After asking the standard questions to establish the identity of the interviewees, Jacobsson turned to the artist.
‘How well did you know Egon Wallin?’
Kalvalis hesitated before answering.
‘Hmm, not very well. He was easy to talk to, on a professional level, but we’d met only a few times.’ ‘Where did you first meet?’
‘It must have been a year ago,’ he said, glancing at his manager, who nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, that’s right. It was last spring in Vilnius. He was attending some sort of conference, I think.’
Again he looked at the man sitting next to him. His manager pursed his lips and nodded.
‘How did you happen to meet?’
‘We were seated at the same table at a dinner arranged by the Society for the Promotion of Lithuanian Artists. He’d seen my work. I had a show at a small gallery in Vilnius at the time, and he said that he liked what I did. The next day we met for lunch, and he offered to be my agent here in Scandinavia.’
‘And you accepted at once?’
‘No, of course not. I was actually getting a lot of attention from that exhibition, which was my first, and there was a bunch of PR in the newspapers. I had offers from all over, but Egon Wallin’s was the best.’
That caught Knutas’s attention. He wondered how Egon Wallin could have beaten the other agents so easily. He scribbled a few words in his notebook.
‘What exactly did he offer you?’ Jacobsson fixed her gaze on Mattis Kalvalis. Her eyes were just as dark as his.
‘He wanted to sell my work over here, and he would take twenty per cent.’
‘Why was that such a good deal?’
‘Everybody else wanted to take twenty-five per cent. And besides, he seemed to have good contacts.’
Kalvalis smiled briefly. At the beginning of the interview he had acted very nervous, but now he seemed to be relaxing.
‘That certainly seems to be the case, considering it was your first show here,’ said Jacobsson. ‘As I understand it, nearly everything was sold.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the publicity has been great,’ his manager interjected, speaking for the first time. ‘Mattis has been in every major newspaper this weekend, and commissions for more paintings have been pouring in. Egon Wallin was a good man to work with; we could tell that right from the start. Now we don’t know what’s going to happen.’
‘No, we don’t,’ Mattis agreed, shrugging his shoulders.
Judging by his expression, he wasn’t particularly worried.
‘We know that you had dinner at Donners Brunn after the opening on the night of the murder. What did you do after that?’
‘I didn’t go to the dinner,’ reported the manager. ‘I wasn’t feeling well, so I went straight back to the hotel.’
‘Is that so?’ Jacobsson frowned. She had assumed that Vigor Haukis was also at the dinner. ‘What did you do at the hotel?’
‘Just went to bed. I was so tired after all the rushing around and nervousness before the opening.’ He laughed, as if embarrassed.
Jacobsson turned to Mattis Kalvalis. ‘Tell me about that evening.’
‘OK. The opening went well, as I said. You could say it was a huge success. I had a great time, and it was interesting to talk to all the guests. People here are so open and enthusiastic,’ he said, looking pleased as he tugged at his green fringe. ‘There were lots of journalists, and I gave a bunch of interviews. Then afterwards we all went to the restaurant, except for Vigor, and that was really nice.’
‘How long did you stay at the restaurant?’
‘I left around eleven.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘Went straight back to the hotel. I had to get up early the next morning.’
‘And you didn’t meet anyone?’
‘No. The hotel is practically next door to the restaurant. I went up to my room and went to bed.’ ‘Did anyone see you?’
‘No. There’s nobody at the front desk at night, so the lobby was deserted.’
‘So nobody can vouch for the fact that you’re telling us the truth?’
‘No,’ said the artist, surprised. ‘Am I a suspect?’ His hand flew up to clutch at his chest.
‘I’m just asking standard questions that we ask everybody,’ replied Jacobsson, as if to reassure him. ‘It’s just routine.’
‘OK. I understand.’ Kalvalis smiled uneasily and cast a quick glance at his manager.
‘Why did the two of you go to Stockholm?’
‘I might as well tell you the truth about that. I know that I’d promised Egon that he could be my agent in Scandinavia, but I hadn’t yet signed the contract. During the opening, I was offered an even better agreement by another art dealer in Stockholm.’
‘Sixten Dahl?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He persuaded me to at least go and see his gallery and hear more about what he could do for me. So we decided during the opening that we’d go.’
‘Have you now signed a contract with Dahl?’
The artist threw out his hands. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. It’s so much better. And now it doesn’t really matter any more. Now that Egon is dead.’
A fter the interview, Knutas and Jacobsson went to the pizzeria around the corner for a late lunch. They were the only customers. It was past two, and Knutas was faint with hunger. They each ordered a capricciosa pizza at the counter and then sat down at a table near the window with a view of the street. The sunshine was gone; they looked out at overcast skies and slushy snow.
‘I didn’t like having to let those two go,’ said Jacobsson, shaking her head. ‘There’s still too much that’s up in the air.’
‘I know,’ Knutas agreed. ‘But what could we do? We don’t have any reason for arresting them.’
Jacobsson took a sip of the light beer she had ordered. ‘This case just seems to get more and more complicated. First the murder of Egon Wallin; then we find out about his secretly planned move, the stolen paintings, and his wife’s love affair. What a mess.’
Their pizzas arrived, and they ate them in silence. Knutas gulped down his food so fast that he got the hiccups. He ordered a Ramlosa sparkling mineral water, which he swiftly downed to put a stop to the hiccuping. ‘There are two points of intersection,’ he then said. ‘Art and Stockholm. Wallin was on his way there, and Kalvalis apparently has a number of contacts in the city. Is there anything else that comes to mind?’
‘Secrets,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Both Wallin and his wife were keeping secrets from each other. Wallin managed to sell the gallery, buy a flat in Stockholm, and virtually arrange for the whole divorce without his poor wife finding out a thing.’
‘What about Mattis Kalvalis?’ murmured Knutas pensively. ‘What sort of secrets do you think he might have?’
He pushed aside his plate and gave his colleague a searching glance. And what about you? he thought. Speaking of secrets.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked her.
‘What do you mean? With me?’ She looked worried.
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’ ‘You’re a terrible liar.’
‘Now stop it,’ she said, although with a smile.
But Knutas’s expression was serious as he looked her in the eye. ‘Haven’t we known each other long enough for you to tell me what’s going on?’
Jacobsson blushed. ‘My dear Anders, nothing special is going on. Life just has its ups and downs, that’s all. You know how it is.’ ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
