The killer's art

63

An air of listless dejection hovered over the morning meeting on Wednesday. Knutas thought it was ridiculous what a difference his announcement of Karin Jacobsson’s promotion had made to the general morale. Now Wittberg refused to sit next to her, and Norrby seemed to have developed an antipathy to everyone and everything. Earlier that morning Jacobsson had complained of the matter to Knutas when they had coffee together, wondering if it was really worth all the trouble. He understood how she felt, but he urged her to be patient. Given time, Norrby was bound to mellow, and even Wittberg would come round. Knutas assumed that Wittberg had ambitions and might even have expected the position himself.

It was impossible to satisfy everyone.

Right now Wittberg sat at the conference table looking sullen, even though Knutas happened to know that he was actually doing quite well. His girlfriend, who was no longer new, had moved in with him, and that seemed to be having a good influence. He was more alert and lively than Knutas had ever seen him before. So it was especially annoying that he should begrudge Jacobsson the promotion.

‘I’ve done some more checking on Rolf Sanden. You know, Monika’s lover,’ Wittberg began. ‘He does have an alibi for the night of the murder, but it’s not exactly watertight. His friend who says that they were together might be lying. Rolf Sanden likes to play the horses, and it turns out that he has big gambling debts. He owes a lot of people money.’

‘Is that so?’ Knutas frowned.

‘On the other hand, Monika Wallin claims not to have known anything about his gambling problem or the fact that he’s up to his ears in debt.’

‘OK, then that’s a possible motive. He’s also a former construction worker. With strong muscles, in other words.’

‘But isn’t he on disability leave?’ objected Jacobsson.

‘For a bad back, yes,’ Wittberg rebuffed her. ‘That doesn’t mean that he’s not strong.’

‘Even so,’ Jacobsson persisted, ‘do you really think he could hoist a body so high up if he’s having back problems?’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Wittberg with a sigh. ‘Surely you don’t think we should rule him out, do you?’ He shook his head as if that was the stupidest thing he’d heard in a long time.

‘Of course not,’ said Norrby. ‘Maybe he’s been faking the back problems to get on sick leave. That happens all the time. Or doesn’t anybody ever try to cheat the welfare system in your world?’

His voice was dripping with sarcasm. Norrby and Wittberg exchanged looks.

Without warning Jacobsson stood up so abruptly that her chair fell over. She stared at Wittberg with such fury that he looked both surprised and alarmed.

‘That’s bloody well enough of that!’ she exclaimed, fixing her eyes on her colleague. ‘What a petty, jealous, conceited idiot you are. That’s enough! Do you have such a sodding big ego that you actually begrudge me my promotion? We’ve worked together for years, Thomas — and I’ve been on the force twice as long as you have. Why are you so against me being the deputy superintendent? Tell me your reason right here and now — come on!’

Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Lars Norrby.

‘And you’re no better. Going around sulking as if I was the one who made this decision! If you have anything to complain about, talk to Anders, but stop whining and snapping at me like a child. I’m sick of both of you, and I refuse to put up with it any longer. So let’s drop it — do you understand?’

Jacobsson ended her furious outburst by picking up her chair and slamming it against the wall. Then she left the room. The door banged shut behind her.

Before anyone managed to say another word, Knutas’s mobile rang.

By the time he’d finished the conversation, he looked even more sombre.

‘That was the Wisby Hotel. Hugo Malmberg checked in yesterday morning. He attended Egon Wallin’s funeral and was going to spend the night at the hotel. But he didn’t check out today, and he wasn’t on the plane back to Stockholm. When the hotel staff went into his room, they found all of his belongings still there. The window had been prised open, and there were traces of blood on the floor.’

‘And Malmberg?’ asked Kihlgard.

‘Gone,’ said Knutas, reaching for his jacket, which was draped over the back of his chair. ‘Disappeared. They can’t find him anywhere.’