The killer's art

65

Sverker Skoglund had been classmates with Egon Wallin from primary school all the way through secondary school. After that their ways had parted. Sverker had gone to sea and lived abroad for many years. When he returned to Gotland, he and Egon no longer had much in common. But their shared past prompted them to keep in touch with each other. The few times that they met in private, it felt as if they’d seen each other just the day before.

Sverker was shocked by Egon’s violent death. Like many other people, he was horrified that his childhood friend should end his days in such a cruel way. He had missed the funeral service because he was working on an oil platform off northern Norway at the time. He would only have been given permission to leave if the deceased was a close family member.

But now he had returned home, and the first thing he wanted to do was visit Egon’s grave. Norra Cemetery was deserted when he arrived. His vehicle was the only one in the car park.

The snow had been shovelled off the pathways leading through the cemetery, and it was obvious that many people had walked out to the grave to show their respects to Egon. Apart from that, there were few visitors here in the wintertime.

Egon Wallin had been buried in the family plot, which was visible from a distance. His family was well-to-do, and that was apparent from the size of the monument. At the very top was a cross. Wreaths and flowers were piled up at the base, bearing witness to the recent burial. After the night’s snowfall, nearly everything was covered with a frosty white blanket, but here and there a few flowers showed through, and Sverker could make out the contours of the wreaths under the snow.

Just as he stepped on to the pathway that led to the iron fence around the grave, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. He paused for a moment, letting the sunlight warm his face. How quiet it was. How peaceful.

Reluctantly he continued. He wondered whether he had really known anything about Egon. His friend had never let on that he had a lot of money. He never talked about it, although whenever they had dinner together Egon would always insist on paying the bill. But he didn’t boast about his wealth. He insisted on living in that terraced house, even though he could afford a much larger and more luxurious home. Of course, those particular terraces were uncommonly elegant and in a superb location. But still.

Sverker wondered what had happened to his old childhood friend. Whether it was some lunatic who had chosen his victim at random. Whether Egon had been killed by chance, or whether there was some reason for his murder.

He reached the enclosed area of the grave. In front was a row of wreaths, and at first that was all that Sverker saw. His eyes took in the velvet ribbons, the flowers and the printed greetings. Suddenly he caught sight of something on the frozen ground that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Under a heavy wreath with a pink-and-white ribbon from the Visby Art Association, a hand was sticking up through the snow. It was a man’s hand, with the fingers curled. Sverker Skoglund slowly moved his eyes, inch by inch, as he held his breath. The man was lying on his stomach next to the monument, with his arms by his sides. He was naked except for a pair of undershorts, and he was partially covered with snow. There were bruises and wounds all over his body. Around his neck was a noose.

Sooner than he’d expected, Sverker Skoglund had received an answer to his question. There was undeniably a reason for his friend’s death.