Knutas stared at her in astonishment. Her words were ringing in his ears. Martin Kihlgard again. Of course he would be the one behind the job offer. Knutas had never really been taken in by that jovial demeanour of his. The man was a snake. Slippery and untrustworthy underneath that inoffensive facade.
From the very beginning there had been a real chemistry between Kihlgard and Jacobsson, and that had upset Knutas, although he would never admit it.
‘But what about us?’
Karin sighed. ‘Come on, Anders, it’s not like we’re a couple. We work really well together, but I want to try something new. And besides, I’m tired of sitting here mouldering away. Of course I like my job and working with you and all the others, but nothing else is happening in my life. I’m going to turn forty soon. I want to grow, both in my professional and my personal life.’
Red patches had appeared on Jacobsson’s throat, always a sure sign that she was upset or was finding the situation uncomfortable.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Knutas didn’t know what to say. He was at a complete loss as he stared at the petite, dark-eyed woman sitting across from him.
Then she sighed and stood up. ‘That’s how it’s going to be, at any rate. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘But…’
That was as far as he got. She picked up her tray and walked away.
He was left sitting at the table alone. He stared out of the window at the grey car park barely visible through a snowy haze. He was mortified to feel tears filling his eyes. He cast a furtive glance around. The cafeteria was packed with colleagues talking and laughing as they ate.
He didn’t know how he was going to do his job without Karin. She gave him so much. At the same time he could understand why she’d made this decision. Of course Karin wanted the chance to develop in her job, and maybe meet someone and have a family. Like everybody else.
Feeling dejected, Knutas went back to his office, closed the door, and took his pipe out of the top drawer of his desk. He filled the pipe with tobacco, but this time he didn’t leave it unlit, as usual. Instead, he lit the pipe and then opened the window and stood there in the breeze. Was she really serious about this? Where would she live? She and Kihlgard may have hit it off, but in the long run would she be able to stand him and his eternal obsession with food? Of course he was pleasant enough in small doses, but what about on a daily basis?
The moment he had that thought, he was struck by an awful insight. Maybe he wasn’t so much fun himself. Here she was, working with him every day, and he thought they had a great working relationship. He was fond of Karin; he appreciated her lively manner and her temperament, which sometimes manifested itself in surprising ways. Karin brightened up his life, made him feel alive at work. Because of her, he felt better about himself. But what about her? What did she think about him? All his complaints and grumbling about cutbacks in the police force. He searched his memory. What exactly did he give Karin in return? What did she get from him? Apparently not much.
The question was whether it was too late to do anything about the matter. Karin hadn’t yet submitted her resignation. Maybe she was planning to take a leave of absence first — to try it out. Her parents and all of her friends lived here on Gotland. Would she be happy on the mainland — and in the big city? Knutas felt panic-stricken at the mere thought of showing up for work every day without her.
He had to find a solution. Anything at all.
50
Late on Friday afternoon Knutas had something else to preoccupy his thoughts. The Stockholm police emailed him a list of individuals in Sweden who were considered to have a special interest in Nils Dardel.
He scanned the list, at first not recognizing a single name. But when he reached the middle, he stopped abruptly. The letters practically jumped off the page as they formed a name that he’d already encountered several times during the investigation. Erik Mattson.
Knutas slowly exhaled through his nostrils. Why on earth did this man’s name keep cropping up?
He got up and looked out of the window, trying to keep his excitement in check. Erik Mattson, the man who valued works of art at Bukowski’s and who had also attended the gallery opening here in Visby. He had assessed the stolen paintings found at Egon Wallin’s home without mentioning that he’d been on Gotland on the day of the murder. Knutas was ashamed to admit to himself that he’d actually forgotten to ring Mattson and question him about that. The theft at Waldemarsudde had taken precedence.
Just before receiving the email, Knutas had been about to leave for the day. He’d planned to buy a couple of bottles of wine and some flowers for Lina on his way home. He’d been neglecting his family far too much lately.
Now he was going to be late again. He rang home. Lina didn’t sound as understanding as usual. And that wasn’t surprising. Even she had her limits. Knutas felt guilty, but he pushed that aside for now. He had to focus on Erik Mattson. He would have liked to ring Bukowski’s Auction House at once, but he stopped himself. If Mattson was the perpetrator, or one of them, Knutas needed to proceed with caution. He felt a strong urge to talk to Karin and went out into the corridor. The door to her office was closed. He knocked. No answer. He waited a moment before he cautiously opened the door. The office was empty. She’d gone home without saying goodbye to him, he realized, feeling hurt. He couldn’t recall her ever doing that before. With his tail between his legs he slunk back to his own office. He had to do something, so he punched in the number for Bukowski’s, even though it said on their home page that their offices would be closed by now. The phone rang for a long time before someone finally answered.
‘Erik Mattson.’
Knutas just about fell out of his chair.
‘Er, yes. This is Anders Knutas from Visby police. I’m sorry for ringing on a Friday evening like this, but I have a few important questions I need to ask you.’
‘Yes?’ replied Mattson, his voice expressionless.
‘When we discussed the paintings that were found at Egon Wallin’s home, you didn’t say that you were actually at his opening on the day before he was murdered.’
A brief pause. The silence on the phone was palpable.
‘There’s a perfectly simple explanation for that. I didn’t go to the opening.’
‘But according to your boss, you had an invitation. You and a colleague stayed overnight in Visby so that you could both attend the opening.’
‘Actually Bukowski’s received a general invitation, and my colleague, Stefan Ekerot, and I were thinking of going since we were going to be on Gotland anyway. But neither of us ended up attending the opening. Stefan’s baby daughter got sick during the night, so he caught the first plane home on Saturday. She’s only a month old, you see. And I wasn’t feeling well on Saturday afternoon, so I stayed in my hotel room to rest. So I didn’t go to the gallery either. That’s why I didn’t happen to mention it.’
‘I see,’ said Knutas, deciding for the time being to accept Mattson’s explanation. ‘I understand that you’re an expert on the work of Nils Dardel. What do you think about the theft of “The Dying Dandy”?’
Again there was silence on the phone. Knutas heard Mattson take a breath before he replied.
‘It’s terrible, a sacrilege. And a tragedy if the painting’s not recovered. “The Dying Dandy” is without a doubt one of the most important paintings in the history of Swedish art.’
‘Who do you think might have stolen it, and why?’
‘It must have been a contract job, so that it can be sold to a collector. The painting is so well known, both in Sweden and the rest of Europe, that trying to sell it on the open market would be impossible.’
‘Are there any big collectors of Dardel’s work here in Sweden?’
‘His paintings are scattered among different collections. His art has been controversial. Some people even think his work isn’t first-class; don’t ask me why. I’m sorry, but I actually have to go now.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
Knutas thanked Mattson for his time and said goodbye.
When he had hung up, he felt even more confused. The surge of hope that he’d felt a few minutes earlier was
