‘It can’t be as bad as all that,’ he said with an uncertain smile.
‘I’m just so tired,’ she wept. ‘I’m so damned tired.’
Johan didn’t really know what to say; a bit clumsily, he just kept stroking Emma’s back. Suddenly she began kissing his neck, and her kisses got more and more passionate. She pushed back her hair and searched hungrily for his mouth, keeping her eyes closed the whole time.
Desire flared up inside him, and he roughly pushed her back on to the sofa. He kissed her wildly, almost biting her lips. Emma responded with a low growl in her throat, and all of a sudden she wrapped her legs tightly around him. They made love on the sofa, then leaning against the table, against the windowsill, and finally on the floor. Afterwards, as he lay with her head resting on his arm, he found himself looking up at the underside of the coffee table, which was only a few inches from his sweat-covered forehead. He smiled as he kissed her cheek.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
16
As on most mornings, Knutas was walking to work along Ostra Hansegatan and past the Swedish TV and Radio building. He saw lights on in the windows upstairs where Regional News now had its offices. He wondered whether Johan was already on the job. It wouldn’t surprise him.
It was still dark outside, and the air was cold and brisk. The walk took less than twenty minutes and helped him to think more clearly.
When he opened the door to police headquarters, he felt the familiar tingling sensation that always came over him when starting on a new murder investigation. The fact that someone had been killed was of course terrible; at the same time, there was a certain excitement mixed with determination to catch the murderer. The hunt had begun, and that was something he enjoyed without feeling any shame. Knutas liked his job; he had felt that way about it ever since he was promoted to the criminal division twenty years earlier. He had thrived in his position as head of department for the past ten years — though he could do without the paperwork.
As usual, he greeted the girls at the reception desk and exchanged a few words with the duty officer before he went up the stairs to the criminal division on the first floor.
Every chair in the conference room was already occupied when he entered, two minutes before the scheduled start time. This first meeting after a major event had occurred was always special. The energy in the room was palpable.
Erik Sohlman started off by reporting on the latest news from the technical investigation.
‘The killer arrived by car on Norra Murgatan and drove all the way up to the gate. There are signs that the body was dragged; the marks on Wallin’s body also indicate that he was murdered somewhere else and then transported to Dalman Gate. All the items that were picked up in the Ostergravar area will be studied, but they’re not really of great interest since the perpetrator probably never entered that area at all.’
‘A first interview was conducted last night with the victim’s wife, Monika Wallin,’ said Knutas. ‘We know that she was the last one to see Wallin alive. After the dinner at Donners Brunn on Saturday night, the couple returned to their terraced house on Snackgardsvagen. Mrs Wallin went to bed, but her husband said he wanted to stay up for a while. In the morning when she woke, he wasn’t there. He had apparently put on his coat and gone out. The rest we know.’
‘Could there have been a third person in the house?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘I mean, maybe he received an unexpected visitor, or else someone broke in?’
‘Unlikely. He seems to have left alone.’
‘Did his wife have any idea where he was going?’ asked Wittberg.
‘No,’ said Knutas. ‘But I’m going to see her today, so maybe I’ll learn more. She was in shock yesterday.’
‘What about the tyre tracks?’ asked Norrby.
‘Hard to say. They’re from a larger type of vehicle. I’d guess a van or a small truck. We need to check on any stolen vehicles and talk to the car rental agencies,’ said Knutas.
‘I really wonder what the motive was behind this whole thing,’ said Wittberg pensively, running his hand through his curly blond hair. ‘I mean, it takes a lot to kill somebody. Why would the killer then hang his victim from the gate? It must mean something specific.’
Wittberg seems unusually alert for a Monday morning, thought Knutas. Normally he was good and tired after his weekend escapades. The attractive twenty-eight-year-old was the Casanova of police headquarters. His cornflower-blue eyes, his dimples and his toned body charmed all the female employees on the force. With the possible exception of Karin Jacobsson, who seemed to regard him as a nice but slightly cocky little brother. Thomas Wittberg had had a constant stream of new girlfriends, but lately he seemed to have settled down. He’d just come back from a holiday to Thailand with his current girlfriend, and his deep suntan formed a sharp contrast to his pale and hollow-eyed colleagues.
‘It can’t be just a random killing,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘I mean, some kind of impulsive attack on the street or anything like that. Or he just happened to run into some lunatic. This seems very well planned. The murderer must have been someone he knew.’
‘We have a complete list of everyone who was invited to the gallery opening, plus we’re checking whether anyone decided to crash the party,’ Knutas continued. ‘We’re interviewing them all. And we need to pull out all the stops to get hold of the artist and his manager.’
‘They haven’t checked out of the hotel over here, at any rate,’ said Wittberg. ‘Their belongings are still in their rooms, and they haven’t paid the bill, so maybe they’re just out for the day. I’ll keep trying to track them down; so far they’re not answering their mobile phones. But I’m hoping to get hold of Sixten Dahl, at least. His gallery will be opening soon, and somebody there should be able to help us. It’s very possible that he knows the whereabouts of the other two men.’
The meeting was interrupted by the ringing of Knutas’s mobile. He pulled it out of his inside jacket pocket and took the call.
Everyone waited in silence. They listened to the murmuring and grunting of their boss and watched his expression change from great surprise to worried circumspection. When he ended the conversation, everyone’s eyes were fixed on him.
‘That was Monika Wallin. A little while ago a removal van parked outside their house. The removal guys had been hired by Egon Wallin with clear instructions as to what they were supposed to pick up. He’d paid for the entire job in advance.’
17
The premises of the venerable Bukowski’s Auction House were sombrely elegant. The reception area faced Arsenalgatan, between Berzelii Park and Kungstradgarden Park in central Stockholm.
The art valuer Erik Mattson, clad in a grey suit and with his hair combed back, received the customer, whose attire was significantly simpler than his own and who seemed rather bewildered and ill at ease in the discreet and distinguished setting. The man had brought an oil painting, tucked under his arm and securely wrapped in newspaper and silver tape.
On the phone that morning the man had described the painting as an archipelago scene painted in various shades of grey, with an expanse of sky and sea and a little white house with a black roof. Even though the work of art was unsigned, Erik thought it sounded interesting, and he’d asked the customer to bring it in to be evaluated.
Now he was here, wearing a coat that had seen better days, and with a thin, old-fashioned scarf around his neck. His shoes could have used a good polishing; that was something that Erik Mattson always noticed. Well-cared-for shoes always indicated that a customer took good care of himself. This was not the case with the man who now stood in front of him, nervously fingering the large package. He had beads of sweat on his forehead. The collar of his shirt was wrinkled, his coat was threadbare, and the gloves that he’d placed on the table had worn through the lining. He spoke with the distinct accent of Soder, the old working-class district of the city. Not many people talked that way any more. It was almost charming.