The killer's art

60

The tolling bells of the cathedral could be heard in every lane and alleyway in Visby.

Inside, the pews gradually filled up. A restrained air of gloom hovered over the mourners. Everyone seemed to be thinking about how brutally Egon Wallin had ended his days. No one deserved such a fate, and a controlled anger was evident even on the pastor’s face. The art dealer had been highly popular, with a warm demeanour and a good sense of humour. His family had enriched the city with art for more than a century, and he himself had made major contributions to see that art flourished. Many people would be coming to the service to honour him today.

Knutas had positioned himself next to the imposing church doors and was discreetly studying the guests. A black-clad Monika Wallin arrived, escorted by her son on one side and her daughter on the other. The investigation has really come to a standstill, Knutas thought.

Lately they’d made no progress whatsoever. All the evidence and new information still hadn’t produced anything concrete that would move the investigation forward. In his darkest moments, Knutas had begun to think they might never solve the murder. When the theft took place at Waldemarsudde, he thought they were close to finding the killer. But that hadn’t happened. Not yet, at any rate.

He sighed to himself as he caught sight of Karin Jacobsson among the crowd. It hadn’t taken long for everyone to react to the news that she was going to take over the role of assistant superintendent as of June 1. The criminal division quickly became divided into two camps — one in favour of the decision, the other against it. Knutas was astonished that the appointment had created such a deep divide. Those opposed to it were primarily his older male colleagues, while those applauding the appointment were the women and the younger members of staff.

One person who had truly surprised Knutas was Thomas Wittberg. He and Karin had always been good friends at work, but he was among those who had reacted most strongly to the news that she was going to be promoted. A chill had set in between the two of them as soon as the news was announced. Outwardly Karin didn’t show any sign that it bothered her, but Knutas knew that she was hurt.

It was amazing what happened to people when conditions changed and something unexpected occurred. Then everybody’s relationships came into play, and it became very obvious who your real friends were.

Knutas scanned the crowd of mourners. Many seemed to have close ties to the family. They offered warm greetings to Monika Wallin, who still hadn’t taken her seat. She was standing in the entrance, just inside the church doors along with her son. The man looked tense and resolute and seemed visibly upset by the whole situation.

There were a number of people that Knutas didn’t recognize. Several middle-aged men arrived as a group, and he assumed that they must be business associates from the art world. He wondered whether Egon Wallin’s prospective partner in Stockholm, Hugo Malmberg, would show up. To his dismay, Knutas realized that he wouldn’t recognize the man if he did appear. How stupid of him. He’d seen Malmberg only in a photograph that was ten years old, and it was a long time since he’d looked at the picture. He should have brushed up on everything about the case before the funeral. He didn’t understand how he could have been so dense.

The group of men had their heads together, and they were talking in low voices, as if they didn’t want any outsiders to hear what they were saying. Could Malmberg be one of them?

Knutas’s thoughts were interrupted as he caught sight of the artist Mattis Kalvalis. It wasn’t hard to pick him out in the crowd. He was wearing a long, pink-and-black-checked tweed coat and a bright-yellow scarf. Today his hair was red and sticking out in all directions. His face was as white as chalk, and he had outlined his eyes with kohl.

To think that he came all the way from Lithuania for Egon Wallin’s funeral, thought Knutas. They hadn’t really known each other very long. But maybe they’d had a closer relationship than they’d let on. Knutas’s suspicions were instantly aroused; he hadn’t been able to let go of the idea that there may have been something going on between those two.

Knutas waved at the artist, and Mattis Kalvalis came over to say hello.

‘Are you here just for the funeral?’ Knutas ventured to ask in stumbling English.

He thought he saw Mattis’s eyebrow twitch slightly.

‘Actually I’m on my way to Stockholm, but I wanted to be here today. Egon Wallin meant a lot to me. We hadn’t worked together very long, but in that short time he accomplished a lot on my behalf. And besides, he was a good friend. I really respected him.’

Mattis Kalvalis seemed to mean what he said. Knutas hadn’t noticed before how slender he was. He had sloping shoulders, and his coat looked too big for his thin body. He wondered if Kalvalis was on drugs. His movements were abrupt, and what he said always sounded so disjointed. Even Knutas, with his lousy English, could hear that.

It was a lovely service. Almost every seat in the cathedral was taken.

The only awkward moment was when Egon Wallin’s son stumbled as he approached the coffin and almost fell on to an enormous marble vase that was filled with white lilies. He dropped the rose he was holding, and the stem broke. Knutas felt truly sorry for the man. He murmured something inaudible; then with a tormented expression he placed the rose on top of the gleaming black coffin.