The killer's art ak-4 Page 18

‘Do any of them have ties to Gotland?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Did you or anyone else here know Egon Wallin?’

  ‘I didn’t, but I can’t speak for the others. Although I think I would have heard about it if they did, considering the horrible thing that happened to him.’

  ‘Have you ever had any sort of collaboration with his gallery in Visby?’

  ‘Not since I’ve been the director here.’

  ‘Do you know if anyone has been in contact with Muramaris, the gallery in Visby, or any other enterprise on Gotland?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Jacobsson turned to Fogestam. ‘Have you interviewed all the staff?’

  ‘The interviews are still being conducted. I don’t think they’re finished yet.’

  ‘I’d like a list of the employees.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll take care of it. But there are no indications that this was an inside job.’

  ‘The thief was very familiar with the site,’ Jacobsson pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but the blueprints of the building are available to anybody who bothers to look for them.’

  ‘By the way, what else is on display in the current exhibition?’ she asked Sommer.

  ‘Swedish art from the early 1900s to 1930s. And of course we have paintings from the prince’s personal collection. Some of them are on permanent display and are never moved. Many of the works of art are much more valuable than the Dardel painting. We have works by Liljefors and Munch that could raise a significantly higher price than “The Dying Dandy”. Why was that the only painting that the thieves took? It’s incomprehensible.’

  On their way to the room where the painting had hung, Sommer took the opportunity to tell Jacobsson about Waldemarsudde, since this was her first visit.

  ‘The prince was a broad-minded person who supported the Swedish artists of his day,’ he explained. ‘His home was finished in 1905, and it became a gathering place for free-thinking people; the social life flourished out here. He was personal friends with many of the artists. And he himself became a great landscape painter. His collection contains more than two thousand works,’ Sommer went on enthusiastically, as if forgetting why Fogestam and Jacobsson were there.

  ‘Do you have other paintings by Nils Dardel here?’

  ‘We’ve borrowed three other paintings for this exhibition. And Dardel did a pencil sketch of Prince Eugen that is part of his collection. No other paintings were stolen.’

  They entered the bright, beautiful areas that were the former living quarters of the prince. They immediately noticed a strong floral scent. The rooms were furnished in a style typical of Sweden in the early 1900s. Fresh flowers filled all the rooms, in accordance with the prince’s wishes. There were scarlet amaryllis, shimmering blue hyacinths, and great bouquets of tulips in assorted colours.

  Jacobsson knew that Prince Eugen had never married, and he’d had no children. She wondered whether he might have been homosexual, but didn’t dare ask.

  The dominant room was the prince’s drawing room. Light flooded in through the tall French windows and on to the yellow silk wallpaper. Most eye-catching was the large painting titled ‘Stromkarlen’ by Ernst Josephson, with the motif of the fiddle-playing Nacken spirit sitting on the rocks by a roaring river. Sommer stopped there.

  ‘This painting has been set into the wall and can’t be moved. It was the prince’s favourite.’

  The naked young man who was the central figure was handsome and sensitive-looking; there was something both tragic and tender about the scene. The position of the painting was well chosen. It was highly visible, and the gilded fiddle of the river sprite harmonized with the yellow silk wallpaper in the room.

  The floor creaked under their feet as they passed through the rooms: the conservatory, with its marvellous view of the city and Stockholm’s estuary; the dark-green library, its shelves filled with art-history books, and its ostentatious fireplace.

  Finally the museum director ushered them towards the dining room, where ‘The Dying Dandy’ had hung. The room was still cordoned off, so they had to make do with looking inside from the doorway. The dining room had light-green walls, an impressive crystal chandelier, and elegant Rococo furniture typical of the eighteenth century. One of the walls was noticeably bare. The frame had been removed to be examined by the police technicians.

  ‘Yes, well,’ sighed Sommer, ‘that’s where it was.’

  ‘Isn’t the painting quite large?’ asked Jacobsson.

  ‘Yes, it is. Almost six feet wide and four feet tall.’

  ‘So he must have stood on something to be able to cut it out of the frame.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We found one of those ultra-light aluminium ladders in the room. He didn’t bother to take it with him.’

  ‘And the sculpture? Where did you find it?’

  ‘Right in front, on that little table.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘The police have taken it.’

  Jacobsson stared at the bare wall and then at the table in front. A triangular pattern was emerging. Egon Wallin — Muramaris — ‘The Dying Dandy’. At the moment it seemed impossible to figure out how everything fitted together. By stealing the sculpture from Wallin’s gallery and placing it here, the thief obviously wanted to tell them something. Was the thief who took the painting the same person who had killed Egon Wallin?

  It suddenly seemed highly likely.

  48

  The theft at Waldemarsudde was of course the top story on all the TV news programmes, and Johan received much praise for his efforts at the morning meeting the following day. Regional News had been the first to report that the perpetrator had entered the museum and then made his escape across the ice. Of course, the other news editors at Swedish TV got their hands on some of Johan’s material and used it in their own reports. As soon as a reporter returned to television headquarters, he was supposed to share his material with everyone there. That way all of the reporters could make use of the interviews and pictures that were available. But Johan had begun to resist this way of operating. He didn’t want to run the risk of not being able to edit his own story just because he had to spend all his time providing material and information for everybody else. He also thought it was wrong that he and the cameraman, who worked hard to obtain unique images and exclusive interviews, should have to dole these out like free sweets to children and then see them be chopped into pieces for different broadcasts. That was no fun, nor did it do anything for his professional pride. Both he and the cameraman suffered. So he had started objecting to this procedure, and that in turn had provoked reactions from both management and his colleagues. It was certainly not a good strategy for anyone angling for a rise in salary, or who had ambitions about climbing the career ladder. On the other hand, he thought it might make it easier for him to be transferred to Gotland, if a permanent position was ever established on the island. Then the Stockholm office would be rid of a difficult reporter.

  Even though he was now back in Stockholm, he couldn’t help wondering what was happening with the murder investigation on Gotland. When the morning meeting was over, he spent a few hours trying to get information. He tried ringing both Knutas and Jacobsson, but without any luck. Pia Lilja was at home in bed with the flu, so she had nothing useful to tell him. Finally he had to settle for talking to Lars Norrby. Johan asked him if anything new had happened in the investigation.

  ‘Well, nothing that I can really discuss at the moment.’

  ‘But there must be something you can tell me. We have to keep the viewers interested in the story, and that’s to your benefit too. So that anyone who happens to have information will contact the police.’

  ‘Don’t try any of your tricks on me. I’ve been in this job too long.’

  Johan could hear that Norrby was smiling. He was still in the good graces of Visby’s police force after the drama of the previous year, so he decided to keep trying to get more information. After mak
ing various attempts to prise something out of the police spokesman for a good fifteen minutes, he finally had the man where he wanted him. When Johan asked if Jacobsson was away, since he hadn’t been able to get hold of her on the phone, Norrby replied that she’d gone to Stockholm on police business.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Johan.

  ‘Because of the robbery, of course.’

  That stopped Johan short, and he wasn’t quite sure how to continue. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘The robbery at Waldemarsudde. We’re investigating a connection to the murder of Egon Wallin.’

  Johan gave a start. What on earth was the man talking about? He waited for a few seconds, hoping that Norrby would let slip something more.

  The police spokesman apparently found the silence bothersome because he then went on. ‘All right, let’s keep this between us, but the sculpture that was left behind at the crime scene at Waldemarsudde was the same one that was stolen from Egon Wallin’s gallery.’

  Johan hadn’t known that a sculpture had been stolen from the gallery in Visby, but he decided to play along.

  ‘Oh, I see. Hmm. Well, thanks for the info.’

  49

  Max Grenfors was tipping back the chair at his desk, which was the focal point of the editorial offices. As usual, he held a phone to each ear. Next to him sat the newscaster, her eyes fixed on the computer monitor. She had earphones on and was watching a news story. So it would be best not to disturb them. The news producer was busy trying to find images for a report on domestic violence, which was always a difficult story to illustrate. There was a risk that the same old images would crop up over and over again.

  All of the reporters were preoccupied with editing their stories; it was obvious from the pulse of the editorial offices that only a few hours remained before the news broadcast.

  Johan felt as if he would burst if he didn’t tell someone the incredible news he’d just heard. He tapped Grenfors on the shoulder and motioned that he had something important to report. For once the editor acknowledged the urgency and ended his phone conversations. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘Certain reporters seem to need help with everything. It’s crazy! Soon I’ll probably even have to do their interviews for them!’

  Johan was well aware of how much the editor liked to get involved in a story, so he didn’t take his complaints too seriously. ‘Listen to this,’ he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to Grenfors. ‘The robbery at Waldemarsudde wasn’t just an ordinary art theft.’

  ‘No?’ A glimmer of interest appeared in Grenfors’ eyes.

  ‘No. The thief didn’t just steal a painting. He also left something behind.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘He put a sculpture near the empty frame where the painting used to hang.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. And it wasn’t just any sculpture. It’s the one that was stolen during Egon Wallin’s gallery opening on the day of his murder.’

  ‘So what does it mean? That the person who killed Egon Wallin also stole the painting?’

  ‘Very possibly,’ said Johan.

  ‘How reliable is your source for this?’

  ‘Got it straight from the police.’

  Grenfors took off the glasses that he’d begun to wear lately. He’d chosen designer frames, of course. ‘So there’s a connection between the theft and the murder. But how the hell does it fit together?’

  He cast a quick glance at his watch.

  ‘Damn it all, we’ve got to have this. Get over to editing — you’ve got to put together a spot about this straight away.’

  The news that there was a clear link between the daring burglary at Waldemarsudde and the murder of Egon Wallin, and that the perpetrator wanted the police to be aware of it, headed all the news programmes on Tuesday evening.

  Johan was pleased, and not just because he was responsible for the hottest news story two days in a row. Before he went home, he was told to take the first plane back to Visby the next morning.

  K arin Jacobsson looked her boss in the eye as he sat down at the table opposite her. And then she said the words that he didn’t want to hear.

  ‘I’m resigning, Anders.’

  Everything started spinning around in his head. He couldn’t seem to grasp the meaning of the words; they just kept bouncing off him and disappearing in the distance.

  Knutas slowly lowered his fork. He had just speared a big piece of boiled cod with egg sauce. ‘What did you say? You can’t be serious.’

  He cast a glance at the clock on the wall, as if he wanted to document the moment when his closest colleague stated that she was leaving him.

  Jacobsson gave Knutas a sympathetic look. ‘Yes, I am, Anders. Quite serious. I’ve been offered a position in Stockholm. With the NCP.’

  ‘What?’

  His fully loaded fork was still hovering in the air as if his arm were frozen, paralysed by Karin’s statement. She looked down and began poking at her food as she went on. All of a sudden it seemed to Knutas that the whole cafeteria stank of egg sauce, and the smell made him feel sick.

  ‘It’s actually Kihlgard’s boss at the NCP who offered me the job. I’ll be working with the same team as Martin. It’ll be a challenge for me, Anders. You need to understand that. And there’s nothing holding me here.’

  Knutas stared at her in astonishment. Her words were ringing in his ears. Martin Kihlgard again. Of course he would be the one behind the job offer. Knutas had never really been taken in by that jovial demeanour of his. The man was a snake. Slippery and untrustworthy underneath that inoffensive facade.

  From the very beginning there had been a real chemistry between Kihlgard and Jacobsson, and that had upset Knutas, although he would never admit it.

  ‘But what about us?’

  Karin sighed. ‘Come on, Anders, it’s not like we’re a couple. We work really well together, but I want to try something new. And besides, I’m tired of sitting here mouldering away. Of course I like my job and working with you and all the others, but nothing else is happening in my life. I’m going to turn forty soon. I want to grow, both in my professional and my personal life.’

  Red patches had appeared on Jacobsson’s throat, always a sure sign that she was upset or was finding the situation uncomfortable.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Knutas didn’t know what to say. He was at a complete loss as he stared at the petite, dark-eyed woman sitting across from him.

  Then she sighed and stood up. ‘That’s how it’s going to be, at any rate. I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘But…’

  That was as far as he got. She picked up her tray and walked away.

  He was left sitting at the table alone. He stared out of the window at the grey car park barely visible through a snowy haze. He was mortified to feel tears filling his eyes. He cast a furtive glance around. The cafeteria was packed with colleagues talking and laughing as they ate.

  He didn’t know how he was going to do his job without Karin. She gave him so much. At the same time he could understand why she’d made this decision. Of course Karin wanted the chance to develop in her job, and maybe meet someone and have a family. Like everybody else.

  Feeling dejected, Knutas went back to his office, closed the door, and took his pipe out of the top drawer of his desk. He filled the pipe with tobacco, but this time he didn’t leave it unlit, as usual. Instead, he lit the pipe and then opened the window and stood there in the breeze. Was she really serious about this? Where would she live? She and Kihlgard may have hit it off, but in the long run would she be able to stand him and his eternal obsession with food? Of course he was pleasant enough in small doses, but what about on a daily basis?

  The moment he had that thought, he was struck by an awful insight. Maybe he wasn’t so much fun himself. Here she was, working with him every day, and he thought they had a great working relationship. He was fond of Karin; he appreciated her lively manner and her temperament,
which sometimes manifested itself in surprising ways. Karin brightened up his life, made him feel alive at work. Because of her, he felt better about himself. But what about her? What did she think about him? All his complaints and grumbling about cutbacks in the police force. He searched his memory. What exactly did he give Karin in return? What did she get from him? Apparently not much.

  The question was whether it was too late to do anything about the matter. Karin hadn’t yet submitted her resignation. Maybe she was planning to take a leave of absence first — to try it out. Her parents and all of her friends lived here on Gotland. Would she be happy on the mainland — and in the big city? Knutas felt panic-stricken at the mere thought of showing up for work every day without her.

  He had to find a solution. Anything at all.

  50

  Late on Friday afternoon Knutas had something else to preoccupy his thoughts. The Stockholm police emailed him a list of individuals in Sweden who were considered to have a special interest in Nils Dardel.

  He scanned the list, at first not recognizing a single name. But when he reached the middle, he stopped abruptly. The letters practically jumped off the page as they formed a name that he’d already encountered several times during the investigation. Erik Mattson.

  Knutas slowly exhaled through his nostrils. Why on earth did this man’s name keep cropping up?

  He got up and looked out of the window, trying to keep his excitement in check. Erik Mattson, the man who valued works of art at Bukowski’s and who had also attended the gallery opening here in Visby. He had assessed the stolen paintings found at Egon Wallin’s home without mentioning that he’d been on Gotland on the day of the murder. Knutas was ashamed to admit to himself that he’d actually forgotten to ring Mattson and question him about that. The theft at Waldemarsudde had taken precedence.

  Just before receiving the email, Knutas had been about to leave for the day. He’d planned to buy a couple of bottles of wine and some flowers for Lina on his way home. He’d been neglecting his family far too much lately.