Knutas went over the most important information and revealed the identity of the victim. There was no reason to keep that secret. All of the family members had now been contacted, rumours had begun spreading in Visby, and flowers were piling up outside the gallery on Stora Torget.
‘Do you suspect a robbery?’
The question came from a representative of the local radio station.
‘We can’t rule out the possibility of a robbery at the moment,’ said Knutas.
‘Did the victim have anything of value in his possession? A wallet, for instance?’
Knutas gave a start. Johan Berg, of course. He and Norrby exchanged glances.
‘That kind of detail is under investigation, so I can’t go into it right now.’
‘How can you be so certain that it’s a homicide?’
‘A preliminary examination of the victim has been done, and he has sustained injuries that could not have been self-inflicted.’
‘Can you describe the injuries?’
‘No.’
‘Was a weapon used?’
‘I’m not going to answer that question either.’
‘How was he hoisted up so high in the gateway?’ asked the same aggressive reporter from the local newspaper, who had been at the crime scene. ‘You had to get help from the fire department to get the body down.’
‘We assume that we’re either dealing with more than one perpetrator or with a man who is unusually strong.’ ‘Are you looking for a body-builder?’
‘Not necessarily. Those types of guys often look much stronger than they actually are.’
Someone laughed.
‘Do you have any theories about whether the perpetrator is from Gotland or the mainland?’
‘We’re keeping that question open.’
‘If the murder didn’t result from a robbery, what do you think was the motive?’
‘It’s much too early to speculate about that. We’re working on a broad front and keeping all avenues open. Nothing can be ruled out at this early stage.’
‘What are the police doing at the moment?’
‘We’re interviewing people, knocking on doors, and going over tips that have come in. And we’re asking the public to come forward if anyone thinks he has seen or heard anything, either on the night of the murder or the day before. We think that the perpetrator may have gone to Dalman Gate to survey the area before the murder took place.’
‘Egon Wallin’s gallery had a big and well-attended opening the same day that he was killed,’ said Johan. ‘What do you think is the significance of that?’
‘We don’t know, but we’re asking everyone who attended the opening on Saturday to contact the police.’
Not much else was said. Knutas and Norrby ended the press conference and stood up to leave the room.
All the reporters immediately crowded around Knutas to get individual interviews. He tried to refer as many as possible to Norrby, who gladly dealt with one reporter after another.
Most people asked the same questions, and they didn’t vary greatly from what had been asked during the press conference.
After an hour, it was finally over and Knutas felt completely drained. He regretted offering to participate at all. Especially at such an early stage in a homicide investigation, when it was important for him to be available to his colleagues and not to journalists. Lars Norrby could just as well have handled the press conference on his own. He was the police spokesman, after all.
12
Knutas shut himself up in his office for a while after the press conference. Exhaustion overcame him as he sat there in silence. He took out his pipe and began filling it, pondering how to get Norrby to take responsibility for the press and devote less of his time to the actual investigation. Knutas didn’t feel he had the patience to deal with the media to the same extent as he had in the past. It seemed senseless for the person in charge of the investigation to waste his time on keeping the press informed, especially when the police had so little to report.
Generally he and Norrby got on well together. His colleague could be a bit slow and long-winded, but there was nothing wrong with the way he did his job.
Knutas and Norrby were about the same age, and they had worked together for twenty years. It was not at all clear in the beginning that Knutas and not Norrby would be the one to be promoted to head of the criminal division. That was how it had turned out, but Knutas couldn’t really explain why.
Lars Norrby was a likeable person, divorced, with two teenage sons who lived with him. The most striking thing about his appearance was his height. He was almost six foot seven. The fact that he was thin, bordering on gaunt, made his height all the more impressive.
If Norrby felt slighted because it was Knutas who had become detective superintendent, he concealed his feelings well. He had never shown even a hint of jealousy. Knutas respected him for that.
He stuck the unlit pipe in his mouth and rang Wittberg on his mobile, but the line was busy.
A list of those who had attended the opening at the gallery was being put together. The employees who had been at the dinner afterwards had been contacted, and interviews were going on.
Knutas had asked Wittberg to find the artist and his manager at once. According to the victim’s wife, Monika Wallin, who had undergone an initial interview at the hospital, both the artist and his manager were supposed to stay on Gotland until Tuesday.
Knutas hoped to clear up various matters by speaking with them. The fact that Wallin had been killed on the very day that he held the first exhibition opening of the season, which had also attracted a great deal of interest, might not be a coincidence.
He had asked Jacobsson to help out with the interview since his English wasn’t adequate.
The phone rang. It was Wittberg, and he sounded out of breath.
‘Hi, I’m at the Wisby Hotel.’
‘Yes?’
‘Mattis Kalvalis isn’t here. Or his manager either. The clerk at the front desk ordered a taxi to take them to the airport this morning.’
‘What? You mean they’ve run off?’ Knutas tapped his chin.
‘Apparently. I rang Gotland Air to find out if they really did take the flight to Stockholm. And they did. The plane left at nine this morning.’
13
Emma had just come through the door when the phone rang. She set Elin down on the floor. Dressed in a heavy snowsuit, her daughter sat there motionless, looking like a little Michelin man.
‘Emma Winarve.’
‘Hi, it’s me, Johan.’
Why did she always feel a burning in her stomach whenever she suddenly heard his voice?
‘Hi!’
Elin started to cry. Emma kept her eyes fixed on her daughter as she spoke.
‘I’m in Visby. Tried to ring earlier, but no one answered.’ ‘No, I’ve been out for a long walk. But listen, could I call you back in ten minutes? I’ve just stepped in the door with Elin.’
‘Sure. Do that.’
Emma quickly got Elin undressed, turning her head away when she noticed the stink of her daughter’s nappy. She took Elin into the bathroom to get her changed. She thought about Johan as she tended to Elin. She’d missed him more than usual lately. Not for any practical reason. She was doing fine, and Elin was an easy child to take care of. Sara and Filip had also adapted to their new routine and were beginning to get used to the idea of life after the divorce. Sara was in third grade and Filip in second. There was only a year between them, and sometimes she thought they were almost like twins. Nowadays they enjoyed playing together, and they got along even better than before the divorce. The children had drawn closer together because of their parents’ separation. At the same time it was also rather sad, as if their faith and trust in their parents had diminished. At such a young age they had been forced to realize that nothing lasted for ever and nothing could be taken for granted.