The killer's art

44

Hugo Malmberg woke early on Monday morning. He got up, went into the bathroom and splashed water over his face and torso. Then he went back to bed. His two American cocker spaniels, Elvis and Marilyn, were asleep in their basket and didn’t seem to notice that he was awake. He absent-mindedly studied the detailed stucco work on the ceiling. He was in no hurry — he didn’t have to be at the gallery until just before ten. He always took his dogs with him to work, so they were used to having their morning walk on the way there. Hugo let his gaze slide over the brocade of the canopy bed, the dark tapestries of red and gold, the ostentatious mirror on the opposite wall. Amused, he reached for the remote control to have a look at the morning news.

A bold robbery had taken place in the early hours at Waldemarsudde. The famous painting ‘The Dying Dandy’ had been stolen. It was incomprehensible. A journalist was filing a live report from the scene at the museum. In the background Hugo caught a glimpse of the police and the blue-and-white tape cordoning off the area.

He made himself a breakfast of Eggs Benedict and a pot of strong coffee as he listened to the news on both the radio and TV. An incredibly brazen theft. The police suspected that the thief had made his getaway on skates.

He was late leaving. The fresh air felt exhilarating as he opened the door to the street. John Ericssonsgatan linked Hantverkargatan to the exclusive shoreline boulevard of Norr Malarstrand, which ran from Ralambshov Park all the way to City Hall. Malmberg owned a corner flat with a view of both the water and the beautiful boulevard with its trees, wide pavements, and lawns in the courtyard of every building.

There was a thick layer of ice on the water, but he still chose to take the route along the quay where the old boats were lined up even in the wintertime. When he glanced over towards Vasterbron, he recalled the man he’d seen on the bridge on Friday night. What a strange experience that had been.

He turned his back to the bridge and briskly continued on, passing the proud City Hall, designed in the National Romantic style and built near the shore of Kungsholmen from 1911 to 1923. In his opinion, that had been the most exciting period in the history of Swedish art. His dogs were frolicking in the snow. For their sake he cut across the ice towards Gamla Stan. They loved to race over the open expanses created by the ice.

Several times that day Malmberg thought he caught sight of the man from Vasterbron. Once a young guy happened to stop outside the gallery. He wore a down jacket and the same type of cap. The next second he was gone. Was that the same man who had followed him on Friday night? Malmberg brushed the thought aside. He was probably just imagining things. Maybe he was subconsciously hoping to meet the handsome man with the intense gaze again. It was possible that the youth had, in fact, been interested in Hugo, but then changed his mind.

Just before lunch, Hugo Malmberg received a phone call. The gallery was deserted at the time. When he picked up the receiver, there seemed to be nobody on the line.

‘Hello?’ he repeated, but got no response.

‘Who is this?’ he tried again, as he stared out at the street.

Silence.

All he heard was the sound of someone breathing.