The killer's art

14

His eyes were stinging with fatigue, and Knutas realized that it was about time for him to go home. He hadn’t had a minute to himself all day, so he wanted to sit down in the privacy of his office to gather his thoughts for a moment.

He sank on to his old, worn oak chair with the soft leather cushion. He had decided to keep it, in spite of the extensive refurbishment that police headquarters had undergone six months earlier, when even the furniture had been replaced. He’d had this chair for his entire career in the criminal division, and he refused to let it go. He’d solved so many cases sitting in it. It could both spin around and rock back and forth, and that gentle movement always seemed to allow his thoughts to float freely.

The work had been so intense ever since Wallin’s body had been found in the morning that Knutas was having a hard time grasping everything that was whirling through his mind.

He shuddered when he recalled the sight that he’d encountered at Dalman Gate. Such a pleasant man. What was happening here on Gotland? The number of violent crimes had increased significantly during the past few years, especially murders. On the other hand, it was true that violence was increasing all over Sweden. He thought back to the days when someone breaking into a kiosk was considered front-page news. Nowadays that sort of incident hardly got any attention at all. The social climate had become more brutal on all fronts, and he didn’t care for this development.

He took out his pipe from the top drawer of his desk and began meticulously to fill it. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and began sucking on the pipe without lighting it.

The fact that the artist and his manager had vanished so mysteriously was disturbing. And it had turned out that they were accompanied by one of the art dealers who had been at the opening. Sixten Dahl. It had been impossible to reach any of them during the course of the day. Oh well, he thought. We’ll just have to keep at it tomorrow.

His thoughts drifted to Egon Wallin. He’d run into the art dealer many times in different situations. He and Lina had also visited the gallery now and then over the years, even though they usually just went to look. But one time he did buy a painting by Lennart Jirlow, a restaurant scene that reminded him of the place where Lina had worked in Copenhagen when they met. He smiled at the memory. It was for Lina’s fortieth birthday, and she had never been so happy about anything else he’d ever bought for her. Gifts were not Knutas’s strong point.

In his mind he conjured up an image of Wallin. The most striking thing about him was his attire. He usually wore a long leather coat and trendy-looking cowboy boots, which made him seem more like a big-city resident than a Gotlander. It was obvious that he dyed his hair a reddish blond, and the light suntan that he sported all year round was equally artificial.

Wallin’s appearance formed a stark contrast to that of his wife, who seemed colourless and ordinary; her face was so nondescript that it was hard even to remember what she looked like. Sometimes Knutas had rather cruelly wondered why Wallin took such trouble with his appearance while his wife clearly didn’t give a thought to her own.

Knutas actually knew very little about Wallin’s personal life. Whenever they met, they would exchange only a few words, and Knutas usually felt that the conversation ended too quickly. He would have liked to talk more with Egon Wallin, but had the impression that the wish was not reciprocated. Even though they were about the same age, they had no mutual friends.

Wallin’s children were much older than Knutas’s twins, Petra and Nils, who were nearly fourteen, so they hadn’t met through their children either. Wallin hadn’t seemed interested in sports, even though athletic events provided a strong sense of community on Gotland. Knutas himself swam regularly; he also played floorball and golf. He assumed that Wallin spent most of his time with art aficionados, and Knutas definitely didn’t belong to that social circle. He didn’t have a clue about art.

It was a rash choice for a crime scene, considering that the gate could actually be seen from Kung Magnus Road. A police vehicle could easily have passed by when the perpetrator was hoisting up the body. Maybe he was so doped up that he didn’t care.

Knutas immediately dismissed the idea. Somebody who was either drunk or on drugs wouldn’t have been able to carry out such a complicated plan. Another possibility was that the killer didn’t know that police headquarters was so close. Maybe he was from the mainland. The question was, what was his connection to Egon Wallin? Did the murder have something to do with his art dealings, or was it about something else entirely?

Knutas sighed wearily. It was past eleven p.m.

Sooner or later they would undoubtedly know the answer.