Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘What sort of sexist remark is that?’

  ‘Johan, I just can’t. I really can’t go through that whole thing again. It would be like replaying the past. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘No, I really can’t. Replaying? How can you call it a replay? I’m the one you’re going to marry, Emma. You can’t compare me to Olle.’

  ‘No, of course not. But all the work, all the preparations … not to mention the expense. I don’t really think my parents would want to pay for another wedding.’

  ‘To hell with the money. I want the whole world to know that we’re getting married. And it doesn’t have to be that expensive. We can serve wine in a box and chili con carne. What does it matter? We can have the party in the garden in the summertime.’

  ‘Are you crazy? You want to have the party here? Not on your life!’

  ‘If you keep on like this, I’m going to think that you really don’t want to go through with it after all.’

  ‘Of course I want to marry you.’

  She showered him with kisses until he completely forgot what they’d been arguing about.

  On Monday morning when Johan arrived at the editorial offices, he noticed at once that something wasn’t as it should be. He held up his arm to prevent Pia, who was right behind him, from going inside. They collided in the doorway. They were both holding coffee cups, and the hot liquid sloshed over the sides as Johan stopped her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘Wait a second,’ he said, holding up a finger to hush her. ‘There’s something strange here.’

  The Regional News office was a long, narrow room; at one end a map of Gotland and Fårö usually hung on the wall. Now it was gone. Someone had put up a photograph in its place, yet in the dim light Johan couldn’t tell what the picture was. But that wasn’t the only thing. Something was fishy with the computers. All three were on, even though he was sure he’d turned them off before leaving the office the previous evening. He whispered this to Pia. Cautiously he stepped forward. There wasn’t a sound. He opened the door to the broadcast booth, but it was empty.

  ‘Huh,’ said Pia. ‘Maybe somebody from Radio was working here overnight.’

  ‘Shh.’ Johan gave her another nudge.

  When he got close enough to the far wall to see what the photograph showed, at first he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  It was a picture of himself, sitting in his car outside Erik Mattson’s house. The picture was dark, but it was still possible to see that he was staring up at a window.

  Slowly he sank down on to a chair, without taking his eyes off the photo. ‘What’s wrong?’ he heard Pia saying behind him.

  Johan couldn’t say a word.

  The entire team was present at the police meeting on Monday morning. Someone had made coffee and set on the table a basket of fresh cinnamon rolls from the Siesta pastry shop. Kihlgård was whistling merrily. Knutas guessed that he was the one who had brought the provisions. Kihlgård loved to munch, as he put it.

  The murder of Hugo Malmberg had pushed the controversy about Karin Jacobsson’s promotion on to the back burner. Knutas was grateful for that.

  The meeting began with Jacobsson reporting on what she’d discovered about Hugo Malmberg’s background.

  ‘So who’s the son who was given up for adoption?’ asked Wittberg.

  ‘I think it would be worthwhile checking out one potential candidate,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Someone who was invited to Egon Wallin’s gallery opening, who was in Visby at the time of Wallin’s death, who has a special interest in Nils Dardel, and who also happened to rent the cottage at Muramaris. He’s in his forties, and he’s been popping up in the investigation like a jack-in-the-box right from the start.’

  ‘Erik Mattson,’ exclaimed Kihlgård. ‘That soft-spoken, ultra-correct man who has made so many public statements with regard to the theft at Waldemarsudde! Could he really be the perp?’

  ‘But that’s impossible. He’s much too thin,’ objected Wittberg. ‘Do you really think he could have hoisted Egon Wallin up in the gate and dragged Hugo Malmberg – his father – to the cemetery? Not on your life.’

  ‘He could have had help, of course. I realize that he couldn’t have done it alone.’ Jacobsson glared at Wittberg. Apparently the promotion controversy wasn’t completely forgotten, after all.

  ‘And the motive would be … what? The fact that his biological father had abandoned him?’ Wittberg looked dubious.

  Lars Norrby was quick to chime in. ‘And what about Egon Wallin? Why would Erik Mattson kill him?’

  ‘Obviously I don’t have answers to all the questions,’ said Jacobsson crossly.

  ‘So you haven’t checked to see whether Mattson really is the son given up for adoption?’ Knutas gave Jacobsson an enquiring look.

  Her face fell. ‘Well, no…’ she had to admit. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Maybe that would be a good idea before we start jumping to conclusions.’

  Even though his tone of voice was a bit stern, he sympathized with Jacobsson when he saw the pleased expressions on the faces of Wittberg and Norrby.

  Later that afternoon, there was a knock on Knutas’s door. Jacobsson came in and sat down with a dejected look.

  ‘I’ve talked to Erik Mattson’s adoptive parents – Greta and Arne Mattson, who live in Djursholm. They’ve never told Erik that he was adopted. So he has no idea that Hugo Malmberg is his father.’

  ‘What sort of relationship does Mattson have with his parents?’ Knutas asked.

  ‘It’s non-existent. They broke off all contact with him when it became apparent that he was using drugs and was homosexual.’

  ‘Homosexual? He’s gay too? That seems to be a common thread in this whole investigation.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘But that sounds rather harsh. Did they really break off contact just because of that? It certainly doesn’t sound very loving.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Jacobsson agreed. ‘On the other hand, they seem to have a good relationship with his ex-wife Lydia and his children. Or at least two of them.’

  ‘How old are they? His children, I mean.’

  ‘The boys, David and Karl, are twenty-three and twenty-one. The daughter, Emelie, is nineteen.’

  ‘Which child doesn’t have a good relationship with the grandparents?’

  ‘Apparently, David. The eldest. I talked to Erik’s father, who by the way sounded very nice, and he said that David was the most sensitive and was hit the hardest by the divorce. Erik and his wife split up because of his drug abuse. And he lost custody of the children because he neglected them when they spent weekends with him. But that didn’t seem to bother David. Evidently he has always sided with his father.’

  Knutas fixed his eyes on Jacobsson for a long time without saying anything. Then, with a resolute expression, he picked up the phone as if he’d suddenly had an idea.

  It took Anita Thorén, the owner of Muramaris, less than fifteen minutes to get to police headquarters after Knutas rang.

  ‘How good of you to come over so quickly. As I said on the phone, I’d like you to have a look at some pictures.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Anita Thorén sat down on the sofa in Knutas’s office. In front of her he placed five photographs of men in their twenties. He asked her to study the pictures carefully and take her time. Jacobsson and Wittberg were present in the room as witnesses.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘That’s the man who rented the cottage in February. I’m absolutely positive.’

  The silence in the room was palpable as she placed a photo on the table. The picture showed a smiling young man. His hair was cut short and he looked well groomed. He appeared to be muscular and very fit.

  The young man staring into the camera was none other than David Mattson.

  Knutas decided that both Erik Mattson and his son David should be brought in for questioning. He rang Kurt Fogestam, who promised to see to it that both men were picked
up immediately. Because Anita Thorén had identified David, the prosecutor decided to issue a warrant for his arrest. Traces of Egon Wallin’s hair and clothing had been found both in the cottage and in the van, so there was a definite link to the man who had rented the cottage. They now knew that he was the murderer. The only question remaining was whether he had acted alone or together with his father. Knutas still couldn’t explain what Egon Wallin had to do with the case, or why ‘The Dying Dandy’ had been stolen. But he hoped that everything would become clear during the interrogation.

  Knutas cursed himself for not thinking to check up earlier on the people who had rented cabins at Muramaris. They’d been so preoccupied with trying to locate the person who’d rented the cottage when Egon Wallin was murdered that they hadn’t thought about going back in time. That infuriated him. His oversight might be partially due to all the turbulence created by Jacobsson’s promotion to assistant superintendent; it had made him shift his focus away from the investigation.

  While they waited to hear from the Stockholm police, a mood of tense anticipation prevailed at police headquarters.

  Knutas stood at the window in his office and lit his pipe. He inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out through the window.

  He was on tenterhooks. They were finally on the verge of untangling the Gordian knot that had grown more complicated and mysterious as time passed. He rang Lina and told her what was going on, explaining that he wouldn’t be home for dinner and probably not until very late, for that matter. She was happy, for his sake, as well as for herself and the children. Now they’d finally be able to see him in the evenings again.

  It took exactly an hour for Kurt Fogestam to ring. He sounded shaken. ‘You’d better sit down,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just sit down, Anders, before I tell you.’

  Knutas sank down on to a chair without taking the pipe out of his mouth. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The officers who were supposed to pick up Erik Mattson went to Bukowski’s first, but he hadn’t turned up for work today. His boss didn’t seem surprised. He said that Mattson occasionally doesn’t come in. Clearly he has an alcohol problem. Or rather, had.’

  ‘What do you mean by “had”?’

  ‘They just phoned from Karlavägen, where Mattson lives. No one opened the door when they rang the bell, so they decided to force their way in. They found Erik Mattson lying in bed. He was dead.’

  Knutas couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. The ME is on his way over there right now. But that’s not all. Do you know what was hanging above the bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That painting that was stolen from Waldemarsudde. “The Dying Dandy”.’

  The house stood at the intersection of two residential streets in an idyllic neighbourhood, close to the school in central Roma.

  It was nine thirty in the morning. He had purposely waited until the worst of the morning rush hour was over, with people going off to work, children heading to day-care centres or to school, owners walking their dogs and coming out to pick up the morning newspapers. By now an air of calm had settled over the neighbourhood, and the street was quiet.

  From where he was standing he could see the woman moving from room to room on the ground floor of the house. That must be Emma Winarve. Discreetly he took out his binoculars. He was hiding behind some shrubbery so that he wouldn’t be seen from any of the well-tended houses lining the street.

  She was beautiful, dressed in a long, pink bathrobe made of some soft fabric. Her hair was sandy coloured, her eyes dark under distinctive eyebrows. She had high cheekbones and regular, classical features. No longer really young, of course, but still attractive. Tall and stately. He wondered how strong she was.

  He saw her bend down and pick up the child. The next minute she appeared upstairs. He could just make out her shape as she moved from room to room. Through the cold lenses of his binoculars, he could follow her movements. Now she was leaning down, presumably to put the baby to bed. She stood there for a moment, doing something.

  Then her bathrobe fell away, and he caught a quick glimpse of her bare back before she disappeared from view. She must have gone into the bathroom to take a shower. That was perfect. Swiftly he crossed the street, opened the gate and resolutely entered the property as if it were the most natural thing in the world. From a distance he could tell that the front door wasn’t locked. Great, he thought. That would only normally happen way out in the country.

  He looked around before he opened the door. Not a soul as far as the eye could see. Quickly and quietly he slipped inside, finding himself in a messy hall filled with clothes, shoes and gloves all jumbled together. He could smell coffee and toast. Deep inside of him a feeling surged up that confused him for a few seconds. He made a concentrated effort to regain control of himself. Stay focused, he thought. Right now everything depended on staying focused. He peeked inside the kitchen. A radio was on, playing music at a low volume; there were dirty dishes in the sink and crumbs on the table. He made his way into the living room, where two large sofas faced each other. He saw a fireplace, a TV, rugs, books and newspapers, a bowl of fruit and a pair of ceramic candlesticks with candles that had burned down. Again that feeling welled up inside him; he pushed it back.

  As he climbed the stairs, he heard the shower running. She was singing. He crept over to the door, which had been left half open. It was a big bathroom with two sinks, side by side, a toilet on the opposite wall of the room, a bathtub with a jacuzzi, and a shower booth with frosted glass. He could see the woman’s body in silhouette through the glass. Her loud, clear voice bounced off the walls.

  The feeling came over him again. His eyes burned. Suddenly he was furious at her. There she stood, naked and beautiful, singing without a care in the world. She had no idea what was going on around her. What was happening inside of him. Fucking idiot. Rage shot up into his forehead, clouding his vision. He would show her. He gripped the piano wire between his fingers. Closed his eyes for a second to concentrate before he attacked.

  Suddenly he was interrupted by a sound behind him. A few cries that threatened to become sobs. The woman didn’t seem to notice. She kept on singing while the shower water poured out.

  Abruptly he turned around, slipped out of the bathroom and into the room where the sound was coming from. In the darkness, with the blinds pulled down, stood a cot, and in it lay the baby, now crying louder.

  In a flash he picked up the little girl, wrapped in her blanket, and dashed down the stairs to the ground floor and out into the hall.

  He could still hear the woman singing as he closed the front door behind him.

  Unsuspecting, Johan picked up the phone. All he could hear at first was a hysterical person crying and screaming as she rattled off a string of words that didn’t make any sense. It took several seconds before he realized it was Emma and that she was shouting something about Elin. When Johan heard the name Elin coupled several times with the word ‘gone’, his blood turned ice cold.

  ‘Calm down. Tell me what happened?’

  ‘I … I was in the shower,’ she sobbed. ‘I had put Elin in her cot, and when I came out, she was gone, Johan. Gone.’

  ‘But have you looked everywhere? Maybe she somehow managed to crawl out.’

  ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘No-o-o! She can’t crawl out on her own! Didn’t you hear what I said? She’s gone! Someone must have come in and taken her!’

  She burst into such heart-rending sobs that Johan felt his nerves shatter. He could feel himself starting to cry. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be.

  Pia was sitting next to him and had heard every word that Emma said.

  She cast a glance at the photo on the wall. The picture of Johan sitting in his car outside Erik Mattson’s flat was still hanging there.

  Suddenly the threat felt very real.

  When the police arrived at Emma’s house in Roma,
she was collapsed in the nursery upstairs. She was totally unresponsive, and the officers had to call an ambulance to take her to Wisby Hospital.

  The police cordoned off the house and street. Roadblocks were put up at all the routes to and from Roma, and also at the entrances to Visby and down by the harbour. The next ferry to Nynäshamn was due to depart at four o’clock, and all the vehicles waiting at the dock were searched. At the airport every passenger was checked. It would be impossible for the kidnapper to leave Gotland with the child, at least by the usual means of transport.

  At first Knutas couldn’t believe it when he heard that Johan Berg’s daughter had been kidnapped. But he realized immediately that the reporter must have been conducting his own investigation and provoked the perpetrator in some way. He evidently hadn’t learned from previous experience to stay out of police business. Last time it had nearly cost Johan his life; now it was his little daughter’s life that hung in the balance. Knutas truly felt for Johan, and he rang him as soon as he found out what had happened. No answer, of course. Knutas then discovered that Johan was at the hospital with Emma, and he contacted him there. The reporter’s voice was barely audible when he at last picked up the phone.

  ‘I feel terrible about this,’ said Knutas. ‘I want you to know that we’re doing everything we can.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I need to know what sort of contact you’ve had with the killer,’ said Knutas. ‘Have you talked to him?’

  ‘No. But something else happened.’

  ‘What?’

  Johan told the superintendent about the photo that was left on the wall of the Regional News office.

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘I think it’s Erik Mattson. The man who’s an art valuer at Bukowski’s.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Knutas. He didn’t want to mention that Mattson was dead, because he thought that would alarm Johan further. The situation was bad enough as it was. ‘He’s not the one. It’s his son. David Mattson. It’s possible that he might try to contact you. We don’t know what he wants, but if you hear from him, you need to ring me immediately. Do you understand, Johan? It’s tremendously important that you ring my direct line at once. Then you and I will discuss how to handle the situation. OK?’