The killer's art

18

To say that Monika Wallin was plain was no exaggeration. Her mousy brown hair was cut short and carelessly styled, her thin lips bore no trace of lipstick, and her posture, though erect, was a bit awkward. At first glance she seemed to be someone who would easily disappear in a crowd. She opened the door to the terraced house on Snackgardsvagen after Knutas rang the bell four times. She looked pale and tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

Knutas was surprised that he didn’t recognize her. He knew that they had met several times before, although they had never actually spoken to each other. Yet Monika Wallin was not someone who made a lasting impression; that much was clear.

Knutas introduced himself and reached out his hand. ‘My condolences.’

She shook his hand without changing her expression. Her handshake was surprisingly firm. ‘Come in,’ she said, and led the way into the house.

Knutas could see as soon as he stepped into the hall that the house was occupied by art lovers. Covering nearly every square inch of the light-coloured walls were paintings, both large and small, by all sorts of modern artists. Everything was of the highest quality; even Knutas could see that.

They each sat down in an armchair in the living room, where the windows faced the greyish-blue sea. Only the narrow road towards Snack divided the property from the shore.

Knutas took out his notebook and pen. ‘So, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?’

Monika Wallin was holding a handkerchief in her hand, twisting and turning it as she talked.

‘Well, I was sitting in the kitchen when a big removal van suddenly came roaring up our driveway. At first I thought it had taken the wrong turn. But when the men rang the bell, they showed me the contract that Egon had signed. He had hired them.’

‘Do you have a copy of the contract?’

‘Yes, they left several documents.’

Monika Wallin got up and continued to talk as he heard her opening a drawer in the kitchen.

‘They left empty-handed, of course. It didn’t really make any difference to them, since Egon had paid for everything in advance.’

She came back and handed Knutas a sheet of thin, light-blue paper. He saw that it was a copy of a contract, and that the removal van was supposed to transport the goods to Artillerigatan in Stockholm.

‘Artillerigatan,’ he mused. ‘Isn’t that in the Ostermalm district?’

Monika Wallin shook her head. ‘I don’t know where it is.’

‘There’s no number for a land line on the contract,’ murmured Knutas. ‘Just a mobile number. Is it Egon’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t know anything about this?’

‘No, it was a complete surprise. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only one. Egon has a desk here in the house with several locked drawers. Of course I knew where he kept the key, but I’ve never had any reason to snoop through his things. I opened the drawers just before you arrived.’

She reached for a folder lying on the table. Her lips were thin and dry, and right now they narrowed even more.

‘There’s a divorce application in here, and he’d even taken the trouble to fill it out. There are also documents stating that he’d bought a flat on Artillerigatan in Stockholm, and that he’d sold our gallery to a certain Per Eriksson,’ she said bitterly. ‘It’s hard to believe.’

‘May I have a look?’

Knutas studied the documents intently, making his way quickly through the pile. It was clear that Egon Wallin had been making plans to decamp.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to make it through,’ she said plaintively. ‘First the murder. And now this.’

‘I can understand how tough this must be for you,’ said Knutas sympathetically. ‘And I’m sorry that I have to trouble you right now. But I need to ask you a few questions. For the sake of the investigation.’

Monika Wallin nodded. She continued to crumple the handkerchief in her hand.

‘Tell me about Saturday, when you had the gallery opening,’ Knutas began. ‘What did you both do that day?’

‘Egon left for the gallery early in the morning, before I was even awake. That wasn’t unusual if we were having an opening. He liked to be there in plenty of time, to make any last-minute changes, see that the paintings were hung correctly, and so on. I always take care of the catering, and I arrived just after eleven, at the same time that the food arrived.’

‘How did Egon seem? Was his behaviour different in any way?’ ‘He seemed jumpier than usual, impatient and irritable. I thought it was odd because everything was going so smoothly.’ ‘Then what happened?’

‘The artist, Mattis Kalvalis, showed up, and after that we didn’t have a moment’s peace. He was constantly asking for something — a glass of water, an ashtray, cigarettes, pastries, a plaster, all sorts of things. He seemed totally wound up; I’ve never met anyone so nervous before. And incredibly self-absorbed. He showed no concern for the fact that we had other things to do. It was as if he filled up the whole room.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘But then all the guests began to arrive, and after that it was non-stop activity until seven o’clock.’

‘Did anything unusual happen during the course of the day that you noticed?’

‘Yes, actually there was something. Egon was gone for a long time. I went looking for him, but no one knew where he was.’

‘How long was he gone?’

‘It must have been over an hour.’ ‘Did you ask him where he’d been?’

‘Yes, but he just said that he’d gone out to get more wine. There was so much to do that I didn’t give it another thought.’

She turned to stare out of the window, and for a while neither of them spoke. Knutas was waiting for her to go on without his prompting. During sensitive interviews, it was important to know when to keep quiet.

‘How did he seem when he came back?’

‘Exactly like earlier in the day — strangely agitated.’

‘Do you think one of the guests had upset him?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘If so, it was most likely Sixten Dahl. He was the only one there that Egon didn’t like. He’s an art dealer in Stockholm.’

Knutas gave a start. Sixten Dahl was the one who had accompanied the artist and his manager back to Stockholm on Sunday morning. But for the time being, Knutas didn’t let on what he knew.

‘Why didn’t Egon like him?’

‘They would run into each other occasionally, and Egon always complained that he found Sixten overbearing. Maybe it was more the fact that they were very alike,’ she mused. ‘They often competed for the same artists and had the same taste in art. Mattis Kalvalis was one example. I know that Sixten Dahl was interested in him too, but Mattis had chosen Egon.’

‘What happened after the opening?’

‘We went to Donners Brunn for dinner.’

‘Who was there?’ asked Knutas, even though he already knew the answer.

‘Egon and I, Mattis Kalvalis, and the others who work at the gallery.’

‘How many of you work there?’

‘Four altogether. The others are Eva Blom and Gunilla Rydberg. They’ve both been with us for twenty years.’

Knutas was busily taking notes. The mention of Sixten Dahl was extremely interesting. He hoped that by now Wittberg had managed to get hold of the art dealer and the two others. Eva Blom was an old acquaintance. She and Knutas had been in the same class as children, and he knew that she lived with her family in Vate parish. On the other hand, he didn’t know Gunilla Rydberg.

‘Are you aware that both the artist and his manager have left the hotel?’

‘What? No, I didn’t know that.’

‘They went to Stockholm yesterday morning. Do you know why they might have gone there?’

‘No idea.’ Monika Wallin looked genuinely surprised. ‘Mattis was supposed to come in today to sign the agent contract with Egon. Although that’s no longer relevant, of course.’

‘When are they due to return to Lithuania?’

‘Tuesday afternoon. I know that for certain because we had planned to have lunch together before they left for the airport.’

‘Hmm.’ Knutas cleared his throat. ‘Let’s go back to the night of the murder. Did anything significant happen during dinner at Donners Brunn?’

‘No. We ate a good meal, had plenty to drink, and enjoyed ourselves. By then Mattis had calmed down; it was probably just nervousness, and he was finally able to relax. He told us lots of funny stories from Lithuania, and we all laughed so much that we cried.’

‘When did the party break up?’

‘We left the restaurant around eleven. We said goodnight outside, and then everyone went their separate ways. Egon and I took a cab home. I went to bed almost at once, but he said that he wanted to stay up for a while. That wasn’t unusual. I fade away when it gets late, but he’s always been a night owl. I almost always go to bed before he does.’

‘Where did you see him last?’

‘He was sitting in his chair in the living room,’ she said pensively.

‘His wallet and mobile were both missing when he was found. Did he leave them at home?’

‘I’m sure he didn’t. Egon never went anywhere without his mobile. He always had it with him, even when he went to the gents’. And I find it hard to believe that he’d leave the house without his wallet. Besides, I would have found them in the house, but I haven’t.’

‘Shall we try to ring his mobile? It might be hidden somewhere,’ suggested Knutas.

‘Absolutely.’

Monika Wallin got up to get her own mobile. She punched in a number. Nothing happened. She tried again as she walked through the house.

‘Nothing,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I just get his voicemail.’

‘OK,’ said Knutas. ‘Thanks for trying. Could you write down his number for me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Just one more thing about Saturday. We’ve heard that a sculpture has disappeared from the gallery.’

‘Yes, it’s very annoying. One of the guests must have taken it.’

She seems very composed for a woman whose husband has just been murdered, and in such a macabre fashion, he thought. And then to find out that her husband was planning to leave her and move out without even telling her.

Knutas wondered if he would have behaved the same way if Lina had been murdered and hanged like that. He thought he would probably have been sedated in the psychiatric ward of Visby Hospital. He shuddered inwardly and quickly brushed aside the thought.

‘You have two children, is that right?’ he went on.

‘Yes. A son who’s twenty-three. He lives in Stockholm. And a daughter who’s twenty. She’s studying to be a doctor in Umea.’

‘What does your son do?’

‘He works at a day-care centre.’

‘I see.’

‘The children will be here later today.’

‘I understand,’ said Knutas. ‘Pardon me for asking such a personal question, but how was your relationship with your husband?’

Monika Wallin answered instantly, as if she’d been expecting the question. ‘Safe and boring. We had a good marriage in the sense that we were good friends, but over the years it had become more like a brother-sister relationship. We ran the the gallery together, but otherwise there wasn’t much.’

‘Why did you stay together? It couldn’t have been for the children’s sake.’

Knutas could have bitten his tongue. He ought to tread more carefully with a new widow. The words had just come out before he could think about what he was saying. But Monika Wallin didn’t seem upset.

‘We both felt that things were fine as they were. The gallery took up almost all of our time; he devoted himself to art and his business trips, while I took care of the administrative work. We lived side by side but rarely crossed paths. The fact is, I think he’d found someone else.’

She stretched, and Knutas realized that he was actually beginning to think she was rather elegant. Upon closer inspection, her hair wasn’t mousy at all; it had a soft, ash-coloured sheen in the light coming through the window. Her complexion was smooth and clear. Her colourlessness was in fact quite beautiful.

‘Why do you think so?’

‘We no longer had any sex life. In the past Egon always had great needs in that area.’

She cleared her throat.

‘There were other signs, too. He seemed unusually happy and pleased after his trips to Stockholm. He began taking more interest in his appearance, and he stayed up late at night, sitting in front of his computer. He said that he was working, but I could tell he was chatting online with someone.’

‘But you never confronted him about this?’

‘No. Why should I do that? It wouldn’t have made any difference any more. Our relationship was no longer what it had once been.’ ‘So you have no idea who it might have been?’

‘No clue at all.’