‘What? Egon Wallin? Is that true?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, but everybody knows who he is. Was he robbed? Is that what happened?’
‘I don’t think so. It seems a little much to go about hanging a person in that way, so I suspect there’s something else behind it.’
‘You mean he was hanged from the gate? God, how macabre. It sounds like those horrible murders from last summer. Do you think somebody was incited by them?’
‘You mean a copycat killer? Let’s hope not. Although I don’t know exactly how Wallin was murdered, only that he was found hanging from the gate. The police aren’t saying much. But Pia and I are up to our eyeballs in work. We’re doing stories for Regional News, Rapport and Aktuellt.’
‘So you’re busy tonight?’
Johan’s voice took on a softer tone. ‘I was thinking of asking you whether I could come over later. After I’m done.’
‘Sure, do that. That would be great.’
‘I might not get there until around nine or even later, depending on whether anything happens about the murder.’
‘That’s OK. It doesn’t matter. Come over whenever you can.’
K nutas could hear excited voices coming from the conference room as he arrived for the meeting with the investigative team on Sunday evening. Everyone else was already there, crowded around one of the computers on the table.
‘Those damned reporters,’ growled Wittberg. ‘Don’t they have any brains at all?’ He tapped his finger on his temple.
‘What are you talking about?’ Knutas came over to join his colleague and find out what was going on.
The front page of the online version of the evening paper showed a photo of Egon Wallin hanging from Dalman Gate. The headline was simple and terse. ‘MURDERED’ it said in big black letters.
The only mitigating detail was the fact that the face was partially hidden by a police officer, making it impossible to identify the victim.
Knutas shook his head.
Wittberg went on. ‘Don’t they have any consideration for his family? Good Lord, the man has children!’
‘That picture isn’t going to turn up on the front page of the printed edition, is it?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘Surely that would be going too far.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s even worth holding press conferences any more,’ said Wittberg. ‘They just seem to get the reporters all worked up.’
‘Maybe we got a little ahead of ourselves this time,’ Knutas admitted.
He’d been foolish enough to let Norrby convince him that a press conference would calm down the media and give the police more chance to do their work in peace. But the result seemed to be the complete opposite.
He felt his irritation growing. A persistent headache throbbed at the back of his head.
‘The clock’s ticking, and we need to start talking about more important matters,’ he said, taking his usual seat at one end of the table.
Everybody sat down so the meeting could begin.
‘We’re now positive that we’re dealing with a homicide. I’ve received an initial statement from the ME, who agrees with Sohlman that the victim’s injuries speak quite clearly. The body will be transported by boat to the mainland this evening, to be taken to forensics. I’m hoping that by tomorrow we’ll have a preliminary post-mortem report. Wallin also has a number of peculiar facial injuries, and we’d like to find an explanation for them. Out of consideration for his family, we’ll wait to search both his home and the gallery. I just had an interesting conversation with one of his employees, a woman named Eva Blom. She told me that a sculpture is missing from the gallery. It’s a small piece made of Gotland limestone. It’s called “Yearning” and it was done by the sculptor Anna Petrus. Apparently it’s a smaller version of a sculpture in the garden at Muramaris. That artist residence, you know, located right before the Krusmynta estate.’
‘When did it disappear?’
‘On Saturday. According to Ms Blom, it was there when the gallery opened at one o’clock. She remembers it specifically because she went around the whole place to make sure everything was in order.’
‘When did they close the gallery?’
‘There were guests until around seven or eight. Then Egon Wallin, his wife, the artist and the gallery employees all went to Donners Brunn for dinner. They locked up the gallery and set the alarm, as usual.’
‘Is she sure about that?’
‘A hundred per cent sure.’
‘So that means the sculpture disappeared some time during the opening?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Is it valuable?’
‘No, apparently it’s quite small, and the material isn’t anything special. The artist is relatively unknown, so according to Ms Blom there wouldn’t be much point in stealing it to make money.’
‘Then why would anyone take it?’
The question was left hovering in the air, unanswered.
14
His eyes were stinging with fatigue, and Knutas realized that it was about time for him to go home. He hadn’t had a minute to himself all day, so he wanted to sit down in the privacy of his office to gather his thoughts for a moment.
He sank on to his old, worn oak chair with the soft leather cushion. He had decided to keep it, in spite of the extensive refurbishment that police headquarters had undergone six months earlier, when even the furniture had been replaced. He’d had this chair for his entire career in the criminal division, and he refused to let it go. He’d solved so many cases sitting in it. It could both spin around and rock back and forth, and that gentle movement always seemed to allow his thoughts to float freely.
The work had been so intense ever since Wallin’s body had been found in the morning that Knutas was having a hard time grasping everything that was whirling through his mind.
He shuddered when he recalled the sight that he’d encountered at Dalman Gate. Such a pleasant man. What was happening here on Gotland? The number of violent crimes had increased significantly during the past few years, especially murders. On the other hand, it was true that violence was increasing all over Sweden. He thought back to the days when someone breaking into a kiosk was considered front-page news. Nowadays that sort of incident hardly got any attention at all. The social climate had become more brutal on all fronts, and he didn’t care for this development.
He took out his pipe from the top drawer of his desk and began meticulously to fill it. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and began sucking on the pipe without lighting it.
The fact that the artist and his manager had vanished so mysteriously was disturbing. And it had turned out that they were accompanied by one of the art dealers who had been at the opening. Sixten Dahl. It had been impossible to reach any of them during the course of the day. Oh well, he thought. We’ll just have to keep at it tomorrow.
His thoughts drifted to Egon Wallin. He’d run into the art dealer many times in different situations. He and Lina had also visited the gallery now and then over the years, even though they usually just went to look. But one time he did buy a painting by Lennart Jirlow, a restaurant scene that reminded him of the place where Lina had worked in Copenhagen when they met. He smiled at the memory. It was for Lina’s fortieth birthday, and she had never been so happy about anything else he’d ever bought for her. Gifts were not Knutas’s strong point.
In his mind he conjured up an image of Wallin. The most striking thing about him was his attire. He usually wore a long leather coat and trendy-looking cowboy boots, which made him seem more like a big-city resident than a Gotlander. It was obvious that he dyed his hair a reddish blond, and the light suntan that he sported all year round
