‘Hi, Kalle. You’re late. We almost left without you, damn it.’
The man cut off the connection. But there was no buzzing sound, so he hadn’t unlocked the door. Johan hurried back to his car. After several minutes three men came out of the entrance; one of them was Erik Mattson. They were all in high spirits and stood outside the door for a moment. Johan slouched down so as not to be seen, but he could hear their voices.
‘Where the hell did he go?’
‘He wasn’t mad, was he?’
‘Naw, not Kalle. He must have decided to go on ahead.’
The two men that Johan didn’t recognize seemed to be about the same age as Mattson. Attractive, fashion-conscious professionals from Ostermalm wearing expensive suits under their coats, and with their hair slicked back.
They walked past Johan’s car without noticing him and disappeared into Humlegarden Park. Johan got out of his car and followed. When they reached Club Riche they went inside. The place was packed, and Johan was lucky that there wasn’t a queue. The music was pounding, and everyone was walking around with drinks in their hands.
If only he could stay out of sight. Mattson would recognize him at once, since they’d met earlier in the day. On the other hand, it really wouldn’t be so strange to see a journalist in Club Riche on a Friday night. This thought was immediately reinforced when he found some of his colleagues at the bar.
He kept an eye on Mattson, who was mingling with the crowd. He seemed to know everybody. Johan noticed that he downed one drink after the other without seeming to be affected.
All of a sudden Mattson was gone. Johan left his friends and walked around looking for him. He started getting worried. Had he lost the guy? Then he saw him talking to an older man. They were standing close together and seemed to be having an intimate conversation.
The older man abruptly headed for the exit and disappeared. A couple of minutes later Mattson also left the club. Outside, Johan saw both men get into a cab. He jumped into the next taxi and told the driver to follow. Johan didn’t really know what he was doing. He had to get up early the next morning and clean the flat before his tenant arrived. Then he had to pack his suitcase and fly to Gotland. He didn’t have time to be playing spy games.
The taxi ride was a short one. The cab stopped outside a battered-looking doorway in a back alley in central Stockholm. Mattson and the older man got out. Johan quickly paid the taxi driver and got out to follow them. Down a staircase he found himself in a sort of video shop. There he paid the entrance fee so he could proceed even further down into the depths of the building.
It didn’t take long for Johan to understand what Erik Mattson was mixed up in.
J ohan and Pia were in charge of the story for the Sunday broadcast; Gotland was where the hottest news events were happening, for a change. Johan told his colleague what he’d discovered in Stockholm when he tailed Erik Mattson.
Pia’s eyes opened wide. ‘Is that true?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It sounds unbelievable. But do you think he’s the murderer?’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Have you told the police about this?’
‘No, I wanted to confirm all the details first.’
‘So you don’t think we can use this for our report in some way?’
‘Not yet. It’s premature. I need to do more research first, find out more about Mattson.’
That evening as Johan drove home, his head was filled with contradictory thoughts. Erik Mattson worked at Bukowski’s Auction House and was one of Sweden’s top experts on twentieth-century Swedish art. At the same time, he frequented obscure gay clubs and prostituted himself. Johan couldn’t make sense of the whole thing. It couldn’t be because Mattson needed the money. He was an enigmatic figure, and Johan was becoming more and more convinced that he’d had something to do with the murders. And the theft of the painting. He was an expert on Nils Dardel, after all.
His ponderings were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile. It was Emma, who wanted him to buy some nappies on his way home.
To Johan’s disappointment, Elin was already in bed for the night by the time he got home. How quickly we get used to new routines, he thought. Before, he was used to being away from her for weeks on end; now he hated not being able to say goodnight and nuzzle her neck before she went to sleep.
Emma had made salmon pasta, and they had a glass of wine with their dinner. Afterwards they curled up together on the sofa, sharing what was left of the wine.
‘So what did you think of the pastor? We’ve hardly had any time to talk about it,’ said Emma, stroking his hair.
‘She was all right, I suppose.’
‘Do you still think we should get married in a church?’
‘That’s what I’d like.’
They’d had this discussion many times since they agreed to get married. Emma wanted to get the wedding out of the way without a lot of fuss.
‘I’ve already gone through the whole circus once before,’ she said with a sigh. ‘That was enough.’
‘But what about me? Doesn’t what I want count for anything?’
‘Of course it does. But can’t we find some sort of compromise? It’s OK that you don’t want to go to New York and get married at the consulate, even though I think that would be terribly romantic. I can understand that you want all of our family and friends to be present. But not in a church, and not in a white dress, and definitely not with an awful cake that we have to cut together.’
‘But sweetheart, I want to walk down the aisle with you. I want to wear a tux and see you in a white wedding gown. That’s a dream image that I’ve always had in my mind.’
He looked so serious that Emma had to laugh.
‘Are you for real? I thought only girls had those kinds of fantasies.’
‘What sort of sexist remark is that?’
‘Johan, I just can’t. I really can’t go through that whole thing again. It would be like replaying the past. Can’t you understand that?’
‘No, I really can’t. Replaying? How can you call it a replay? I’m the one you’re going to marry, Emma. You can’t compare me to Olle.’
‘No, of course not. But all the work, all the preparations… not to mention the expense. I don’t really think my parents would want to pay for another wedding.’
‘To hell with the money. I want the whole world to know that we’re getting married. And it doesn’t have to be that expensive. We can serve wine in a box and chili con carne. What does it matter? We can have the party in the garden in the summertime.’
‘Are you crazy? You want to have the party here? Not on your life!’
‘If you keep on like this, I’m going to think that you really don’t want to go through with it after all.’
‘Of course I want to marry you.’
She showered him with kisses until he completely forgot what they’d been arguing about.
O n Monday morning when Johan arrived at the editorial offices, he noticed at once that something wasn’t as it should be. He held up his arm to prevent Pia, who was right behind him, from going inside. They collided in the doorway. They were both holding coffee cups, and the hot liquid sloshed over the sides as Johan stopped her.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Wait a second,’ he said, holding up a finger to hush her. ‘There’s something strange here.’
The Regional News office was a long, narrow room; at one end a map of Gotland and Faro usually hung on the wall. Now it was gone. Someone had put up a photograph in its place, yet in the dim light Johan couldn’t tell what the picture was. But that wasn’t the only thing. Something was fishy with the computers. All three were on, even though he was sure he’d turned them off before leaving the office the previous evening. He whispered this to Pia. Cautiously he stepped forward. There wasn’t a sound. He opened the door to the broadcast booth, but it was empty.