Both were gay, as he understood it. Hugo was open about his sexual inclinations. Egon was not.
They were planning to become partners in an art business in Stockholm. Partners, thought Johan. Were they also sexual partners? He considered that highly likely. He added ‘sexual partners?’ as another possible link between the two.
He sat at his desk for a while, staring at what he had written. As he saw it, there were two main questions. He wrote them down. 1. Why was ‘The Dying Dandy’ stolen? 2. Was there going to be another victim?
There was nothing to indicate that the murderer would stop his killing spree. There might be more people he wanted out of the way. Johan wrote down the word ‘dandy’. What exactly did it mean?
He looked up the word on the internet and found this explanation: ‘Snob, fop. A dandy is associated with elegance, cold-heartedness, sarcasm, irony, androgyny or sexual ambivalence.’
Did the killer view himself as a dandy? Or were his victims dandies?
Johan thought about the various individuals who figured in the investigation. Pia had made a note of the names of everyone who had been invited to Egon Wallin’s gallery opening. She’d obtained the list from Eva Blom at the gallery, but Johan hadn’t asked Pia how she’d managed that. He wasn’t sure that he really wanted to know.
What if I start with the list? he thought. It didn’t take him long to focus on one name. Erik Mattson. He was the Dardel expert who had made several statements on TV about the theft at Waldemarsudde. That was a strange coincidence. Mattson worked for Bukowski’s Auction House in Stockholm. Johan decided to ring him. He pulled up Bukowski’s website and found Mattson’s name and photograph. Talk about a dandy. Erik Mattson was wearing a pinstriped suit, with an ice-blue shirt and tie under an elegant waistcoat. His dark hair was combed back. He had even, regular features and an aristocratic nose, dark eyes and narrow lips. He was smiling at the camera; it was a slightly superior, even ironic smile. The classic dandy, thought Johan. He glanced at his watch. It was too late to ring now. Bukowski’s would be closed. He would have to wait until the morning. He sighed and got up to put some coffee on while thoughts whirled through his mind.
Who was this Erik Mattson? Did he have any connection to Gotland?
He had no clue where the idea came from; suddenly it just popped into his head. He glanced at his watch again. Eight forty-five. It wasn’t too late to ring. Anita Thoren picked up the phone herself.
‘Hi, this is Johan Berg from Regional News. I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the evening, but I have an urgent question that can’t wait.’
‘What’s this about?’ she asked in a friendly tone of voice.
‘Well, I’m doing some research, and I understand that you rent out the cabins to guests in the summertime. How long have you been doing that?’
‘Ever since we took over Muramaris in the eighties, actually. For almost twenty years now.’
‘Do you keep a record of who has rented the cabins?’
‘Of course. I’ve always kept a record.’
‘Do you happen to have access to it at the moment?’
‘Yes, my office is here at home.’
‘Have you got time to take a look at it?’
‘Of course. I have the ledger here somewhere. Wait a minute.’
The ledger? thought Johan. What century is she living in? Hasn’t she heard of computers?
After a minute she was back.
‘OK, here it is. I always enter the name, address and phone number of everyone who rents a cabin. I also record the amount they paid and how long they stayed.’
‘You don’t have the information computerized?’
‘No,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s embarrassing, but this is the way I’ve always done things. We’ve been renting out the cabins for twenty years, after all. I suppose it’s a form of nostalgia for me to keep things the way they were always done. Do you know what I mean?’
Johan knew exactly what she meant. His mother was just learning to send text messages, even though he’d been trying to teach her for years.
‘Could you do me a favour?’ he said.
‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ she said hesitantly.
‘Could you check to see whether an Erik Mattson has ever rented a cabin?’
‘All right, but it will take a while. I’ll have to go through twenty years’ worth of records.’
‘Take all the time you need.’
An hour later Anita Thoren rang him back.
‘That was so strange. Right after we talked, Karin Jacobsson from the police called and wanted to know the same thing.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And I actually did find the name of Erik Mattson listed in the records. Several times, in fact.’
Johan felt his mouth go dry.
‘Yes?’
‘The first time he rented from us was in June 1990 — so that was fifteen years ago. Rolf de Mare’s cottage. For two weeks, from June the thirteenth to the twenty-sixth, together with his wife, Lydia Mattson, and their three children. I have their names too: David, Karl and Emelie Mattson.’
‘And after that?’
‘The second time was two years later, in August 1992. But that time he didn’t bring his wife and children.’ ‘Was he there alone?’
‘No, he rented the cottage with another man.’
‘Do you have the man’s name?’
‘Of course. Jakob Nordstrom.’
‘And the last time?’
‘July the tenth to the twenty-fifth of the following year. Again with Jakob Nordstrom. So he rented the same place all three times. Rolf de Mare’s cottage.’
68
It was on that Saturday in November that he realized he was capable of killing another human being. It had taken him two seconds to make up his mind. How he wished he hadn’t witnessed that scene, which had lasted no more than a moment. The images would stay with him for the rest of his life.
At first he hadn’t intended to follow the man who was the focus of his interest; it was an impulse that made him do it. He was just going to walk past the gallery. He hadn’t yet decided how to deal with what he’d found out; he had no idea what to do about it. He was planning to put it all aside until he figured out his next move. But that wasn’t how things worked out. Maybe what happened was predestined. That was what he thought afterwards. And after what he’d been forced to see, there was only one option. The realization had struck him like the blow of a club. Brutally, irrevocably.
He almost missed him. When he turned on to Osterlanggatan, he saw Hugo Malmberg locking up the gallery, even though it was an hour before closing time. Curiosity got the better of him. He decided to follow Malmberg and find out why the man he was tailing had broken his routine.
He followed a few yards behind, over to the bus stop on Skeppsbron. Malmberg was smoking a cigarette and talking to somebody on his mobile. Then the bus arrived. He dashed across the street to climb aboard, with Malmberg right in front of him. Uncomfortably close. If he simply reached out his hand, he could have touched the man’s arm.
He felt sick at the sight of the elegant woollen coat, the scarf nonchalantly flung over his shoulder. That self- confident, pompous man who thought he was invulnerable; so far he was happily unaware that his life was about to be shattered. Malmberg got off the bus near the NK department store on Hamngatan. He turned down Regeringsgatan and headed along the street for a while, then turned left on to a side street. He smoked another cigarette. Cars passed and people strolled by, going home or on their way into the city. Still curious, he continued
