The killer's art

70

Johan had a busy three days ahead of him. On Friday he took the first plane back to Stockholm. He’d made an appointment to meet Erik Mattson at Bukowski’s Auction House at ten o’clock. Then he was going to have lunch with his youngest brother. In the afternoon, the head of the news bureau wanted to see him. Some time in between he really needed to squeeze in a meeting with Max Grenfors to discuss a pay rise. In the evening there was going to be a family dinner at his mother’s house out in Ronninge, and on Saturday morning he’d made an appointment to meet the person who was going to sublet his flat. Johan had received permission to lease the flat for a year. The prospective tenant was a colleague from Swedish TV in Karlstad who had been hired for a temporary position in the sports division.

Then on Saturday afternoon Johan had to fly back to Visby because he and Emma were planning to meet the pastor at four o’clock. What a schedule, he thought as he sat on the plane, squashed next to a man who must have weighed over three hundred pounds. He didn’t have the energy to change seats.

Erik Mattson was just as elegant in person as on the photo on the web page of the auction house. He was an attractive man with a distinct sexual aura; Johan wondered if he was gay.

They sat down in a empty conference room, and Erik served coffee and Italian biscotti. Johan chose to get right to the point.

‘I understand that you’ve stayed at Muramaris many times. Why is that?’

‘I was there for the first time when I was nineteen. Some of my friends and I were studying art history at the university, and we were on Gotland for a cycling holiday. Even back then I was fascinated by Dardel’s work, and I knew that he’d spent several summers at Muramaris.’

He smiled at the memory.

‘I remember how we went down to the beach and pictured Dardel walking along the same stretch of shoreline almost a century earlier. We imagined him with Rolf de Mare, Ellen and Johnny, and all the other artists who came to visit. What a life they lived. Filled with love, art and creativity. Carefree in so many ways, and removed from reality,’ he said wistfully.

‘And then you returned later on?’

‘Yes,’ he said, sounding distracted. ‘When my ex-wife Lydia and I were still married, we once rented Rolf de Mare’s cottage, and we took all the children along. That was years ago. But it wasn’t a very successful holiday. It’s not a practical place for young children. Steep steps down to the beach and not much of a play area. And the cottage isn’t very big.’

‘But you went back again?’

‘Yes, I’ve been there twice since then.’

‘Who went with you, if I might ask?’

‘A friend of mine. His name is Jakob,’ replied Mattson tersely. Suddenly he looked uncomfortable. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’

‘There are actually two reasons,’ Johan lied. ‘Partly to get some background material for our report on the murder on Gotland. But I also happen to think that Muramaris is an interesting place, and I’d like to do a documentary about it for Swedish TV.’

‘Really?’ Erik Mattson’s voice suddenly took on renewed energy. ‘That’s fantastic. There’s so much to tell, and the place is spectacular inside. Have you seen the amazing sandstone fireplace that Ellen created?’

Johan shook his head. He studied Mattson intently. ‘So you’ve been married. How many children do you have?’

‘Three. But what does that have to do with anything?’

‘I’m sorry. I was just curious. You said that you took “all” the children along, so I was picturing a whole flock.’

‘I see.’ Erik Mattson laughed. He looked relieved. ‘I’ve got only three. But they’re not kids any more. They’re all grown up now. Living their own lives.’