‘It’s non-existent. They broke off all contact with him when it became apparent that he was using drugs and was homosexual.’
‘Homosexual? He’s gay too? That seems to be a common thread in this whole investigation.’
‘I agree.’
‘But that sounds rather harsh. Did they really break off contact just because of that? It certainly doesn’t sound very loving.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Jacobsson agreed. ‘On the other hand, they seem to have a good relationship with his ex-wife Lydia and his children. Or at least two of them.’
‘How old are they? His children, I mean.’
‘The boys, David and Karl, are twenty-three and twenty-one. The daughter, Emelie, is nineteen.’
‘Which child doesn’t have a good relationship with the grandparents?’
‘Apparently, David. The eldest. I talked to Erik’s father, who by the way sounded very nice, and he said that David was the most sensitive and was hit the hardest by the divorce. Erik and his wife split up because of his drug abuse. And he lost custody of the children because he neglected them when they spent weekends with him. But that didn’t seem to bother David. Evidently he has always sided with his father.’
Knutas fixed his eyes on Jacobsson for a long time without saying anything. Then, with a resolute expression, he picked up the phone as if he’d suddenly had an idea.
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”.’
74
The house stood at the intersection of two residential streets in an idyllic neighbourhood, close to the school in central Roma.
It was nine thirty in the morning. He had purposely waited until the worst of the morning rush hour was over, with people going off to work, children heading to day-care centres or to school, owners walking their dogs and coming out to pick up the morning newspapers. By now an air of calm had settled over the neighbourhood, and the street was quiet.
From where he was standing he could see the woman moving from room to room on the ground floor of the house. That must be Emma Winarve. Discreetly he took out his binoculars. He was hiding behind some shrubbery so that he wouldn’t be seen from any of the well-tended houses lining the street.
She was beautiful, dressed in a long, pink bathrobe made of some soft fabric. Her hair was sandy coloured, her eyes dark under distinctive eyebrows. She had high cheekbones and regular, classical features. No longer really young, of course, but still attractive. Tall and stately. He wondered how strong she was.
He saw her bend down and pick up the child. The next minute she appeared upstairs. He could just make out her shape as she moved from room to room. Through the cold lenses of his binoculars, he could follow her movements. Now she was leaning down, presumably to put the baby to bed. She stood there for a moment, doing something.
Then her bathrobe fell away, and he caught a quick glimpse of her bare back before she disappeared from view. She must have gone into the bathroom to take a shower. That was perfect. Swiftly he crossed the street, opened the gate and resolutely entered the property as if it were the most natural thing in the world. From a distance he could tell that the front door wasn’t locked. Great, he thought. That would only normally happen way out in the country.
He looked around before he opened the door. Not a soul as far as the eye could see. Quickly and quietly he slipped inside, finding himself in a messy hall filled with clothes, shoes and gloves all jumbled together. He could smell coffee and toast. Deep inside of him a feeling surged up that confused him for a few seconds. He made a
