The killer's art ak-4

  The killer's art

  ( Anders Knutas - 4 )

  Mari Jungstedt

  Mari Jungstedt

  The killer's art

  PROLOGUE

  Two seconds. That was all it took to destroy him. To tear his life apart. Two pitiful seconds.

  The malevolent thoughts that raced back and forth in his head at night refused to let go. For weeks they’d been keeping him awake. Not until the borderland between night and day did he finally slip into a liberating slumber. He could escape his thoughts for a few hours. Then he woke again to the hell that had been forced upon him. A lonely, private inferno that raged beneath his controlled exterior. Sharing it with anyone else was impossible.

  It was during those two seconds that he had fallen headfirst into the blackest abyss. Never would he have imagined that the truth could be so merciless.

  It took a while before he understood what he had to do. Slowly and irrevocably the realization had crept in. He would have to set to work on his own. There was no going back, no back door that he could slip through and pretend to the world and himself that nothing had happened.

  It all started one day when he suddenly discovered a secret, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He went around carrying the knowledge inside him for a while. It itched, chafed and irritated him like a sore that had split open and refused to heal.

  Eventually he might have put it out of his mind. Convinced himself that it was best to leave it be. If only he had done.

  If only curiosity hadn’t prompted him to investigate further, so he couldn’t forget, so he had to find out more. Even if it hurt.

  The fateful day arrived, although he didn’t know it at the time, not at first. Not in his mind, at least. Maybe his body had sensed the danger instinctively. Maybe not.

  He was home alone. For a large part of the night he had lain awake, thinking about the thing that had preoccupied him for the past few weeks. With an effort he got out of bed when he heard the day coming awake outside the window.

  He had no appetite, and he barely managed to get down a cup of tea. He merely sat at the kitchen table staring at the overcast sky and the high-rise building opposite; he had no idea how long he sat there. Frustration finally drove him out of his flat.

  The morning was well under way, but as always in November, it never got truly light. The snow on the pavement was a dirty brown, and people were hurrying through the slush without looking anyone else in the eye. The cold was raw and damp, not conducive to indolent strolling.

  He decided to go back to that place, without having any real reason to do so. He was just obeying an impulse. If he had known what was going to happen, he wouldn’t have gone. But it was as if the whole thing were pre-destined.

  When he turned down the street, the man was just locking the door. He followed the man at a distance as he walked to the bus stop. The bus arrived almost at once. It was packed with people, and he practically rubbed shoulders with the man as they stood crowded together in the centre aisle.

  The man got off at the NK department store and with determined steps pushed his way through the hordes of Saturday shoppers. He walked briskly towards the city centre in his elegant woollen coat with a scarf nonchalantly flung over his shoulder, smoking a cigarette. Abruptly he turned off on to a side street.

  The man had never taken this route before. His pursuer’s pulse quickened but he kept back at a safe distance. Just to be sure, he walked along the opposite side of the street, but he still had a good view.

  Suddenly he lost his quarry. He crossed the street and found a metal door that was so unobtrusive it merged with the shabby facade of the building. He cast a surreptitious glance in both directions. The man must have disappeared through the door, and he decided to follow. He didn’t know how devastating the consequences would be as he pressed down the door handle.

  Inside, a faint red light on the ceiling provided scant illumination. The walls were painted black. A steep staircase, its steps marked by tiny lights, led straight down to a basement flat. Not a sound was audible. Hesitantly he descended the stairs and ended up in a long, empty corridor. It was dimly lit, and he could only sense that people were moving about in the dark up ahead.

  It was the middle of the day, but that wasn’t evident in the basement. The world outside didn’t exist. In here other codes prevailed. He understood that after only a few moments.

  Seemingly endless corridors wound their way in a complicated labyrinth. Shadowy figures came and went, and he couldn’t distinguish the face of the man he’d been following. He strained not to take in what he was seeing, wanting to protect himself. Impressions tugged at his attention, tried to get under his skin.

  He got lost and ended up next to a door. That cursed door. If only he hadn’t opened it.

  Two seconds it took him to register what was happening inside, to comprehend what he was seeing.

  That sight would ruin his life.

  1

  At dawn there was already a tension in the air.

  Egon Wallin had slept badly, tossing and turning all night. The terraced house where he lived stood at the shoreline, just outside Visby’s ring wall. For hours he had lain awake, staring into the dark as he listened to the sea outside.

  The cause of his insomnia was not the stormy weather. After this weekend his well-ordered life would be turned totally upside-down, and he was the only one who knew what lay ahead. The plans had been formulated over the past six months, and now there was no going back. His twenty-year marriage would be over when Monday arrived.

  It was no surprise that he’d had trouble sleeping. His wife Monika lay wrapped up in the covers with her back to him. Neither his restlessness nor the awful weather seemed to trouble her in the least. She slept soundly, taking long, deep breaths.

  When the digital clock showed 4:45, he gave up and got out of bed. He slipped out of the bedroom and pulled the door shut behind him. The face he saw in the bathroom mirror was unshaven and bags were clearly visible under his eyes, in spite of the dimmed light. For a long time he let the shower water run over his body.

  In the kitchen he made coffee. The hiss of the espresso machine blended with the howling of the wind whipping around the corner of the house. The storm seemed to match his emotional state, which was just as agitated and chaotic. After twenty-five years as an art dealer and owner of Visby’s foremost gallery, with a stable marriage, two grown children and a relatively humdrum existence, his life had taken a drastic turn. He had no idea what the future would bring.

  This irrevocable decision had been a long time coming. The change he had undergone during the past year was both amazing and dramatic. He no longer recognized himself; at the same time he was closer to his real self than ever before. Emotions surged inside his body as if he were a teenager, as if he had awakened from a torpor that had gone on for decades. The new aspects of himself that he’d discovered both enticed and frightened him.

  Outwardly he behaved as usual, trying to appear impassive. Monika knew nothing of his plans, which were bound to come as a shock to her. Not that he cared. Their marriage had died long ago. He knew what he wanted, and nothing else mattered.

  His resolve calmed him enough that he was able to sit down on one of the bar stools at the modern kitchen island and enjoy his double macchiato. He opened the newspaper, looked for page seven, and studied the advertisement with satisfaction. It was positioned at the top right of the page, and it looked good. A lot of people would show up.

  Before he started off on his walk into town, he went to the shore and stood there for a moment. The mornings were getting lighter earlier each day. Even now, in mid-February, it was possible to sense that spring was coming. The stones scattered on the beach were typical
for Gotland, as were the boulders sticking out of the water here and there. Seagulls flew low over the surface, opening their beaks wide to shriek. Random waves rose up with no discernible rhythm or pattern. The air was so cold it brought tears to his eyes. The grey horizon seemed full of promise. Especially when he thought of what he would be doing later that evening.

  The thought cheered him up, and he set off for town, covering the kilometre distance at a brisk pace.

  Once inside the ring wall, the wind was not as blustery. The narrow lanes were silent and deserted. At such an early hour on a Saturday, not a soul was around. Up near the heart of town, at Stora Torget, which was the central marketplace, he encountered the first sign of life. A bakery van stood outside the ICA supermarket. The doors at the back of the store were open to accept deliveries, and he could hear a clattering sound from inside.

  As he approached the gallery his stomach twisted into a knot. On Monday he was going to leave the art business to which he had devoted his entire professional life. He had put his heart and soul into this gallery; he couldn’t begin to count the number of hours he’d spent here.

  He stopped and stood outside on the street for a moment, staring at the facade. The big modern glass windows faced the open square and the thirteenth-century ruins of St Karin’s church. Inside the medieval church were arches and underground passages from the same period. Against this historic backdrop he had created a modern and discriminating gallery using light, airy colours, and had added a few unique details that gave the place a personal touch. Visitors to the gallery often praised him for his exquisite combination of the old and the new.

  He unlocked the front door, went up to his office and hung up his coat. Not only was this weekend going to be a turning point for him personally, it marked the opening night of the first art show of the year. It would also be his last. At least here in Visby. The sale of the gallery had gone through all the legal red tape, and the new owner had signed the contract. Everything was now in place. And he was the only person on Gotland who knew about the sale.

  He went back downstairs to survey the gallery space. The paintings had all been hung as they should. He straightened one that was slightly crooked. The invitations had been sent out several weeks earlier, and the advance interest indicated that they could expect a large turnout.

  The catering company would arrive soon. He made one last check of the paintings and the lighting. He was always very particular about such things. The paintings had been carefully arranged to showcase them at their best. They were very striking, exploding with strong colours. Expressionistic and abstract, filled with youthful energy and power. Some were brutal, violent and horrifyingly dark. The artist, Mattis Kalvalis, was a young Lithuanian, until now unknown in Sweden. So far his work had been shown only in the Baltic countries. Egon Wallin enjoyed taking a risk on unknown quantities, new artists who had their whole future ahead of them. He went to the front of the gallery and put the black-and-white photo of Mattis Kalvalis on display in the window.

  As he raised his eyes and looked out at the street, he noticed a man standing a short distance away, staring right at him. He had on a baggy, black down jacket, with a knitted cap pulled low over his forehead, and surprisingly he was wearing big dark sunglasses in the middle of winter. There wasn’t even a hint of sunshine.

  It was odd how he just stood there. Maybe he was waiting for someone.

  Unconcerned, the art dealer continued pottering about the gallery. The local radio station was playing listener requests, and at the moment Lill-Babs was singing, or Barbro Svensson as he preferred to call her. He smiled a bit as he straightened one of the more violent paintings, which had an almost pornographic theme. What a contrast to the tune coming from the radio: ‘Do you still love me, Klas-Goran?’

  When Egon turned around to face the street again, he gave a start. The man he had seen in the distance had moved. He was now standing very close to the big display window, so close that the tip of his nose was practically touching the glass. For some reason the stranger was looking Egon right in the eye, although he made no sign of offering any sort of greeting.

  Instinctively Egon took a step back and nervously began looking for something to do. He pretended to be arranging the wine glasses that had been set out the night before. Then he moved on to the platters for the hors d’oeuvres that the catering company would be bringing.

  ‘Klas-Goran’ had faded away, to be replaced by Magnus Uggla singing a lively pop tune from the eighties.

  Out of the corner of his eye Egon saw the mysterious man still standing in the exact same place. An uneasy feeling crept over him. Was he a nutcase released from St Olof? He wasn’t about to let this idiot provoke him. He’ll leave soon, Egon thought. He’ll get tired of standing there if he doesn’t see me. The front door was locked, he was sure of that. The gallery wouldn’t open until one o’clock since they were having an opening reception for the new exhibition.

  He climbed the stairs to his office, went in and shut the door. He sat down and started fiddling with some papers, but the feeling of uneasiness refused to let up. He needed to do something. Confront that man on the street. Find out what he wanted.

  Annoyed at being interrupted in this way, he got up and quickly went back downstairs, only to find that the man was gone.

  With a sigh of relief, Egon went back to work.

  A fierce wind woke him. The windowpanes were rattling and a branch was slamming against the wall of the house. The sea was roaring, and a whistling sound came from the treetops. The covers had slipped off on to the floor, and he was cold. The few electric-heating units weren’t enough to warm the cottage properly. It wasn’t usually rented out in the wintertime, but he had managed to persuade the woman who owned the place to make an exception. He had claimed that he was doing research for the Agricultural Ministry about the threat to the Gotland sugar industry, but it was on a freelance basis, which meant that he couldn’t afford a hotel room. The owner hadn’t really understood his explanation, but she didn’t bother to ask any further questions. Renting the place out didn’t involve any more work for her; it was just a matter of handing over the key.

  He climbed out of bed and pulled on a shirt and trousers. He had to go out, despite the bad weather. The cottage had both a kitchen and a toilet, but the water had been turned off.

  He was met by a blast of wind when he opened the door, which slammed shut behind him as he stepped outside. He went around the corner and took up a position as close to the wall as possible at the back of the cottage, which faced the woods. There it was somewhat calmer. He unzipped his fly and aimed the stream at the wall.

  Back inside the kitchen, he ate a couple of bananas and mixed himself a protein drink, which he downed as he stood at the counter. Ever since he’d come up with the plan two months earlier, he’d felt a certainty, a conviction that there was no other option. Hatred had invaded his body, making his tongue sour and his thoughts sharp. Methodically he had worked out all the preparations, ticking them off point by point with meticulous precision. Everything had been done in secret. The fact that nobody knew what was going on incited him even more. He was in control, and that was an advantage that would make all his plans succeed. Time after time he had gone over the details until not a single flaw or pitfall remained. The time had now arrived. It was a cunning and ingenious idea that would not be easy to execute.

  He leaned forward and peered out of the window. The only drawback was the bloody wind. That would make it more difficult for him, and in the worst case might even upset the whole plan. At the same time, it presented certain advantages. The worse the weather, the fewer people would be out, and that lessened the risk of discovery.

  His throat felt scratchy. Was he coming down with a cold? He pressed his hand to his forehead. Damned if he didn’t have a fever. Shit. He found a bottle of acetaminophen and swallowed two tablets with water from a container on the counter. This was no time to be getting a cold, because he was going to need every ounce o
f muscular strength.

  The backpack with all the equipment was ready. One last time he checked to see that he had everything he needed. Then he quickly zipped it shut and sat down in front of the mirror. With practised movements he applied the make-up, inserted the contact lenses, and glued the wig in place. He had tried out this disguise so many times, just to make sure it would be perfect. When he was done he paused to study the transformation for a moment.

  The next time he looked in the mirror, he would be seeing the face of a murderer. He wondered if it would be obvious.

  2

  Mattis Kalvalis was nervous and had to go out to have a smoke practically every ten minutes.

  ‘What if nobody comes?’ he kept saying in his strident Eastern European accent. His face was even paler than usual, and his lanky body was in constant motion among his paintings. Several times Egon Wallin had shown him the advertisement in the paper and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Everything will be just fine — trust me.’

  Kalvalis’s manager, who had come with him from Lithuania, wasn’t much help. He mostly sat outside the gallery smoking and talking on his mobile phone, apparently not bothered by the icy wind.

  It looked as though there was going to be a good turnout for the opening of the show. When Egon unlocked the door of the gallery, there was a long queue of people waiting outside, stamping their feet in the cold.

  Many familiar faces smiled at him, their eyes bright with anticipation. He looked in vain for a certain person in the crowd now streaming into the gallery. There was still plenty of time. It was going to be hard to feign indifference.

  He noted with satisfaction that the cultural reporter from the local radio station had just come in. After a while he caught sight of yet another journalist from one of the local papers, interviewing the artist. His PR campaign, with press releases and follow-up phone calls, had apparently worked.