He took out his pipe from the top drawer of his desk and began meticulously to fill it. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and began sucking on the pipe without lighting it.
The fact that the artist and his manager had vanished so mysteriously was disturbing. And it had turned out that they were accompanied by one of the art dealers who had been at the opening. Sixten Dahl. It had been impossible to reach any of them during the course of the day. Oh well, he thought. We’ll just have to keep at it tomorrow.
His thoughts drifted to Egon Wallin. He’d run into the art dealer many times in different situations. He and Lina had also visited the gallery now and then over the years, even though they usually just went to look. But one time he did buy a painting by Lennart Jirlow, a restaurant scene that reminded him of the place where Lina had worked in Copenhagen when they met. He smiled at the memory. It was for Lina’s fortieth birthday, and she had never been so happy about anything else he’d ever bought for her. Gifts were not Knutas’s strong point.
In his mind he conjured up an image of Wallin. The most striking thing about him was his attire. He usually wore a long leather coat and trendy-looking cowboy boots, which made him seem more like a big-city resident than a Gotlander. It was obvious that he dyed his hair a reddish blond, and the light suntan that he sported all year round was equally artificial.
Wallin’s appearance formed a stark contrast to that of his wife, who seemed colourless and ordinary; her face was so nondescript that it was hard even to remember what she looked like. Sometimes Knutas had rather cruelly wondered why Wallin took such trouble with his appearance while his wife clearly didn’t give a thought to her own.
Knutas actually knew very little about Wallin’s personal life. Whenever they met, they would exchange only a few words, and Knutas usually felt that the conversation ended too quickly. He would have liked to talk more with Egon Wallin, but had the impression that the wish was not reciprocated. Even though they were about the same age, they had no mutual friends.
Wallin’s children were much older than Knutas’s twins, Petra and Nils, who were nearly fourteen, so they hadn’t met through their children either. Wallin hadn’t seemed interested in sports, even though athletic events provided a strong sense of community on Gotland. Knutas himself swam regularly; he also played floorball and golf. He assumed that Wallin spent most of his time with art aficionados, and Knutas definitely didn’t belong to that social circle. He didn’t have a clue about art.
It was a rash choice for a crime scene, considering that the gate could actually be seen from Kung Magnus Road. A police vehicle could easily have passed by when the perpetrator was hoisting up the body. Maybe he was so doped up that he didn’t care.
Knutas immediately dismissed the idea. Somebody who was either drunk or on drugs wouldn’t have been able to carry out such a complicated plan. Another possibility was that the killer didn’t know that police headquarters was so close. Maybe he was from the mainland. The question was, what was his connection to Egon Wallin? Did the murder have something to do with his art dealings, or was it about something else entirely?
Knutas sighed wearily. It was past eleven p.m.
Sooner or later they would undoubtedly know the answer.
15
Johan woke up in the big double bed in the house in Roma. He stretched out his hand to stroke the smooth skin on Emma’s shoulder and touch a lock of her hair. From the cot he could hear a gurgling sound, which quickly got him out of bed. The room was dark, but he felt Elin’s soft body, warm with sleep, against his own as he lifted her up and placed her on the changing table.
With a light twist of the key he switched on the music box and hummed along with ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’. Elin grabbed hold of her feet and prattled with delight. He burrowed his head against her chubby belly, making a smacking sound so that she whooped with laughter. In the midst of the game he suddenly stopped and held perfectly still, with his face pressed against her little body. For several seconds he stood there like that while Elin relaxed and fell silent.
Finally he had a child, but it had been two weeks since he last saw her. What kind of life was this? She was growing up with her mother, sharing the daily routines with her. For Elin, Emma was the one who represented security. He was just a minor figure — someone who occasionally popped up like a jack-in-the-box and was around for a few hours, a day or two at most, only to disappear again. What sort of relationship was that? How had things got to this point?
When Johan was back in Stockholm and his days were filled with work, everything seemed more or less OK. It was in the evenings when he was at home that the sense of longing would set in. Of course, he’d only been discharged from hospital a couple of months ago, so they hadn’t really been living apart as parents for very long.
During the Christmas holidays they’d spent almost the whole time together, which had been great. After that, daily life had rolled along as usual, and the days had slipped by, one after the other, turning into weeks. He came over to Gotland as often as he could. But now he realized that he couldn’t keep on this way.
He picked up Elin, warmed up some formula in the microwave, and sat down on the sofa in the living room to give her the bottle. He was suddenly overcome by a great sense of calm. His old life had now come to an end. It was definitely over.
Emma appeared in the doorway, her light-brown hair tousled and longer than before. Previously her hair had reached to her shoulders, but now it hung to the middle of her back. It was thick and glossy. She stood there, wearing only knickers and his light blue T-shirt, peering at him sleepily. Even though she was pale and bleary-eyed, he thought she was beautiful. His feelings for her were so self-evident and clear, in spite of the fact that nothing else in their relationship seemed simple. Things had been complicated right from the start. Yet here he now sat, holding his daughter in his arms, with the woman he loved standing nearby. And now all the struggling had to come to an end. He didn’t care whether he could find a job as a journalist on Gotland or not. That shouldn’t be the deciding factor. He’d take any kind of work he could find, even at the check-out stand at Hemkop, or washing cars. It made no difference at all.
‘Are you already up?’ Emma yawned and headed for the kitchen.
‘Come here,’ he said as quietly as he could.
Elin was sleeping in his arms with her mouth open.
‘What is it?’
‘Sit down.’
Emma looked surprised, but sat down next to him on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. He turned to look at her. There wasn’t a sound in the room; it was as if she sensed that he had something important to say.
‘Enough is enough.’
Johan spoke calmly, his tone matter-of-fact.
A worried look appeared on Emma’s face. ‘What do you mean?’
Johan didn’t break the silence. Instead, he got up, went into the dimly lit bedroom and carefully placed Elin in her cot. She didn’t wake up. He closed the door and returned to the living room.
Emma watched him uneasily. Johan sat down on the sofa again and gently took her face between his hands.
‘I want to move over here,’ he said calmly. ‘Live here with you and Elin. You’re my family. I can’t wait any longer. All the stuff about my job and everything else will just have to be worked out. You have to let me take care of you, be a real father to Elin and a stepfather to Sara and Filip. I want to be your husband. Will you marry me?’
Emma gave him a stunned look. Several seconds passed. Tears began rolling down her cheeks.
It wasn’t exactly the reaction that he’d expected. ‘There, there, sweetheart.’
He leaned forward and put his arms around her. She started sobbing against his chest.