The killer's art

62

Hugo Malmberg lay in bed in his suite at the Wisby Hotel, unable to sleep. The funeral had been a torment. He’d been foolish enough to believe that he’d feel better after attending. But the sight of Egon’s family, relatives and friends had merely made him realize how alone he was.

It was absurd to think that a person could mean more after his death. When Egon was alive, they’d had a relationship, of course. It had been passionate and exciting in many ways, but Hugo hadn’t been in love. There was a certain infatuation in the beginning, but that had cooled after a while. After the first thrill was gone, he usually tired very quickly of his lovers. He and Egon had met whenever possible, without demands or expectations. They had both thoroughly enjoyed the hours they spent together, but afterwards they each returned to their own lives, almost forgetting about one another until the next time they met. At least that had been Hugo’s experience.

Now, after Egon’s tragic and violent death, he suddenly felt a much greater longing for him than when his Gotlander lover had been alive.

Maybe he was getting old. He would turn sixty-three at his next birthday. There was something about the funeral that made him start thinking about the past. His solitude frightened him. An emptiness had crept in, and he thought a lot about the decision he had made long ago, which he now regretted. Of course, he had a large circle of acquaintances, but there was no one who truly cared about him. It was somehow such a basic assumption that somebody would be there to take care of a person when he reached old age. Someone close, with whom he had a deep connection.

Yet he’d had a good life; he couldn’t complain about that. He’d had a successful career and made plenty of money. That gave him a freedom that he’d always enjoyed. He’d been able to buy whatever he liked, done things that interested him. And he’d travelled to all parts of the world. He’d been able to satisfy his needs, and his work was both interesting and stimulating. The only thing his life was really missing was a deeper love relationship. Maybe that would have been possible with Egon. If he had lived.

Egon had had a marvellous attitude towards art. He could talk about a work of art for hours, or focus on one small detail in a painting, or speculate endlessly about what an artist’s intention might have been with a specific work. Maybe that was precisely what Hugo was lacking. There was a genuine quality about Egon, an unfeigned joy and a curiosity about life.

It would be a long time before Hugo Malmberg returned to Gotland. If ever. For him, the island would always be too strongly associated with Egon. He wanted to forget about everything, the whole heinous story. He no longer cared who the murderer might be. The first thing he was going to do when he got home was to book a trip to somewhere sunny and warm. Maybe Brazil, or Thailand. He deserved a few weeks’ holiday after everything he’d been through.

He gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed. He stuck his feet into the slippers provided by the hotel and put on his dressing-gown. From the minibar he took out a little bottle of whisky which he emptied into a glass, then went over to the sofa to sit down. He lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke.

It would be damned nice to get home.

At that moment he heard a clattering sound outside the window. The suite was on the second floor, but there was a roof right outside. It was an old building that had been constructed with multiple terraces and levels.

He went over to the window, pulled aside the curtains and looked out, feeling uneasy. A faint light issued from a streetlamp below, but it didn’t reach far in the dark. There was nothing to see. It was probably just a cat. He closed the curtains and went back to the sofa, taking a gulp of the whisky, which warmed his throat wonderfully as he swallowed. He remembered that on Friday he was invited to a major social event at Riddarhuset, the House of the Nobility. That would be nice. He had many friends of noble birth.

Another clattering sound. He gave a start and glanced at his watch. It was 2:15 in the morning.

Quickly he stubbed out his cigarette, got up and switched off the lights. The room was suddenly pitch dark. Then he crept over to the window, took up a position against the wall and waited. The next second he heard a rattling noise followed by a thud. It sounded as if someone were right above him. He wasn’t sure what to do; he didn’t dare look out, for fear of being seen, in spite of the darkness. Then a light flickered outside. Through a gap in the curtains he saw the beam of a torch directed straight at his window.

With every muscle on full alert, he waited another minute.

Then he obeyed an impulse and picked up a table lamp with a heavy porcelain base. He took off the lampshade and carefully set it on the floor. Then he firmly gripped the base of the lamp. It was the best weapon he could find. He stood to one side of the window in a corner of the room; he’d managed to slip behind the heavy curtain to hide. The only thing he could think about was Egon’s terrible fate. And the threats that he’d received himself: the note in his letterbox and the mysterious phone calls.

An ice-cold sensation settled in the pit of his stomach. Someone was out for revenge, and now it was his turn.

Just as he had predicted, it wasn’t long before a creaking sound broke the silence, as if somebody were trying to prise open the window. Apparently using a crowbar. The wood gave way. Gloved fingers appeared, groping in the meagre light. They unlatched the second window.

Then a leg appeared, followed by another. A tall, large man dressed in dark clothing leaned in through the window and then landed on the floor only a few feet from Hugo. The man’s face was covered by a black knitted ski mask pulled over his head, with holes for his eyes.

Hugo pressed his body against the wall as best he could, hoping that this uninvited guest would move past without noticing him.

The suite was located in a corner of the hotel building, and the rooms within it were arranged in a circle. They were in the living room — the intruder could choose to turn left into the bedroom or go right into a smaller sitting room. For several moments the masked man stood motionless, and Hugo could hear his rapid breathing.

The darkness was intense. Silently he prayed that the man wouldn’t be able to smell his presence. Presumably he stank of both whisky and cigarette smoke. The man turned and for several terrifying seconds Hugo was convinced that his hiding place had been discovered. But then the stranger crept towards the bedroom doorway and was swallowed up by the dark.

Hugo backed away from the curtains, keeping his eyes fixed on the bedroom. Behind him was the sitting room, the entrance hall, and then the door to the hotel corridor. He could still make his escape. It seemed unreasonable to try overpowering such a beefy intruder. He wouldn’t have a chance. Thoughts whirled through his mind — he had no sense of time, he couldn’t even guess how many seconds had passed.

Just as he was considering throwing himself at the door, he felt someone grab his wrist. The lamp he was holding fell to the floor with a crash. He tried to yell, but no sound came out. As if he realized that it would do no good.