the most famous paintings in the history of Swedish art just to make a point. He’s pointing a finger at us – that’s what he’s doing!’

  ‘Could it really be that simple?’ wondered Kihlgård, doubtfully. ‘Another possibility is that he needs money for some reason.’

  ‘Yes, but how is he going to get rid of a painting like that? It’d be nearly impossible to sell it here in Sweden,’ said Norrby.