The Killer's Art Page 2

  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 of 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.

  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.

  A good-sized crowd soon filled the gallery. With its 3,000 square feet on two levels, the space was disproportionately large for Gotland. But the premises had been passed down through several generations, and Egon Wallin had tried to keep it in its original state as much as possible. He liked giving works of art plenty of space so as to make the best impression. And the gallery really did do these paintings justice – the rough walls presented an intense contrast to the brilliant colours and the expressive and ultramodern style. The gallery visitors strolled among the works, sipping sparkling wine. Music could be faintly heard between the rooms – the artist had insisted on the songs of a Lithuanian rock band that sounded like a mixture of Frank Zappa and the German synth band Kraftwerk.

  Egon had at least persuaded him to turn down the volume.

  Mattis was now looking much more relaxed. He walked through the crowd, talking loudly, laughing and gesticulating with his large hands, making the wine splash out of his glass. His movements were abrupt and uncontrolled, and every once in a while he would burst into hysterical laughter, almost doubling over.

  For one terrible moment Egon suspected that the artist must be on drugs, but he quickly brushed that thought aside. It was probably just his way of releasing nervous tension.

  ‘Hell of an opening, Egon. Really well done,’ he heard someone say behind him.

  He would recognize that hoarse, ingratiating voice from miles away.

  He turned around and found himself face to face with Sixten Dahl, one of Stockholm’s most successful gallery owners. He was wearing a black leather coat with trousers and boots to match, tinted glasses with orange frames, and he was fashionably unshaven. He looked like a bad imitation of George Michael. Sixten Dahl owned a gorgeous gallery on the corner of Karlavägen and Sturegatan in Östermalm, which was Stockholm’s most exclusive part of town.

  ‘You think so? How nice. And it’s great you could make it,’ Egon said with feigned enthusiasm.

  More or less as a joke, he’d seen to it that his competitor in Stockholm had received an invitation. Dahl had tried to get his mitts on Mattis Kalvalis, but Egon had emerged from the battle victorious.

  Both art dealers had been in Vilnius at a conference for gallery owners from the Baltic region. There the singular style of the young painter had caught their eye. During one of the dinners, Egon Wallin happened to be seated next to Mattis Kalvalis. They hit it off, and amazingly enough, Kalvalis had chosen the gallery on Gotland instead of Dahl’s gallery in the capital.

  Many people in the art world were surprised. Even though Wallin had a respected reputation, it was considered extraordinary that the artist had chosen him. Dahl was equally well known, and Stockholm was a much bigger city.

  The fact that Egon’s biggest competitor would turn up in Visby for the opening was in itself not so strange. Dahl was known for his persistence. Maybe he still believes that he can convince Kalvalis to change his mind, thought Egon. But he wasn’t going to have any luck. What Dahl didn’t know was that Kalvalis had already asked Egon to be his agent and represent him in all of Sweden.

  The contract had been drawn up and was just waiting for a signature.

  The opening was a success. The desire to buy a painting seemed to spread like an epidemic. Egon never ceased to be astounded by the herd mentality of people. If the right person paid the right price quickly enough, there would suddenly be many others who were willing to open their wallets. Sometimes it seemed as if luck was more important than quality when it came to evaluating art.

  A Gotland collector had raved about the work and put a hold on three of the paintings almost at once. That was enough to inspire others, and there was even a bidding war for a couple of the pieces. The prices were jacked up considerably. Egon Wallin was practically rubbing his hands. Now the rest of Sweden would be sitting at the artist’s feet.

  The only fly in the ointment was that the person he’d been expecting hadn’t yet turned up.

  The art connoisseur and valuer Erik Mattson had been assigned to make an extensive evaluation of a large estate in Burgsvik in southern Gotland. The head of Bukowski’s Auction House had asked him and a colleague to make the trip. A landowner on Gotland had a large collection of Swedish artwork from the early twentieth century that he now wanted to sell. The collection included about thirty pieces, from Zorn etchings to oil paintings by Georg Pauli and Isaac Grünewald.

  Mattson and his colleague had spent all of Friday in Burgsvik, which had certainly been an experience. The estate turned out to be a unique example of a genuine old Gotland limestone manor, and they were impressed by both the surroundings and the collection. They were well received by the owners, who invited them to stay for dinner. They then spent the night at the Strand Hotel in Visby.

  Erik wanted to get plenty of rest before Saturday. He had a lot on his agenda. He was going to start the day by visiting the place he loved above all others, although he hadn’t seen it in years.

  Right after breakfast he jumped in the car and set off. The day was overcast, and the weather forecast predicted snow. But he wasn’t going far. His destination was just five or six kilometres north of Visby.

  Just as he was about to turn down the driveway marked by a sign that said ‘Muramaris’, he noticed a car coming out. That surprised him. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be coming here in the wintertime.

  The parking area close to the road was designated for visitors, but since it was February it was deserted. When he got out of the car, he
paused on the gravel path to face the sea, which was only just visible from this distance. Far below, the waves rolled in, as steady and inevitable as the passing of the years.

  On either side of the path stood dense rows of trees, growing low to the ground and crooked, clearly stunted by the harsh autumn storms. He knew that there were no neighbouring houses.

  As he walked down the long slope, his eyes filled with tears. It was so long ago that he was last here. The treetops whispered around him, and the gravel crunched beneath his feet. He was alone, and that was precisely what he wanted. This was a sacred moment.

  As he rounded the bend and saw the house, snow began to fall. The flakes gently drifted down from the sky, settling softly on top of his head. He stopped to study the area spread out below: the dilapidated main building, the gardener’s residence, and further away the red-painted cottage that had its own special history.

  What a contrast it all was to the last time he was here. Back then it was summertime, and they had stayed for two weeks, just as the visiting artist and his lover had done, although that was almost two hundred years earlier.

  Erik had enjoyed every second they were here, sleeping in the same room where the artist had slept, simply being under the same roof, eating breakfast in the kitchen where he had once sat; not even the old cast-iron stove had changed since then. The walls could have told stories that Erik could only imagine.

  Right now he had a panoramic view of the home called Muramaris. The name meant ‘hearth by the sea’. The rectangular, sand-coloured main house had two storeys and had been built of limestone. Its architectural style was a unique blend of Italian Renaissance, with a loggia facing the sea, and a traditional Gotland estate. Large windows with white mullions graced each side, opening on to the woods, the water, and the austere Baroque garden at the back with its sculptures, fountains, flagstone paths and decorative flower beds.

  The man who’d had such an influence on Erik’s life had often visited this place, spending sunny summer weeks here, swimming, taking walks along the beach, painting, and spending time with the controversial artist couple who had built their dream house on this plateau at the beginning of the twentieth century. Even though so many years had passed since then, the artist’s presence was still strong.

  With some difficulty Erik opened the green wooden gate; it moved reluctantly, creaking loudly. He wandered around to the back. The house had stood empty for years, ever since the new owner had taken over, and the neglect was evident. The stucco was peeling off, the wall surrounding the property had crumbled in several places, some of the sculptures in the garden were now missing, and the once-so-proud building was sorely in need of renovation.

  He walked slowly along the flagstone path. Unlike the house, the garden had retained some of its former grandeur, with carefully pruned hedgerows. Near the pond in the middle of the garden he sat down on a bench. It was damp and cold, but that didn’t bother him any more than the snow, which was coming down harder now. His eyes were fixed on a particular window belonging to the guest room on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. It was there that one of the most myth-shrouded paintings in Swedish art history had been created. At least that was the rumour, and there was no reason to doubt the claim. The artist had worked on the large oil painting during the same year that he had designed the garden here at Muramaris, in the midst of a raging world war. The year was 1918.

  That was when Nils Dardel painted ‘The Dying Dandy’. Erik whispered the words as he sat there on the bench.

  The dying dandy. Just like himself.

  After a successful opening reception the whole gang from the gallery celebrated with a fancy dinner at the Donners Brunn restaurant in central Visby. Mattis Kalvalis sat in the middle and seemed to enjoy all the attention. Everyone at the table was in high spirits, and Egon Wallin thought the evening was a happy ending to his old life. They sat at the best table in the magnificent cellar dining room, basking in the glow of the candles, the superbly prepared food beautifully arranged on their plates.

  He raised his glass for yet another toast, and they all cheered for the new star in the firmament of art. Just as the shouts died out, two new guests appeared: Sixten Dahl, in the company of a younger man whom Egon had never seen before.

  They greeted everyone politely as they went past, and Sixten once again praised the exhibition, giving the artist a long look. What the hell is he up to now? thought Egon. As luck would have it, they sat down at a table on the other side of the room so that Egon was sitting with his back to them.

  Later, when he got up to go to the gents’, he discovered Mattis Kalvalis and Sixten Dahl together in the restaurant’s smoking room. They were alone, deeply immersed in what looked like a serious conversation. Anger surged up inside Egon at once. He opened the glass door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he snapped in Swedish to Sixten.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Egon?’ said his competitor, feigning surprise. ‘We’re having a smoke, and this is the smoking room.’

  ‘Don’t try any tricks. Mattis and I have a contract.’

  ‘Is that so? I heard that it wasn’t signed yet,’ said Sixten, stubbing out his cigarette and nonchalantly heading out of the door.

  Naturally Mattis didn’t understand a word of what was said. Yet he seemed visibly ill at ease.

  Egon decided to let the matter drop. He merely turned to the artist and said, ‘We have a deal, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course we do.’

  It was past eleven by the time Egon and his wife finally returned home. Monika wanted to go to bed at once. He explained that he was going to sit up for a while, to unwind and reflect on his day. He poured himself a glass of cognac and sat down in the living room.

  Now it was just a matter of waiting. He thought about the incident at Donners Brunn, but decided it had been nothing. Of course Sixten would keep trying. But the contract with Mattis was going to be signed the next day. They had agreed to meet at the gallery. Besides, the opening had been a success. He was confident that Kalvalis would remain loyal.

  He took a big gulp of the cognac. The minutes crept by. He tried to stay calm and restrain his eagerness. If Monika followed her usual routine, she would spend ten minutes in the bathroom, then crawl into bed and read a few pages of a book before turning off the light and falling asleep. That meant that he had to wait about twenty minutes before he could leave the house and walk over to the hotel. There wouldn’t be anyone on duty at the front desk this late at night, so there was no risk of being recognized.

  His whole body was looking forward to the rendezvous.

  His wife’s night-time regimen took longer than he had estimated, and Egon Wallin was feeling extremely annoyed by the time he finally set off. It was almost as if she had known that he had plans and so had read her book for longer than usual. Maybe even several chapters.

  He had tiptoed past the bedroom several times, as quietly as he could, noting that her light was still on as his body itched with eagerness, almost like eczema. Finally she turned off the light. Just to make sure that she was actually asleep, he waited another fifteen minutes. Then he cautiously opened the door and listened to her regular breathing before he dared leave.

  When he came out on to the street, he breathed a sigh of relief. Anticipation burned on his lips and tongue. Briskly he set off. The lights were out in most of the windows that he passed, even though it was Saturday and not yet midnight. He had no desire to run into a neighbour – around here everybody knew everyone else. They had bought the terraced house when it was new and their children were young. Their marriage had been relatively happy, and their lives had taken the expected path. Egon had never been unfaithful, even though he did a great deal of travelling for his job and met all sorts of people.

  A year ago he had gone to Stockholm on one of his customary business trips. Passion had struck him like lightning, and in the course of one night, everything changed. He had been completely unprepared. Suddenly his life had assumed a new pu
rpose, a new meaning.

  Having sex with Monika had become almost unbearable. Her response to his half-hearted initiatives had been cool over the last few years. Their activities in bed finally ceased altogether, which was a great relief; they never spoke about the matter.

  But now he felt desire burning inside him. He chose the quickest route past the hospital and the hills near Strandgärdet. He would be there soon. He took out his mobile to say that he was on his way.

  Just as he was tapping in the number he tripped and fell. In the dark he hadn’t noticed the big tree root sticking up in the path ahead of him. He hit his head hard on a rock, and for a few seconds he lost consciousness. When he came to, he felt blood running from his forehead and down his cheek. For a moment he just sat there on the cold ground. Fortunately he had a tissue in his pocket so he could wipe off the blood. The cuts on his forehead and right cheek were quite painful.

  Damn it, he thought. Not now.

  Cautiously he touched his face with his fingertips. Luckily the cuts didn’t seem serious, but a big bump had started swelling above his right eyebrow.

  Feeling dizzy, he had to walk slowly at first, but he soon reached the wall. From there it wasn’t very far to the hotel.

  He had just passed the small opening in the wall facing the sea, the so-called Kärleksport, or Gate of Love, when he suddenly sensed the presence of someone very close by. All of a sudden he felt something sweep past his ear before he was pressed backward.

  Egon Wallin would never make it to his intended rendezvous.