The killer's art

13

Emma had just come through the door when the phone rang. She set Elin down on the floor. Dressed in a heavy snowsuit, her daughter sat there motionless, looking like a little Michelin man.

‘Emma Winarve.’

‘Hi, it’s me, Johan.’

Why did she always feel a burning in her stomach whenever she suddenly heard his voice?

‘Hi!’

Elin started to cry. Emma kept her eyes fixed on her daughter as she spoke.

‘I’m in Visby. Tried to ring earlier, but no one answered.’ ‘No, I’ve been out for a long walk. But listen, could I call you back in ten minutes? I’ve just stepped in the door with Elin.’

‘Sure. Do that.’

Emma quickly got Elin undressed, turning her head away when she noticed the stink of her daughter’s nappy. She took Elin into the bathroom to get her changed. She thought about Johan as she tended to Elin. She’d missed him more than usual lately. Not for any practical reason. She was doing fine, and Elin was an easy child to take care of. Sara and Filip had also adapted to their new routine and were beginning to get used to the idea of life after the divorce. Sara was in third grade and Filip in second. There was only a year between them, and sometimes she thought they were almost like twins. Nowadays they enjoyed playing together, and they got along even better than before the divorce. The children had drawn closer together because of their parents’ separation. At the same time it was also rather sad, as if their faith and trust in their parents had diminished. At such a young age they had been forced to realize that nothing lasted for ever and nothing could be taken for granted.

For the sake of the children, Emma was cautious about her new relationship. Of course that was the reason why her marriage had failed, but she wasn’t yet ready to throw herself into a new family arrangement. She had consciously kept Johan at a distance, even though she was more in love with him than ever.

Her life had been turned completely upside-down since they met, and sometimes she wondered if it was all worth it. Yet in her heart she had no doubt. That was why she had decided to carry their child to term, even though the pregnancy was unplanned and Elin had come into the world at a time when her relationship with Johan was on very shaky ground.

The fact that Johan had almost died when Elin was only a month old had shocked Emma more than she’d at first been willing to admit. Since then she had no doubt whatsoever that she wanted to live with him. It was just a matter of doing everything at the right time and in the proper order, for the sake of the children.

She picked up Elin and nuzzled her soft neck. Dinner would have to wait. She sat down on the sofa and punched in the number of Johan’s mobile. He answered at once.

‘Hi, sweetheart. How are things?’

‘Fine. How come you’re here? Has something happened?’

‘A man was found dead in Dalman Gate. He was murdered.’

‘Oh my God. When did it happen?’

‘This morning. Didn’t you hear about it on the radio? They’ve been talking about nothing else all day long.’

‘No, I missed it. Sounds awful. Do you know who it was?’

‘Yes, the art dealer on Stora Torget.’

‘What? Egon Wallin? Is that true?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No, but everybody knows who he is. Was he robbed? Is that what happened?’

‘I don’t think so. It seems a little much to go about hanging a person in that way, so I suspect there’s something else behind it.’

‘You mean he was hanged from the gate? God, how macabre. It sounds like those horrible murders from last summer. Do you think somebody was incited by them?’

‘You mean a copycat killer? Let’s hope not. Although I don’t know exactly how Wallin was murdered, only that he was found hanging from the gate. The police aren’t saying much. But Pia and I are up to our eyeballs in work. We’re doing stories for Regional News, Rapport and Aktuellt.’

‘So you’re busy tonight?’

Johan’s voice took on a softer tone. ‘I was thinking of asking you whether I could come over later. After I’m done.’

‘Sure, do that. That would be great.’

‘I might not get there until around nine or even later, depending on whether anything happens about the murder.’

‘That’s OK. It doesn’t matter. Come over whenever you can.’

K nutas could hear excited voices coming from the conference room as he arrived for the meeting with the investigative team on Sunday evening. Everyone else was already there, crowded around one of the computers on the table.

‘Those damned reporters,’ growled Wittberg. ‘Don’t they have any brains at all?’ He tapped his finger on his temple.

‘What are you talking about?’ Knutas came over to join his colleague and find out what was going on.

The front page of the online version of the evening paper showed a photo of Egon Wallin hanging from Dalman Gate. The headline was simple and terse. ‘MURDERED’ it said in big black letters.

The only mitigating detail was the fact that the face was partially hidden by a police officer, making it impossible to identify the victim.

Knutas shook his head.

Wittberg went on. ‘Don’t they have any consideration for his family? Good Lord, the man has children!’

‘That picture isn’t going to turn up on the front page of the printed edition, is it?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘Surely that would be going too far.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s even worth holding press conferences any more,’ said Wittberg. ‘They just seem to get the reporters all worked up.’

‘Maybe we got a little ahead of ourselves this time,’ Knutas admitted.

He’d been foolish enough to let Norrby convince him that a press conference would calm down the media and give the police more chance to do their work in peace. But the result seemed to be the complete opposite.

He felt his irritation growing. A persistent headache throbbed at the back of his head.

‘The clock’s ticking, and we need to start talking about more important matters,’ he said, taking his usual seat at one end of the table.

Everybody sat down so the meeting could begin.

‘We’re now positive that we’re dealing with a homicide. I’ve received an initial statement from the ME, who agrees with Sohlman that the victim’s injuries speak quite clearly. The body will be transported by boat to the mainland this evening, to be taken to forensics. I’m hoping that by tomorrow we’ll have a preliminary post-mortem report. Wallin also has a number of peculiar facial injuries, and we’d like to find an explanation for them. Out of consideration for his family, we’ll wait to search both his home and the gallery. I just had an interesting conversation with one of his employees, a woman named Eva Blom. She told me that a sculpture is missing from the gallery. It’s a small piece made of Gotland limestone. It’s called “Yearning” and it was done by the sculptor Anna Petrus. Apparently it’s a smaller version of a sculpture in the garden at Muramaris. That artist residence, you know, located right before the Krusmynta estate.’

‘When did it disappear?’

‘On Saturday. According to Ms Blom, it was there when the gallery opened at one o’clock. She remembers it specifically because she went around the whole place to make sure everything was in order.’

‘When did they close the gallery?’

‘There were guests until around seven or eight. Then Egon Wallin, his wife, the artist and the gallery employees all went to Donners Brunn for dinner. They locked up the gallery and set the alarm, as usual.’

‘Is she sure about that?’

‘A hundred per cent sure.’

‘So that means the sculpture disappeared some time during the opening?’

‘It seems so.’

‘Is it valuable?’

‘No, apparently it’s quite small, and the material isn’t anything special. The artist is relatively unknown, so according to Ms Blom there wouldn’t be much point in stealing it to make money.’

‘Then why would anyone take it?’

The question was left hovering in the air, unanswered.