‘Hurry up now,’ Knutas urged his colleagues. ‘He’s hanging there as if he’s in a display window.’
He scanned the area. It was always hard to strike the right balance as to how much should be cordoned off, but all his years of experience as a detective had taught him that the larger the area, the better.
The police couldn’t yet rule out suicide, but if Egon Wallin had been murdered, which is what Knutas believed, then they would need to secure all conceivable evidence. He made a quick decision that they would need to isolate the entire green area, from Osterport to Norderport. There were footprints everywhere, clearly visible in the snow, and some of them might belong to the killer.
Knutas studied the portcullis where the rope of the noose had been fastened. It seemed impossible for Egon Wallin to have managed the whole thing on his own. There was absolutely nothing to climb on. The noose was so high up that Knutas realized he would be forced to call in the fire department to get the body down.
He pulled out his mobile and rang Forensic Medicine in Solna. A medical examiner would fly over from the mainland in a police helicopter as soon as possible.
From experience Knutas knew that the ME would prefer them to leave the body untouched until he did his first examination, but in this case that wouldn’t be possible. The dead man was hanging there as if he were the victim of a public execution. If it turned out to be a homicide, the media frenzy would descend upon them before they knew it.
Knutas had no sooner thought this than he felt the first camera flash behind him. Alarmed, he turned around, only to witness more camera flashes.
He recognized the photographer from the newspaper Gotlands Allehanda, accompanied by one of the paper’s most persistent reporters. His face flushed with anger, Knutas brusquely grabbed her by the arm.
‘What in hell do you think you’re doing? This might be a suicide case. Right now we don’t know anything for sure. Absolutely nothing! The family hasn’t even been informed yet. He’s only just been found!’
‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked quickly as she pulled her arm away, ignoring Knutas’s agitation. ‘I think it looks like Egon Wallin, the art dealer.’
‘Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s not certain that any crime has been committed here. Get out of here now and let us do our job in peace!’
Suicide at least was something that journalists in Sweden respected and didn’t usually report. Not yet, at any rate. But with the sort of developments that were occurring in the media, it wouldn’t be long before they began revelling in such cases.
Knutas was even angrier because he knew and respected Egon Wallin. Not that they’d actually spent much time together, but they’d met on various occasions over the years, and Knutas had always liked the man. There was something very straightforward and candid about him. An honest individual who had both feet on the ground and who was content with his life, unlike so many others who complained non-stop. He seemed to be a thoroughly decent guy who treated everyone well. A real mensch. They were about the same age, and Knutas had always looked up to Egon Wallin. He had an appealing aura about him that made people want to be his friend. And now here he was, hanging from the gate — dead as a doornail.
Every minute that passed without taking the body down was a torment. He was already dreading having to tell Wallin’s wife about the tragedy.
More journalists had appeared on the other side of the police tape. He did understand that they had a job to do. If this turned out to be a homicide case, the police would be forced to schedule a press conference.
Knutas was grateful at least that so far no TV crew had turned up. But the next moment he caught sight of Pia Lilja, the most zealous TV cameraperson he’d ever encountered. She worked with Johan Berg at Swedish Television. At the moment she was alone, but that didn’t prevent her from filming. They were in a public place, after all, and as long as she stayed outside the cordoned-off area, there was nothing he could do to stop her.
Knutas sighed. He cast one last look at the body before he left the scene, accompanied by Jacobsson.
It was going to be a busy day.
6
Usually Sundays were calm in the editorial offices of the Regional News division at the headquarters of Swedish TV in the Gardet district, and today was no exception. Johan Berg was feeling hung-over and worn out as he sat at his desk, listlessly scanning the daily papers. Absolutely nothing was going on. Not in Stockholm, on Gotland, or in Uppsala, which were the areas covered by Regional News.
The previous evening had turned out to involve far more drinks and had lasted much longer than he had planned. He’d gone out for a few beers with his best friend Andreas, who was also a journalist. They’d ended up at Kvarnen, and had then stupidly accompanied several colleagues from Swedish Radio’s Eko news programme to a party out in Hammarbyh?jden. Not until four a.m. had he stumbled through the door of his one-bedroom flat on Heleneborgsgatan.
Adding to his distaste for spending Sunday on the job was the fact that the editor in charge was a substitute in whom he had very little faith. He had hardly taken off his jacket before she was enthusiastically proposing one mediocre assignment after another. She seemed to be nervously grasping at every straw. Good Lord, there were still ten hours left before the five-minute fluff piece they usually broadcast on Sundays. And besides, they had a report in the can. Calm down, for God’s sake, he thought morosely. The mere sight of her made him tired. She was also the newscaster, so she was the only person around to talk to. On Sundays the resources were so meagre that one person had to be both editor and newscaster.
He glanced through the various press releases that had been sent to the editorial offices over the weekend. Ninety-five per cent had to do with various PR gimmicks for different functions going on in town, including announcements about hip-hopper Markoolio being the master of ceremonies when the new Tumba Centre was opened, something about a lace workshop at Skansen, and publicity for a guinea-pig race at the Sollentuna exhibition hall.
He hated all these different ‘days’ that had been invented over the past few years. First there were Children’s Day and Book Day and Women’s Day, which were OK — but lately there had been a plethora of days that had to be celebrated. Days officially designated to honour cinnamon rolls, the suburbs, go-karts, and so on. This Sunday was apparently Mitten Day. What could that possibly mean? Was everybody supposed to go around wearing home-made mittens, waving their hands around and looking happy? What purpose could that possibly serve? Were they going to sell pastries shaped like mittens and exchange knitting patterns? He almost felt like doing a report on the topic just because it sounded so dumb.
The rest of the press releases were either from groups dissatisfied with the public-transportation system, or from obscure groups of activists protesting about everything imaginable: a dangerous road outside a school in Gimo, a day-care centre in Vaxholm that was about to be closed, or the long queue at the welfare office in Salem. Johan shook his head as he tossed one press release after another into the wastebasket.
The cameraman for the day showed up and joined him with a cup of coffee. They sat and commiserated about the fact that there were no worthwhile stories to report. Now and then Johan could feel the editor glancing at them, but he chose to ignore her. For just a little while longer.
He tried to ring Emma several times, but the line was always busy. Should she really be spending so much time on the phone when she’s taking care of Elin? he thought with annoyance. Yet he also felt the familiar stab of yearning. His daughter was now eight months old, but he saw her only sporadically.
He put down the phone and looked over at the editor’s desk; she was putting in calls to all the small police stations in their area to find out if anything was going on that might be newsworthy.
He suddenly felt guilty and realized that he needed to pull himself together. It wasn’t her fault that he was tired and out of sorts. Or that Sundays were always hopeless news days. Maybe he could use his police contacts to fish out some tiny morsel that with a little effort could be turned into a story. Good enough for a Sunday, at least.
He was just about to pick up the phone on his cluttered desk when his mobile rang.
He recognized Pia Lilja’s voice at once. She was the cameraperson he most often worked with whenever he went over to Gotland. ‘Did you hear the news?’ she gasped.
‘No, what is it?’
