He punched in the number for Bukowski’s and spoke to the head curator, who was in the midst of preparing for the big spring auction taking place the following week. The curator confirmed that they had sent two colleagues to Gotland on the weekend in question. They had a valuation to do in Burgsvik on Friday, and then they were supposed to attend the gallery opening on Saturday. Since both men were experts in modern art, it was important for them to keep up-to-date with what was happening in the art world. And all indications were that Mattis Kalvalis was going to be a big name.
Knutas asked to speak to Erik Mattson, but he wasn’t in. The curator gave him Mattson’s mobile number. No one answered, so Knutas left a message on his voicemail.
It was now past six, and it was Saturday. Knutas searched for Mattson’s home phone number on the internet, but without any luck. Apparently he had an unlisted number. He tried the mobile number again, but without success. Well, it would just have to wait. But Knutas felt an uneasiness gnawing at him as he drove home.
It was almost dusk, and the sky was tinged with crimson. That was one of the things that people who visited Gotland always talked about. The light. That it was different on Gotland. They were probably right. Even though he was so used to it, occasionally he still stopped to look at the special glow that settled over the island.
Knutas’s heart belonged to Gotland, without question. He had deep roots here; his family had lived on the island as far back as anyone cared to research his genealogy. His parents lived on a farm in Kappelshamn in the northwest. They were now past retirement age, but they continued to bake flatbread, which they delivered to island restaurants and shops. The bread was famous. Some tourists even claimed that they went to Gotland just to buy that bread. It wasn’t available anywhere else.
Knutas had a good relationship with his parents, but he preferred to keep them at a safe distance. When he and Lina decided to buy a summerhouse, his father tried to convince him to find one in Kappelshamn. They decided instead to buy a place in nearby Lickershamn. If his parents needed help with something in the summer-time, it wouldn’t take him long to get to their house, but he didn’t really want them stopping by all the time.
Knutas had an older sister who lived in Farjestaden on the neighbouring island of Oland. He also had a twin brother who was in the military and lived on Faro. The brothers saw each other mostly at family gatherings. Knutas usually saw his sister Lena only at Christmas and Midsummer; she was seven years older than him, and they’d never been close. But he spoke to his brother on the phone from time to time, and occasionally they went out for a bite to eat or a beer. Even though they saw each other so seldom, their relationship was easygoing and uncomplicated. Knutas thought that was probably because they were twins. They always knew where they stood with each other, without constantly needing to re-establish contact. Whenever his brother came to Visby for a visit, he would stay overnight. The children were very fond of their uncle. Petra and Nils enjoyed listening to his tall tales about military life, and he could always keep them laughing.
When Knutas turned into his driveway, he caught sight of Lina through the kitchen window and was suddenly seized with melancholy. To think that people could live side by side and keep such secrets from each other, the way Egon and Monika had done. He was appalled by the idea that a woman could go around believing that she had a good marriage when the exact opposite was true. And then to find out that her spouse was cold-heartedly planning to move away and start a new life in a completely different place without saying a word. For Knutas it was incomprehensible that a person could be capable of such betrayal. He felt sorry for Monika Wallin. Even though she herself had taken a lover, she had still been thoroughly deceived by her husband.
41
With a deep sigh Johan dropped his suitcase on the floor of his flat. Soon he would have only one address, and the idea certainly appealed to him.
Max Grenfors had rung him on Sunday afternoon, just as he and Emma had decided to order Thai food and rent a movie for the evening. Typical. For a week he’d enjoyed living with Emma and Elin, but now he’d been forced to return to Stockholm. Yet it was perfectly understandable that he’d been summoned back by head office. At the moment there was nothing more to report about the murder, and half of the Stockholm reporters were off with flu. So in the meantime, Pia would have to hold the fort on Gotland.
He started by opening the windows to air his flat. The two potted plants that he owned were drooping badly. He gave them a good watering and then went through his post. The substantial pile that he’d found in the hall consisted mostly of bills, as well as a number of advertising brochures, and a postcard showing a tropical paradise; it was from Andreas, who was on holiday in Brazil.
Johan sank on to the sofa and looked around. His ground-floor one-bedroom flat in the Sodermalm district wasn’t especially spacious or remarkable, but the location meant that it would be easy to sublet. He just had to get permission from the building owner.
He looked at his worn leather sofa, the oak coffee table that his mother had given him, and the Billy bookshelf from Ikea. He wouldn’t miss any of his furniture. On the other hand, he had to take his CD collection and player with him to Gotland. Not surprisingly, Emma’s ex-husband Olle had laid claim to the stereo after their divorce.
He went over to the kitchen and stood there a moment, leaning against the doorpost. How spartan everything looked compared to Emma’s fully furnished big house in Roma. The kitchen held nothing more than a small drop-leaf table and two chairs next to the window. He saw nothing he wanted to take with him, except possibly the sandwich-toaster, which in his bachelor existence he had used constantly. Actually, it might be a relief not to see it again. Nor did the bedroom contain much to shout about. The bed was covered with an ugly old spread, and it lacked a headboard. It dawned on him that he’d made no real effort to furnish a home for himself. He’d had this flat for over ten years and was comfortable here, but it was as if he’d been using it as some sort of way-station. Not a real home. It now seemed anonymous and inhospitable, somehow empty and lifeless. It would be great to move out.
He listened to his phone messages. His mother had called several times; she seemed to have forgotten that he was working on Gotland. Two of his three brothers had also left messages. He missed them and hoped that he’d have a chance to see them while he was back in Stockholm. Johan was the oldest and had consciously taken on the role of paterfamilias when his father died several years earlier. Luckily, his mother had now found a new love interest. She still lived in her own house, but she seemed to get on splendidly with her sweetheart, and that made Johan happy. Not just for her sake, but also for his own. She didn’t need him in the same way as she had in the past. He thought about how things would go now that he and Emma had decided to move in together and get married. Johan would be the first of his brothers to take a wife. It was a big step, a serious decision. He didn’t want to tell anyone about it. Not just yet.
A nxiety crept over him towards evening. Erik had always thought there was something unpleasant about Sunday nights. The weekend was almost over, and the working week was just around the corner, with its responsibilities, routines, commitments — and he had to be able to function. That alone could fill him with panic. He was lying on the sofa in the living room, staring at the ceiling. A whisky would deaden the feeling of emptiness, but he wasn’t going to drink today. He never did on Sundays.
Instead he got up and took out a few old photo albums from his childhood. He put on a CD of Maria Callas and began turning the pages. A picture of himself at the age of seven on the Moja boat dock. Hoisting the sail on the boat with his father, and with a friend in the dinghy. As a child he had loved the Stockholm archipelago. His family always went sailing for several weeks in the summer. They would go out to Moja, Sandhamn and Uto, attend the dances on the wharves, and eat dinner at the elegant inns. His father would come along, and that always made his mother happier and more relaxed. With her husband at her side she would forget about the irritation she felt towards Erik, although she made no attempt to hide her feelings when the two of them were at home alone and his father was off travelling. She liked to sunbathe on holiday, and her thin, taut body acquired a deep tan; she even put on a little weight. It was as if the tension in her face eased, and she became more like the cheerful girl she may once have been; the one Erik thought was still there under that stern exterior.
Erik grew up as an only child, living with his parents in a luxurious house in the fashionable suburb of Djursholm. He attended private schools and then majored in economics at Ostra Real secondary school. His future was decided in advance. He was going to follow in his father’s footsteps and go to business school, get top marks, and then start working for the family business. No other alternatives were ever discussed.
Erik managed fairly well during his school years, in spite of his cold-hearted mother and absent father. He’d
