‘We’ll talk more about this later. We need to cordon off the cottage and bring in the techs to go over the whole place. No one is allowed to set foot inside until that’s been done.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘Wait just a minute.’
Knutas rang Prosecutor Smittenberg on his mobile to obtain a search warrant. Then he rang Jacobsson and asked her to make arrangements to have the area blocked off and to bring in the police dogs.
‘What’s this all about?’ Anita Thoren eyed Knutas nervously as he finished his phone conversation.
‘The dates when the cottage was rented out match the timing of the murder of the art dealer Egon Wallin. The theft of “The Dying Dandy” may be connected to his murder. And it’s possible that the researcher who rented the place is involved.’
56
It took twenty-four hours before the media got wind of the fact that the police had blocked off Muramaris and were searching Rolf de Mare’s cottage. On Tuesday afternoon someone was out taking a walk in the area and happened to see the blue-and-white police tape around the cottage. That’s when the rumours started to fly. The police refused to comment on their actions, citing the need for keeping under wraps the preliminary investigation that was under way.
Johan was about to burst with frustration because no one would tell him anything. He and Pia were back at the editorial offices after going out to shoot whatever they could get at Muramaris. They’d been forced to plod through the woods to take pictures. Even then they only got partial shots of the grounds. The police had blocked off the car park.
As usual, Grenfors had rung Johan to demand a story to headline the news broadcast. Johan had been unable to contact either Anita Thoren or anyone else willing to make a statement. He was tearing his hair out, staring vacantly into space as Pia edited the footage they had shot.
‘I’ve got no text,’ he said. ‘The only thing I can report is that we have nothing to report! The police aren’t talking. Nor is the owner, and there aren’t any neighbours in the area. What the hell are we going to do?’
Pia stopped typing on the computer keyboard and took her eyes off the screen, with its sweeping image of the woods and the imposing building just visible in the background. She took out a small tin of snuff and took a pinch.
‘Hmm… who the hell might know something? Wait a minute, there’s a restaurant out there that’s open in the summertime. And I know a girl who usually works there. It’s a long shot, but I can try ringing her.’
Ten minutes later they were on their way to Muramaris again to do a piece-to-camera. Johan was going to report on the latest news on-site with the house in the background, even though it was barely visible because the grounds had been blocked off by the police. But it would be much more effective on TV. Pia Lilja’s friend turned out to be the girlfriend of Anita Thoren’s son, and she was surprisingly well informed. She knew about the police searching the place, and she told them about Nils Dardel’s connection to Muramaris. She also said that it was presumably there that he had painted the stolen work of art. She said she’d heard that the police suspected that the perpetrator had rented Rolf de Mare’s cottage just before Egon Wallin was murdered.
57
The story on the TV news startled him so badly that he nearly spilled his coffee. Of course he had expected it. The connection was bound to come out eventually; he knew that. But not so soon. He studied the reporter standing there with Muramaris in the background; he recognized the man from earlier reports. He was annoyed by the reporter’s manner of speaking. So self-confident, even though he didn’t have a clue as to what this was all about.
It was bad enough that he had the police on his heels; now he also had to worry about journalists. There was something about the reporter’s face that he found especially irritating. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Then his name appeared on the screen. Oh, that’s right, it was Johan Berg.
Tonight he wasn’t sitting in front of the TV alone, and he had to make a real effort not to reveal how upset he was. He had to maintain a neutral expression. That was almost worse than anything else. Pretending that nothing was going on, that everything was the same as usual. He would have liked to shout to the whole world about what he had done and why. Those two seconds had been burned into his soul, and the evil wouldn’t go away until he’d carried out everything he had planned. Only then would he be free. After he had washed away the shit. Done a thorough clean. Then they could start over again, and everything would be fine.
Today he’d done an extra-long workout at the gym. The more he worked out, the better control he felt he had over himself. It somehow provided a release for his frustration, nervousness and doubt. When he studied his body in the countless mirrors in the weight-training room, he felt strong. His reflection spoke loud and clear — he’d be able to carry it out. No one was going to catch him. Not the police, not some cocky reporter who thought he was hot stuff because he was on TV. Fucking idiot. Just let that guy try and stop him.
58
The man who had rented the cottage at Muramaris had used a false name. There was no Alexander Ek with the address he had given. He had paid cash, and the van he’d been driving was traced to a carrental company in Visby. The police spent a long time interviewing the gardener, even though he had been away most of the week in question. But on the day when the guest arrived, he’d seen the man’s vehicle and even noticed on the back window the name of the rental agency, which he was able to recall. The van had been rented for the same period as the cottage, also under a false name. All indications were that the perpetrator was indeed the man who had rented the cottage at Muramaris. Rolf de Mare’s cottage was combed for evidence.
Both blond and pitch-black strands of hair were found in the bed and bathroom. Cigarette butts, the Lucky Strike brand, were scattered outside on the ground. In a bag of rubbish forgotten behind the cottage, the police found a used bottle of foundation make-up and disposable coloured contact lenses that were bright blue.
The fact that the police had cordoned off Muramaris attracted a lot of attention, and when representatives from the local media arrived on the scene, they began asking the usual questions. Knutas had instructed Norrby not to say anything about the link between Muramaris and Egon Wallin’s murderer. Yet strangely enough, Johan Berg included that information in his report on the evening news. Knutas was at least grateful that the journalist didn’t know more of the details. The passenger lists from the ferries had been examined, and Alexander Ek was found to be one of the passengers who arrived from Nynashamn on the morning of Wednesday 16 February. He returned on Sunday 20 February. He did not take a car aboard the ferry.
‘So at least we now know when the killer arrived and departed,’ said Jacobsson when the investigative team gathered for a meeting at police headquarters late that night.
‘He rented a car from Avis in Ostercentrum,’ Sohlman went on as he motioned for Jacobsson to turn off the lights. ‘It was a white van like this one. The van is being searched at the moment. The tracks in the snow at Norra Murgatan match the tyre tread on this vehicle, so there’s no longer any doubt. The van was definitely used by the perp.’
59
On Wednesday morning, only a few minutes after Knutas had arrived at work, Karin Jacobsson knocked on
