The killer's art

73

It took Anita Thoren, the owner of Muramaris, less than fifteen minutes to get to police headquarters after Knutas rang.

‘How good of you to come over so quickly. As I said on the phone, I’d like you to have a look at some pictures.’

‘Certainly.’

Anita Thoren sat down on the sofa in Knutas’s office. In front of her he placed five photographs of men in their twenties. He asked her to study the pictures carefully and take her time. Jacobsson and Wittberg were present in the room as witnesses.

‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘That’s the man who rented the cottage in February. I’m absolutely positive.’

The silence in the room was palpable as she placed a photo on the table. The picture showed a smiling young man. His hair was cut short and he looked well groomed. He appeared to be muscular and very fit.

The young man staring into the camera was none other than David Mattson.

K nutas decided that both Erik Mattson and his son David should be brought in for questioning. He rang Kurt Fogestam, who promised to see to it that both men were picked up immediately. Because Anita Thoren had identified David, the prosecutor decided to issue a warrant for his arrest. Traces of Egon Wallin’s hair and clothing had been found both in the cottage and in the van, so there was a definite link to the man who had rented the cottage. They now knew that he was the murderer. The only question remaining was whether he had acted alone or together with his father. Knutas still couldn’t explain what Egon Wallin had to do with the case, or why ‘The Dying Dandy’ had been stolen. But he hoped that everything would become clear during the interrogation.

Knutas cursed himself for not thinking to check up earlier on the people who had rented cabins at Muramaris. They’d been so preoccupied with trying to locate the person who’d rented the cottage when Egon Wallin was murdered that they hadn’t thought about going back in time. That infuriated him. His oversight might be partially due to all the turbulence created by Jacobsson’s promotion to assistant superintendent; it had made him shift his focus away from the investigation.

While they waited to hear from the Stockholm police, a mood of tense anticipation prevailed at police headquarters.

Knutas stood at the window in his office and lit his pipe. He inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out through the window.

He was on tenterhooks. They were finally on the verge of untangling the Gordian knot that had grown more complicated and mysterious as time passed. He rang Lina and told her what was going on, explaining that he wouldn’t be home for dinner and probably not until very late, for that matter. She was happy, for his sake, as well as for herself and the children. Now they’d finally be able to see him in the evenings again.

It took exactly an hour for Kurt Fogestam to ring. He sounded shaken. ‘You’d better sit down,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just sit down, Anders, before I tell you.’

Knutas sank down on to a chair without taking the pipe out of his mouth. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The officers who were supposed to pick up Erik Mattson went to Bukowski’s first, but he hadn’t turned up for work today. His boss didn’t seem surprised. He said that Mattson occasionally doesn’t come in. Clearly he has an alcohol problem. Or rather, had.’

‘What do you mean by “had”?’

‘They just phoned from Karlavagen, where Mattson lives. No one opened the door when they rang the bell, so they decided to force their way in. They found Erik Mattson lying in bed. He was dead.’

Knutas couldn’t believe his ears.

‘Murdered?’

‘We don’t know yet. The ME is on his way over there right now. But that’s not all. Do you know what was hanging above the bed?’

‘No.’

‘That painting that was stolen from Waldemarsudde. “The Dying Dandy”.’