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.’
71
Johan didn’t really know what compelled him to take that route on his way home. But after having a pleasant dinner at his mother’s house in Ronninge and seeing all his brothers, he found himself driving past Erik Mattson’s building on Karlavagen. He parked the car outside and looked up at the lovely facade. It was an impressive, well- kept building with an ostentatious front entrance and a profusion of flower beds. Without knowing what he expected, Johan got out of the car and went over to try the door. Locked, of course. There were lights on in most of the windows. Earlier in the day he’d checked to see which flat belonged to Mattson, and now he saw that there too the lights were on. There was both an intercom and a keypad that required a code number. On impulse, Johan pressed the number next to Mattson’s name. He tried again several times with no response. Then he heard a man’s voice, but it wasn’t Mattson’s. There was loud music playing in the background. The man sounded speedy and slightly drunk.
‘Hi, Kalle. You’re late. We almost left without you, damn it.’
The man cut off the connection. But there was no buzzing sound, so he hadn’t unlocked the door. Johan hurried back to his car. After several minutes three men came out of the entrance; one of them was Erik Mattson. They were all in high spirits and stood outside the door for a moment. Johan slouched down so as not to be seen, but he could hear their voices.
‘Where the hell did he go?’
‘He wasn’t mad, was he?’
‘Naw, not Kalle. He must have decided to go on ahead.’
The two men that Johan didn’t recognize seemed to be about the same age as Mattson. Attractive, fashion- conscious professionals from Ostermalm wearing expensive suits under their coats, and with their hair slicked back.
They walked past Johan’s car without noticing him and disappeared into Humlegarden Park. Johan got out of his car and followed. When they reached Club Riche they went inside. The place was packed, and Johan was lucky that there wasn’t a queue. The music was pounding, and everyone was walking around with drinks in their hands.
If only he could stay out of sight. Mattson would recognize him at once, since they’d met earlier in the day. On the other hand, it really wouldn’t be so strange to see a journalist in Club Riche on a Friday night. This thought was immediately reinforced when he found some of his colleagues at the bar.
He kept an eye on Mattson, who was mingling with the crowd. He seemed to know everybody. Johan noticed that he downed one drink after the other without seeming to be affected.
All of a sudden Mattson was gone. Johan left his friends and walked around looking for him. He started getting worried. Had he lost the guy? Then he saw him talking to an older man. They were standing close together and seemed to be having an intimate conversation.
The older man abruptly headed for the exit and disappeared. A couple of minutes later Mattson also left the club. Outside, Johan saw both men get into a cab. He jumped into the next taxi and told the driver to follow. Johan didn’t really know what he was doing. He had to get up early the next morning and clean the flat before his tenant arrived. Then he had to pack his suitcase and fly to Gotland. He didn’t have time to be playing spy games.
The taxi ride was a short one. The cab stopped outside a battered-looking doorway in a back alley in central Stockholm. Mattson and the older man got out. Johan quickly paid the taxi driver and got out to follow them. Down a staircase he found himself in a sort of video shop. There he paid the entrance fee so he could proceed even further down into the depths of the building.
It didn’t take long for Johan to understand what Erik Mattson was mixed up in.
J ohan and Pia were in charge of the story for the Sunday broadcast; Gotland was where the hottest news events were happening, for a change. Johan told his colleague what he’d discovered in Stockholm when he tailed Erik Mattson.
Pia’s eyes opened wide. ‘Is that true?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It sounds unbelievable. But do you think he’s the murderer?’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Have you told the police about this?’
‘No, I wanted to confirm all the details first.’
‘So you don’t think we can use this for our report in some way?’
‘Not yet. It’s premature. I need to do more research first, find out more about Mattson.’
That evening as Johan drove home, his head was filled with contradictory thoughts. Erik Mattson worked at Bukowski’s Auction House and was one of Sweden’s top experts on twentieth-century Swedish art. At the same time, he frequented obscure gay clubs and prostituted himself. Johan couldn’t make sense of the whole thing. It couldn’t be because Mattson needed the money. He was an enigmatic figure, and Johan was becoming more and
