out loud.
But right now she lay here next to him, sleepy and relaxed. She turned to face him, looking at him with her green eyes. ‘Good morning, sweet-heart. Is it already time to get up?’
He kissed her forehead. ‘We’ve got a while yet.’
Fifteen minutes later he got up and put on the coffee. It was still dark outside. The cat rubbed against his leg, and he lifted her on to his lap, where she immediately curled up. He thought about the previous day’s conversation with the victim’s widow. Why didn’t she say anything about her affair with Rolf Sanden? She should have realized that it was bound to come out sooner or later.
I need to ring her again, he thought, reaching for his old notebook. He used it for writing down ideas relating to his police work and reminders of things he didn’t want to forget. He skimmed through his notes from their conversation, but could hardly make out what he’d written. And the book was getting so worn that several pages had already fallen out. He was going to have to buy another one.
He glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall. The daily meeting had been postponed from eight to nine, since Knutas had agreed to participate in the live broadcast of Swedish Television’s morning talk show. Now he wondered why he’d said yes. Being on TV made him nervous, and afterwards he always thought that he looked awkward and indecisive. He had a hard time finding the right words when he stood there under the relentless spotlight, expected to spout perfectly formulated, well-balanced and thoughtfully weighed replies that would satisfy both the TV reporter and his police superiors. And that was really an impossible task. Not to reveal too much, yet at the same time to say enough so that the police might get some tips.
The truth was that right now the police needed help from the general public. They had little concrete evidence to go on. So far not a single witness with anything substantial to say had come forward, and nothing in Egon Wallin’s life had surfaced that might indicate a possible perp. There was no apparent motive. No one thought it was a robbery, even though both his wallet and mobile had yet to be found.
Egon Wallin had tended to his gallery for all these years, working hard and with a purpose. He had good relationships with his employees and had never been in trouble with the law. And by all accounts he had never had any quarrel with anyone else.
The interview went better than expected. Knutas sat in a small TV studio, with a direct hook-up to the host of the morning show. The interviewer was suitably cautious and didn’t ask any probing questions. When the three- minute interview was over, Knutas was completely sweaty, but quite satisfied with how it had gone. The county police commissioner rang his mobile just a few minutes after the show, confirming that he had managed to successfully manoeuvre his way through the interview.
When Knutas got back to police headquarters, he rang the forensic psychologist that he’d consulted the previous year. He was hoping that she would be able to interpret the perpetrator’s modus operandi and help them to move on. But she thought it was too early in the investigation and asked him to contact her again later. And no doubt she was right. Yet Knutas did manage to squeeze some information out of her.
She didn’t rule out the possibility that it might be a first-time criminal. On the other hand, she didn’t think it was a random murder; rather, a good deal of planning had been involved, perhaps undertaken over a long period of time. The killer was probably aware that Egon Wallin was thinking of leaving the house again, and that he would be alone. That meant, in turn, that the perp had been keeping his victim under surveillance.
They needed to have another talk with everyone who knew him. Someone might have noticed something, maybe seen a new, unfamiliar face around Wallin. And the fact that he must have known his killer — that definitely narrowed the field of interest. It was true that Egon Wallin’s circle of acquaintances was unusually large, but it made things significantly easier knowing that the perp was probably somebody close to him.
29
The platform was crowded with patiently waiting travellers who had become inured over the years to commuter-train delays caused by frozen switches, snow-covered tracks, carriages that fogged up in the cold and doors that refused to open. There was always something. Stockholmers had been forced to live with this commuter chaos for as long as anyone could remember.
With distaste he studied the people huddled around him. There they stood like helpless drudges, freezing in their woollen coats and down jackets, wearing jeans and gloves and moon boots, their noses running and their eyes watering in the cold. The temperature was minus 17 °C. Disconsolately, they stared with vacant expressions at Swedish Rail’s information boards reporting delayed and cancelled trains. He stamped his feet impatiently on the ground in an attempt to stay warm. Damn this cold, how he hated it. And how he hated these poor sods all around him. What pitiful lives they led.
Leaving their homes in the dark of early morning, many of them stood in the biting wind of icy-cold bus shelters and then sat jolting back and forth in buses, breathing in the smell of wet wool, exhaust fumes and mould, on their way to catch the commuter train. There they waited once again until the train finally showed up. When it arrived at last, the commuters were jammed together, station after station, until the train reached central Stockholm half an hour later.
After what seemed like an eternity, the train finally rolled into the station. He pushed his way on board to get a seat next to the window. His head ached, and even though the light was dim inside the carriage, he squinted to keep out as much of it as possible.
The train ride into town was a torment. He managed to squeeze in next to a fat woman who was sitting on the outer edge of the seat. He leaned his head against the window and looked out so as to avoid seeing the people around him. The train chugged past one suburb after another, each drearier than the last. He could have avoided this commute, could have been living an entirely different life. As usual, the thought made the acid rise up from his stomach. His body reacted instinctively, physically. He felt ill whenever he thought about how his life might have looked. If only.
Impatience had begun to creep over him, and he could feel that something would have to happen soon. He couldn’t wait much longer. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his expression calm. Sometimes he was scared that he had taken on more than he could handle.
He got out at Central Station and fell into step with the rushing crowds. He followed the flow of people through the swinging doors and headed for the subway. The train was already at the platform, and he sprinted the last few yards. Gamla Stan, the Old Town, was only one station away.
M onika Wallin got in touch with Knutas before he had a chance to contact her. He was on his way to work when she rang his mobile. She sounded upset.
‘I’ve found something. I want you to come over here.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t tell you on the phone. But I was going through our storage room last night, and I discovered something that I’m certain you’ll want to see.’
Knutas glanced at his watch. He was going to be late for the morning meeting, but it couldn’t be helped. Fortunately he’d decided to drive to work this morning. Even though it wasn’t far to Snackgardsvagen, which was on the other side of the hospital, it would be much faster by car. Instead of pulling into police headquarters, he drove past and turned on to Kung Magnus Road, circling the roundabout near the classic Norrgatt pastry shop before he headed towards the hospital. When he pulled into the small parking area, he saw Monika Wallin standing there waiting for him. She was wearing a pink down jacket, and he was surprised to see that she had also put on pink lipstick.
‘Hi,’ she greeted him, her voice sounding a bit strained. She held her hand out to him. Even her gloves were pink.
Then she led the way to the terraced house. The storage room was at one end of the building, and the door was open. Monika Wallin stepped inside the poorly lit space, which was much larger than it seemed from outside. It was cluttered with all sorts of things. The Wallins’ house was neat and tidy, but this was a whole different story. Jumbled together were clay pots, old skis, shovels, lampshades, bicycle tyres, cardboard boxes, tools and gardening equipment.
‘The storage room was Egon’s domain,’ said Monika Wallin apologetically. ‘I never came in here. I’ve always
