Everywhere were screens showing porn films. He wondered where Malmberg had gone. Maybe he was sitting in one of these booths, enjoying himself. He found the thought disgusting.
A man came out of one of the rooms, and his face lit up. The man tried to tempt him into the room without saying a word, just using blatant body language to indicate what he wanted. He hurried past.
The place was unbelievable. The corridors were like a labyrinth, and he soon lost track of where he’d entered. All he saw were more booths and pictures.
He started feeling dizzy, and he longed to get out of there. He tried to find his way back, hurrying in the direction that he thought would lead to the stairs. He turned out to be mistaken. Instead he ended up in front of a door at the end of the corridor where he had heard the moaning. Cautiously he opened the door just enough to peer inside. He was looking at a small movie room. On one wall was a screen showing the same type of films that he’d already seen a hundred times over during his brief visit here. All of the furnishings were black — the walls, ceiling, floor, sofa and armchairs.
At first he saw only three bodies that were fully engaged on the sofa in front of the screen. He immediately recognized Malmberg as one of the men. Then he saw the face of another, who might have been in his fifties. The man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. The face of the third person wasn’t visible. He was younger, and the two older men were leaning over him. They were all naked, and none of them seemed to notice his presence. All of their attention was focused on each other.
He was seized by a sense of unreality — as if the scene unfolding before his eyes couldn’t possibly be happening.
Just as he was about to turn round and leave, he saw the face of the third man.
Two seconds. That was all it took to recognize him.
Quickly he shut the door. For a moment he stood outside, leaning against the wall. Sweat was pouring down his face. He wanted to scream.
He stumbled back along the corridor and finally managed to locate the stairs to the exit. He avoided looking at the girl standing behind the counter.
Out on the street he blinked in the light. A woman pushing a pram walked past. Daily life was proceeding as usual. When he turned the corner, he threw up. Not only because of what he’d just witnessed, but because of what he was going to have to do.
69
On Friday morning Jacobsson knocked on Knutas’s office door as soon as he turned up at police headquarters. Her eyes were shining with eagerness.
‘Listen to this — I’ve uncovered some damned interesting stuff. I tried to ring you last night, but nobody answered.’
‘Come on in.’
‘I checked out Hugo Malmberg’s background. You’ve got to hear this.’ She sat down on the sofa in Knutas’s office. ‘He lived alone in a gorgeous flat on John Ericssonsgatan in Kungsholmen, and for years he was part owner of that gallery on Osterlanggatan. He was openly gay, and I had the impression that he always had been, but that turned out not to be true. He was once married to a woman named Yvonne Malmberg, but she died a long time ago, back in 1962. So that’s over forty years ago. And guess how she died.’
Knutas shook his head without saying anything.
‘She died in childbirth. To be more precise, in the maternity ward at Danderyd Hospital.’
‘What about the child?’
‘It was a boy. He survived and was given away for adoption when he was only a few days old.’
Knutas whistled.
‘And that’s not all.’
‘No?’
‘Do you know who rented Rolf de Mare’s cottage out at Muramaris several times?’ She went on without waiting for an answer. ‘That valuer at Bukowski’s. Erik Mattson.’
70
Johan had a busy three days ahead of him. On Friday he took the first plane back to Stockholm. He’d made an appointment to meet Erik Mattson at Bukowski’s Auction House at ten o’clock. Then he was going to have lunch with his youngest brother. In the afternoon, the head of the news bureau wanted to see him. Some time in between he really needed to squeeze in a meeting with Max Grenfors to discuss a pay rise. In the evening there was going to be a family dinner at his mother’s house out in Ronninge, and on Saturday morning he’d made an appointment to meet the person who was going to sublet his flat. Johan had received permission to lease the flat for a year. The prospective tenant was a colleague from Swedish TV in Karlstad who had been hired for a temporary position in the sports division.
Then on Saturday afternoon Johan had to fly back to Visby because he and Emma were planning to meet the pastor at four o’clock. What a schedule, he thought as he sat on the plane, squashed next to a man who must have weighed over three hundred pounds. He didn’t have the energy to change seats.
Erik Mattson was just as elegant in person as on the photo on the web page of the auction house. He was an attractive man with a distinct sexual aura; Johan wondered if he was gay.
They sat down in a empty conference room, and Erik served coffee and Italian biscotti. Johan chose to get right to the point.
‘I understand that you’ve stayed at Muramaris many times. Why is that?’
‘I was there for the first time when I was nineteen. Some of my friends and I were studying art history at the university, and we were on Gotland for a cycling holiday. Even back then I was fascinated by Dardel’s work, and I knew that he’d spent several summers at Muramaris.’
He smiled at the memory.
‘I remember how we went down to the beach and pictured Dardel walking along the same stretch of shoreline almost a century earlier. We imagined him with Rolf de Mare, Ellen and Johnny, and all the other artists who came to visit. What a life they lived. Filled with love, art and creativity. Carefree in so many ways, and removed from reality,’ he said wistfully.
‘And then you returned later on?’
‘Yes,’ he said, sounding distracted. ‘When my ex-wife Lydia and I were still married, we once rented Rolf de Mare’s cottage, and we took all the children along. That was years ago. But it wasn’t a very successful holiday. It’s not a practical place for young children. Steep steps down to the beach and not much of a play area. And the cottage isn’t very big.’
‘But you went back again?’
‘Yes, I’ve been there twice since then.’
‘Who went with you, if I might ask?’
‘A friend of mine. His name is Jakob,’ replied Mattson tersely. Suddenly he looked uncomfortable. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’
‘There are actually two reasons,’ Johan lied. ‘Partly to get some background material for our report on the murder on Gotland. But I also happen to think that Muramaris is an interesting place, and I’d like to do a documentary about it for Swedish TV.’
‘Really?’ Erik Mattson’s voice suddenly took on renewed energy. ‘That’s fantastic. There’s so much to tell, and the place is spectacular inside. Have you seen the amazing sandstone fireplace that Ellen created?’
Johan shook his head. He studied Mattson intently. ‘So you’ve been married. How many children do you have?’
‘Three. But what does that have to do with anything?’
‘I’m sorry. I was just curious. You said that you took “all” the children along, so I was picturing a whole flock.’
‘I see.’ Erik Mattson laughed. He looked relieved. ‘I’ve got only three. But they’re not kids any more. They’re all grown up now. Living their own lives.’
71
Johan didn’t really know what compelled him to take that route on his way home. But after having a pleasant dinner at his mother’s house in Ronninge and seeing all his brothers, he found himself driving past Erik Mattson’s building on Karlavagen. He parked the car outside and looked up at the lovely facade. It was an impressive, well-kept building with an ostentatious front entrance and a profusion of flower beds. Without knowing what he expected, Johan got out of the car and went over to try the door. Locked, of course. There were lights on in most of the windows. Earlier in the day he’d checked to see which flat belonged to Mattson, and now he saw that there too the lights were on. There was both an intercom and a keypad that required a code number. On impulse, Johan pressed the number next to Mattson’s name. He tried again several times with no response. Then he heard a man’s voice, but it wasn’t Mattson’s. There was loud music playing in the background. The man sounded speedy and slightly drunk.