The killer's art

5

Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas arrived at Dalman Gate half an hour after the call came in. Normally he would have stayed at police headquarters to divide up the job assignments, but this was something he had to see. A man who had most likely been murdered had been cold-bloodedly hoisted up for everyone to see in the middle of the biggest and grandest of the gates in the ring wall. This was something so out of the ordinary that he made an exception. The patrol that had arrived on the scene first had immediately sounded the alarm, saying that it didn’t look like a suicide; rather, there was every reason to believe foul play was involved. The reason for this was that the body had been hung several yards up in the air. It was also at least a yard away from either side of the wall. Nobody could have stood up there or climbed up to where the noose was attached in order to take his own life.

When Knutas arrived, both Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson and technician Erik Sohlman were already on-site. Karin looked even shorter than her five foot three inches, and her face was so pale it was almost translucent. She had walked over from her centrally located flat inside the wall. Knutas could tell at once that she had already seen the body. Karin never seemed to get used to the sight of corpses; but then neither did he.

A crowd of neighbours had gathered, and they were all looking up in horror at the body that hung in the gateway with its back to them. None of them would have believed that something as gruesome as a murder would ever take place on their peaceful street.

Dalman Gate was part of the ring wall in the middle of Norra Murgatan, a long and narrow cobblestoned street that ran parallel to the wall’s eastern side. Low, picturesque houses lined both sides. It was downright idyllic, with lace curtains in the windows, ceramic pots made in the typical Gotland style, and little gardens behind fences. The houses closest to the wall had been built directly attached to it.

Jacobsson and Knutas walked past the cement sculpture in the shape of a sheep that prevented cars from driving through the gate and stepped over the blue-and-white police tape.

Knutas stopped short at the sight of the victim.

At first glance, it looked like a tragic suicide. The rope was attached to a strong hook that had been fastened to the portcullis above the gate. The dead man’s head was bent forward, his body was limp.

The scene reminded Knutas of the year before, when several people had been ritually murdered and then hanged.

‘I feel like I’ve seen this before,’ he said to Jacobsson.

‘I know. The first thing I thought about was finding Martinna Flochten last summer.’ Jacobsson shook her head and stuffed her hands further into the pockets of her down jacket.

When Knutas got close enough to see the face, he froze.

‘Dear Jesus, it’s Egon Wallin, the art dealer.’

Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman, who was in the process of photographing the body from various angles, lowered the camera and took a closer look at the man’s face.

‘You’re right, it’s him,’ he exclaimed. ‘My God. I was in his gallery only a week ago and bought a painting for my mother’s sixtieth birthday.’

‘We’ve got to get him down from there as soon as possible,’ said Knutas grimly. The body could be seen from the road, and by now people were starting to wake up.

He nodded towards Kung Magnus Road, where several cars had already pulled over. People were getting out and pointing towards the gate. In the morning light, the macabre scene was exposed to everyone who passed.

‘Hurry up now,’ Knutas urged his colleagues. ‘He’s hanging there as if he’s in a display window.’

He scanned the area. It was always hard to strike the right balance as to how much should be cordoned off, but all his years of experience as a detective had taught him that the larger the area, the better.

The police couldn’t yet rule out suicide, but if Egon Wallin had been murdered, which is what Knutas believed, then they would need to secure all conceivable evidence. He made a quick decision that they would need to isolate the entire green area, from Osterport to Norderport. There were footprints everywhere, clearly visible in the snow, and some of them might belong to the killer.

Knutas studied the portcullis where the rope of the noose had been fastened. It seemed impossible for Egon Wallin to have managed the whole thing on his own. There was absolutely nothing to climb on. The noose was so high up that Knutas realized he would be forced to call in the fire department to get the body down.

He pulled out his mobile and rang Forensic Medicine in Solna. A medical examiner would fly over from the mainland in a police helicopter as soon as possible.

From experience Knutas knew that the ME would prefer them to leave the body untouched until he did his first examination, but in this case that wouldn’t be possible. The dead man was hanging there as if he were the victim of a public execution. If it turned out to be a homicide, the media frenzy would descend upon them before they knew it.

Knutas had no sooner thought this than he felt the first camera flash behind him. Alarmed, he turned around, only to witness more camera flashes.

He recognized the photographer from the newspaper Gotlands Allehanda, accompanied by one of the paper’s most persistent reporters. His face flushed with anger, Knutas brusquely grabbed her by the arm.

‘What in hell do you think you’re doing? This might be a suicide case. Right now we don’t know anything for sure. Absolutely nothing! The family hasn’t even been informed yet. He’s only just been found!’

‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked quickly as she pulled her arm away, ignoring Knutas’s agitation. ‘I think it looks like Egon Wallin, the art dealer.’

‘Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s not certain that any crime has been committed here. Get out of here now and let us do our job in peace!’

Suicide at least was something that journalists in Sweden respected and didn’t usually report. Not yet, at any rate. But with the sort of developments that were occurring in the media, it wouldn’t be long before they began revelling in such cases.

Knutas was even angrier because he knew and respected Egon Wallin. Not that they’d actually spent much time together, but they’d met on various occasions over the years, and Knutas had always liked the man. There was something very straightforward and candid about him. An honest individual who had both feet on the ground and who was content with his life, unlike so many others who complained non-stop. He seemed to be a thoroughly decent guy who treated everyone well. A real mensch. They were about the same age, and Knutas had always looked up to Egon Wallin. He had an appealing aura about him that made people want to be his friend. And now here he was, hanging from the gate — dead as a doornail.

Every minute that passed without taking the body down was a torment. He was already dreading having to tell Wallin’s wife about the tragedy.

More journalists had appeared on the other side of the police tape. He did understand that they had a job to do. If this turned out to be a homicide case, the police would be forced to schedule a press conference.

Knutas was grateful at least that so far no TV crew had turned up. But the next moment he caught sight of Pia Lilja, the most zealous TV cameraperson he’d ever encountered. She worked with Johan Berg at Swedish Television. At the moment she was alone, but that didn’t prevent her from filming. They were in a public place, after all, and as long as she stayed outside the cordoned-off area, there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Knutas sighed. He cast one last look at the body before he left the scene, accompanied by Jacobsson.

It was going to be a busy day.