when he suddenly sensed the presence of someone very close by. All of a sudden he felt something sweep past his ear before he was pressed backward.
Egon Wallin would never make it to his intended rendezvous.
4
Siv Eriksson woke as usual several minutes before the alarm clock rang. It was as if her body knew when it was time to get up, and she managed to turn off the clock before her husband Lennart was woken by the noise. Cautiously she got out of bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. It was Sunday, after all.
She padded out to the kitchen in the pink woolly slippers that her husband had given her for Christmas and put on the coffee. Then she took a hot shower and washed her hair. After that she ate her breakfast in peace and quiet, while she listened to the radio and let her hair dry.
Siv Eriksson was looking forward to this day. Her work hours were shorter on Sunday, only from seven to noon. Then Lennart was going to pick her up so they could celebrate the fifth birthday of their only grand-child. Their daughter and her family lived in Slite, in northern Gotland, so it would be a bit of a drive. Siv had taken care of the presents, which were neatly wrapped and sitting on the table in the hall. Lennart would bring them along when he left the house; she had written a note to remind him.
After finishing her coffee and brushing her teeth, Siv got dressed. She gave the cat some food and fresh water. He didn’t show any interest in going outside, just looked at her lazily before curling up in his basket. She glanced at the thermometer in the window, noting that it had got even colder; it was now minus 10 °C. She’d better wear both a hat and a scarf. Her woollen coat was old and a little too snug.
The flat where they lived was on the top floor of a building on Polhemsgatan, with a view of the northeast side of the ring wall. When Siv came out on to the street, it was still quite dark. The walk to the Wisby Hotel where she worked was a couple of kilometres, but that didn’t bother her. She liked to walk, and besides, it was the only exercise she ever got. She enjoyed her job setting out the cold buffet; she and a colleague were also in charge of the breakfast service. At this time of year the hotel had few guests, which suited her just fine as she was not the type of person who thrived on stress.
She cut across the street and set off along the path near the football pitch, where the grass was covered with a thin layer of snow. In the car park outside the municipal offices for culture and recreation, she slipped on the icy asphalt and almost landed on her back.
At the crossing on Kung Magnus Road, which ran parallel to the east side of the ring wall, she paused for a moment to look in both directions, even though it really wasn’t necessary. On Sunday mornings there was little traffic, but Siv Eriksson was a cautious person who never took any unnecessary risks. She walked through Ostergravar, a small grassy area next to the wall. This particular section of her route was so isolated that it always made her rather nervous early in the morning when it was still dark. But she would soon reach the medieval ring wall that enclosed the central part of the city. There she would pass through Dalman Gate to enter the city proper. The gate was part of the Dalman Tower, sixty feet high and one of the grandest of the medieval defence towers.
About thirty yards away from the gate, Siv Eriksson stopped abruptly. At first she couldn’t believe her eyes. Something was dangling from high up in the opening. For several bewildering seconds she thought it must be a sack. But when she got closer, she realized to her astonishment that a man was hanging by a rope that had been fastened to the grating above the gate opening. It was the type of portcullis that could be lowered in ancient times if an enemy was about to attack.
The man’s head was bent forward, and his arms dangled limply at his sides.
Siv skidded on the icy bridge and almost fell, but she grabbed hold of the railing just in time. She looked up at the man again. He was dressed in a black, ankle-length leather coat and black trousers. On his feet he wore a pair of low boots. He had dark hair and looked to be in his fifties.
She had a hard time distinguishing his facial features in the dim morning light. She took a few uncertain steps forward as she fearfully glanced around.
When she got close enough, everything seemed to come to a standstill inside Siv Eriksson’s head. She recognized the man; she knew him well.
She pulled her mobile out of her pocket and punched in the number for the police.
5
Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas arrived at Dalman Gate half an hour after the call came in. Normally he would have stayed at police headquarters to divide up the job assignments, but this was something he had to see. A man who had most likely been murdered had been cold-bloodedly hoisted up for everyone to see in the middle of the biggest and grandest of the gates in the ring wall. This was something so out of the ordinary that he made an exception. The patrol that had arrived on the scene first had immediately sounded the alarm, saying that it didn’t look like a suicide; rather, there was every reason to believe foul play was involved. The reason for this was that the body had been hung several yards up in the air. It was also at least a yard away from either side of the wall. Nobody could have stood up there or climbed up to where the noose was attached in order to take his own life.
When Knutas arrived, both Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson and technician Erik Sohlman were already on-site. Karin looked even shorter than her five foot three inches, and her face was so pale it was almost translucent. She had walked over from her centrally located flat inside the wall. Knutas could tell at once that she had already seen the body. Karin never seemed to get used to the sight of corpses; but then neither did he.
A crowd of neighbours had gathered, and they were all looking up in horror at the body that hung in the gateway with its back to them. None of them would have believed that something as gruesome as a murder would ever take place on their peaceful street.
Dalman Gate was part of the ring wall in the middle of Norra Murgatan, a long and narrow cobblestoned street that ran parallel to the wall’s eastern side. Low, picturesque houses lined both sides. It was downright idyllic, with lace curtains in the windows, ceramic pots made in the typical Gotland style, and little gardens behind fences. The houses closest to the wall had been built directly attached to it.
Jacobsson and Knutas walked past the cement sculpture in the shape of a sheep that prevented cars from driving through the gate and stepped over the blue-and-white police tape.
Knutas stopped short at the sight of the victim.
At first glance, it looked like a tragic suicide. The rope was attached to a strong hook that had been fastened to the portcullis above the gate. The dead man’s head was bent forward, his body was limp.
The scene reminded Knutas of the year before, when several people had been ritually murdered and then hanged.
‘I feel like I’ve seen this before,’ he said to Jacobsson.
‘I know. The first thing I thought about was finding Martinna Flochten last summer.’ Jacobsson shook her head and stuffed her hands further into the pockets of her down jacket.
When Knutas got close enough to see the face, he froze.
‘Dear Jesus, it’s Egon Wallin, the art dealer.’
Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman, who was in the process of photographing the body from various angles, lowered the camera and took a closer look at the man’s face.
‘You’re right, it’s him,’ he exclaimed. ‘My God. I was in his gallery only a week ago and bought a painting for my mother’s sixtieth birthday.’
‘We’ve got to get him down from there as soon as possible,’ said Knutas grimly. The body could be seen from the road, and by now people were starting to wake up.
He nodded towards Kung Magnus Road, where several cars had already pulled over. People were getting out and pointing towards the gate. In the morning light, the macabre scene was exposed to everyone who passed.
