The killer's art

27

E rik Mattson usually left his job at Bukowski’s Auction House around five. On the way home he often stopped at the Grodan Restaurant on Grev Turegatan to have a drink. The bar had just opened when he stepped inside, but it wouldn’t take long before it was filled with well-to-do residents from the Ostermalm district, having a drink after work. People like himself. At least in appearance.

He and his closest friends met here as often as they could. On this particular evening Per Reuterskold, Otto Diesen and Kalle Celling were having a beer when Erik came in. They’d all known each other for years, ever since they went to secondary school at Ostra Real.

Now they were over forty, which was more obvious on some than others. The difference nowadays was that most of his friends made do with a beer or two and then went home to their families. On a couple of evenings each week Erik, on the other hand, would just stop by his flat for a quick shower before he was back in the neighbourhood around Stureplan.

He had children too, but he was divorced and the kids had grown up living with their mother. The reason for this was Erik’s abuse of alcohol and drugs. He managed to keep his habit relatively in check, but not entirely. After having several relapses while he was taking care of the children, he’d lost joint custody. The divorce had deeply affected him, and he’d landed in a terrible depression. At the time the three children had been very young, and presumably they hadn’t noticed how chaotic his life had become or the bitterness that had welled up between their parents.

Over time things had improved. Erik succeeded in controlling his dependence enough that it wouldn’t have an impact on the children, and after a while he was allowed to spend time with them every other weekend. Those days were priceless. Erik loved his children and would do anything for them. Almost. He couldn’t completely give up drinking. That was asking too much. But he kept it to an acceptable level, as he said to himself.

He did his job well, except on those occasions when he partied too hard, which happened at regular intervals. His boss accepted that if he wanted to keep Erik on his staff, he’d have to tolerate those times when he simply didn’t show up for work. Erik’s expertise was well known and he was a definite asset to Bukowski’s already excellent reputation. He also saved the company money because he was so fast. Yet he could never be promoted to curator because of his drinking problem. This was a fact he had accepted long ago.

Erik was also a pleasant and sociable man, always impeccably dressed, quick-witted and with a sly smile. He liked to joke, but never at anyone else’s expense.

Outwardly he might be perceived as an outgoing person, but he actually possessed a strong sense of reserve that made it difficult to get to know him. He looked much younger than his forty-three years. He was tall, muscular and elegant. His dark hair, combed smoothly back, his big grey-green eyes and his regular features all contributed to his attractive appearance.

Occasionally he seemed distant, and those who knew him well interpreted this as a symptom of his alcohol use. In a strange way he seemed untouched by things that went on around him, as if he were living in his own world, cut off from everything else.

In his social circle, most people knew everything about each other’s families, but Erik was an exception. He was perfectly willing to talk about his childhood, but he never mentioned his parents by name or spoke of them at all.

Yet it was generally known that he was the son of a big shot in the business world. Certain people wondered how he could afford his extravagant lifestyle on the salary paid to an assistant at Bukowski’s; he couldn’t be earning very much. But such questions were promptly answered by Erik’s friends. They explained that even though he had a poor relationship with his parents, he received a monthly allowance, which meant that he was able to throw around a lot of money. Apparently he was financially set up for life.

Now he stood there, nonchalantly leaning on the bar, dressed in a pinstriped suit, with a glass of beer in his hand. He looked around the place absent-mindedly as he listened to Otto Diesen’s story about how he’d been lucky enough to crash head-first into a luscious brunette on the ski slopes while on a business trip to Davos. The episode had ended with them lying naked in a hotel suite, massaging each other’s aching bodies. The fact that Otto was married didn’t concern him in the least, or any of his friends either. Sometimes Erik was struck by how everybody behaved as if they were suffering from arrested development whenever they got together.

They told the same old stories that they’d been telling for years. No matter how much their lives had changed with regard to new jobs, families and so on, time seemed to stand still when they met. He told himself that there was actually something refreshing about that. It was somehow comforting that nothing ever changed between them, no matter what went on in their lives outside. It gave Erik a sense of security, and when they parted an hour later with the usual pats on the shoulder and thumps on the back, he was in a good mood. He stopped at the sushi bar on the corner and bought himself dinner to take home.

His flat was on the top floor of a beautiful building on Karlavagen, with a view of Humlegarden and the Royal Library. He went in, finding a big pile of mail in the hall. With a sigh he picked up the hodge-podge of advertisements and window envelopes, all of them bills. What his friends didn’t know was that his monthly allowance had been stopped, that he was living well beyond his means, and that he was seized by fear every time a new month rolled around and his bills had to be paid.

Without opening a single envelope, he tossed the mail aside and put on a CD of Maria Callas. His friends found it enormously amusing that he was so fond of her. Then he took a shower, shaved, and changed his clothes. For a long time he stood in front of the mirror, putting gel on his hair.

His body felt relaxed and a bit tender; he had gone to the gym during his lunch hour and put himself through an extra long training session. The exercise served to counterbalance his vast alcohol intake. He was aware that he drank too much, but he didn’t want to stop. Now and then he mixed alcohol with pills, but that was usually only when he lapsed into one of his depressed periods, which happened several times a year. Sometimes they lasted only a few days, but they could also go on for months. He had grown accustomed to these periods and dealt with them in his own way. The only thing that really bothered him about these depressions was that while they were going on, he preferred not to see his children. It made things easier that nowadays they understood the problem; by now they were all grown up. Emelie was nineteen, Karl was twenty, and David was twenty-three. Yet Erik tried at all costs to avoid showing them that he was depressed. He didn’t want to burden them or make them worried. Mostly he pretended that nothing was going on, merely saying he’d be away on a trip for a while or that he was extremely busy at work. They also had their own lives, with girlfriends and boyfriends, their studies and sports activities. Sometimes weeks would go by when he heard nothing from his children, except for David, whom he was particularly close to. Maybe it was because he was the oldest.

Erik Mattson lived two lives. One as a respected and esteemed colleague at Bukowski’s, with a social circle that included many friends, elegant parties, travels, and his role as a father, however sporadic that might be. His other life was completely different. Secret, hidden and destructive. And yet it was essential.

An hour later, Erik Mattson left his flat. He already knew that it was going to be a long night.