‘Regardless, we need to keep the area around Dalman Gate under surveillance,’ said Knutas. ‘Better to be safe than sorry. We really have no idea who we’re dealing with.’
‘What about Muramaris?’
‘We’ll put the place under surveillance too. It’s always possible that he might decide to go back there.’
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.
66
The call came in to Visby police headquarters at one fifteen in the afternoon. Twenty minutes later Knutas and Jacobsson climbed out of the first car to arrive at the site, followed closely by Sohlman and Wittberg. More police vehicles were on the way. Knutas took long strides as he headed towards the grave.
‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘There’s only one person it could be.’
Sohlman caught up with them and was the first to approach the body. He leaned down and studied the parts sticking up from the snow.
‘He’s covered with wounds. Burn marks from cigarettes and other signs of abuse. The poor devil seems to have been tortured before he was killed.’ He shook his head.
‘Is it Hugo Malmberg?’ Knutas let his gaze slide over the lacerated body.
‘Let’s have a look.’ Sohlman carefully turned over the corpse. ‘Yes, it’s him all right.’
Jacobsson gasped.
Everyone bent down to look at the noose. There was no doubt that it was the work of the same person.
Knutas straightened up and surveyed the deserted cemetery.
‘The body is still warm,’ said Sohlman. ‘He can’t have been dead very long.’
‘We need to search the area with police dogs. Immediately,’ said Knutas. He began issuing orders. ‘The killer may not have got far. He must have a vehicle. When the hell does the next ferry leave for the mainland? We have to stop it and search every single car. All the passengers have to be checked. This time he’s not going to get away.’
67
Johan and Pia had worked like dogs ever since receiving the press release stating that Hugo Malmberg’s tortured body had been found lying on top of Egon Wallin’s grave. The murder launched a feeding frenzy in the media, and in Stockholm everybody wanted material for transmission before it had even been recorded.
This second scandalous murder in Visby had also evoked strong reactions among the locals. All of the galleries in Visby had been closed, and the owners were meeting to discuss the situation. Speculation was running rampant, and everyone was wondering whether the killer was only after people involved in the art world. The police had held a chaotic press conference, with questions hurled from all directions by the fifty or so journalists who were present. The news had even spread to the rest of Scandinavia, and reporters from both Denmark and Norway had arrived in Visby during the day.
After editing the final story for the evening news, Johan decided to stay in the office for a while. He was much too stressed to go home yet. He needed to gather his thoughts. Pia left as soon as they sent off the story because she was planning to go to the cinema. To the cinema? Now? thought Johan. Who could concentrate on watching a film after everything that happened here today?
He sat down with a pen and paper and began to summarize the events, starting from the very beginning.
The murder of Egon Wallin. The stolen paintings found in the storage room of his house.
The theft of ‘The Dying Dandy’ at Waldemarsudde.
The sculpture stolen from Wallin’s gallery, only to show up at Waldemarsudde at the same time as the painting was stolen. The original sculpture was at Muramaris. The perpetrator had stayed in a cottage there, at least when he committed the first murder. Then Hugo Malmberg was also killed, and his body was found on top of Egon Wallin’s grave.
Johan wrote down the points of intersection between the two victims. Both were art dealers.
