‘Yes, and his reaction seemed genuine. He burst out laughing when I asked if they’d had a homosexual relationship. “That old guy?” were his exact words. “Not on your life!” On the other hand, Mattis was convinced that Wallin was gay. He said he gave off that kind of vibe, even though Wallin had never said anything overt.’
Kihlgard looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’ve got to run. I have a dinner date,’ he said with delight.
‘Really? With whom?’
‘I’m not telling.’ Kihlgard gave him a wink, laughed heartily, and left the room.
When Knutas was alone, he began filling his pipe again.
As far as Wallin’s involvement with stolen paintings was concerned, they’d hit a brick wall and at the moment couldn’t seem to find out anything more. The search of his Stockholm flat had produced absolutely nothing. The hard drives of his computers were missing. Wallin’s book-keeping and records of his bank accounts were all immaculate. There was nothing to indicate any sort of irregularity. Monika Wallin had done her work perfectly.
Knutas was feeling extremely frustrated about the fact that they had no idea how to proceed in terms of Wallin’s art galleries. They had checked out his prospective business partners in Stockholm but again had found nothing of interest.
He began making another careful study of the guest list for the gallery opening. He gave a start when he noticed the name of Erik Mattson from Bukowski’s Auction House on the list. He had not received a personal invitation; instead, a general invitation had been sent to the auction house. The firm had sent two representatives, and one of them was Erik Mattson. How strange, thought Knutas. Mattson had valued the stolen paintings found in Egon Wallin’s home, but he hadn’t said a word about attending the opening when Knutas talked to him on the phone.
He punched in the number for Bukowski’s and spoke to the head curator, who was in the midst of preparing for the big spring auction taking place the following week. The curator confirmed that they had sent two colleagues to Gotland on the weekend in question. They had a valuation to do in Burgsvik on Friday, and then they were supposed to attend the gallery opening on Saturday. Since both men were experts in modern art, it was important for them to keep up-to-date with what was happening in the art world. And all indications were that Mattis Kalvalis was going to be a big name.
Knutas asked to speak to Erik Mattson, but he wasn’t in. The curator gave him Mattson’s mobile number. No one answered, so Knutas left a message on his voicemail.
It was now past six, and it was Saturday. Knutas searched for Mattson’s home phone number on the internet, but without any luck. Apparently he had an unlisted number. He tried the mobile number again, but without success. Well, it would just have to wait. But Knutas felt an uneasiness gnawing at him as he drove home.
It was almost dusk, and the sky was tinged with crimson. That was one of the things that people who visited Gotland always talked about. The light. That it was different on Gotland. They were probably right. Even though he was so used to it, occasionally he still stopped to look at the special glow that settled over the island.
Knutas’s heart belonged to Gotland, without question. He had deep roots here; his family had lived on the island as far back as anyone cared to research his genealogy. His parents lived on a farm in Kappelshamn in the northwest. They were now past retirement age, but they continued to bake flatbread, which they delivered to island restaurants and shops. The bread was famous. Some tourists even claimed that they went to Gotland just to buy that bread. It wasn’t available anywhere else.
Knutas had a good relationship with his parents, but he preferred to keep them at a safe distance. When he and Lina decided to buy a summerhouse, his father tried to convince him to find one in Kappelshamn. They decided instead to buy a place in nearby Lickershamn. If his parents needed help with something in the summer-time, it wouldn’t take him long to get to their house, but he didn’t really want them stopping by all the time.
Knutas had an older sister who lived in Farjestaden on the neighbouring island of Oland. He also had a twin brother who was in the military and lived on Faro. The brothers saw each other mostly at family gatherings. Knutas usually saw his sister Lena only at Christmas and Midsummer; she was seven years older than him, and they’d never been close. But he spoke to his brother on the phone from time to time, and occasionally they went out for a bite to eat or a beer. Even though they saw each other so seldom, their relationship was easygoing and uncomplicated. Knutas thought that was probably because they were twins. They always knew where they stood with each other, without constantly needing to re-establish contact. Whenever his brother came to Visby for a visit, he would stay overnight. The children were very fond of their uncle. Petra and Nils enjoyed listening to his tall tales about military life, and he could always keep them laughing.
When Knutas turned into his driveway, he caught sight of Lina through the kitchen window and was suddenly seized with melancholy. To think that people could live side by side and keep such secrets from each other, the way Egon and Monika had done. He was appalled by the idea that a woman could go around believing that she had a good marriage when the exact opposite was true. And then to find out that her spouse was cold-heartedly planning to move away and start a new life in a completely different place without saying a word. For Knutas it was incomprehensible that a person could be capable of such betrayal. He felt sorry for Monika Wallin. Even though she herself had taken a lover, she had still been thoroughly deceived by her husband.
41
With a deep sigh Johan dropped his suitcase on the floor of his flat. Soon he would have only one address, and the idea certainly appealed to him.
Max Grenfors had rung him on Sunday afternoon, just as he and Emma had decided to order Thai food and rent a movie for the evening. Typical. For a week he’d enjoyed living with Emma and Elin, but now he’d been forced to return to Stockholm. Yet it was perfectly understandable that he’d been summoned back by head office. At the moment there was nothing more to report about the murder, and half of the Stockholm reporters were off with flu. So in the meantime, Pia would have to hold the fort on Gotland.
He started by opening the windows to air his flat. The two potted plants that he owned were drooping badly. He gave them a good watering and then went through his post. The substantial pile that he’d found in the hall consisted mostly of bills, as well as a number of advertising brochures, and a postcard showing a tropical paradise; it was from Andreas, who was on holiday in Brazil.
Johan sank on to the sofa and looked around. His ground-floor one-bedroom flat in the Sodermalm district wasn’t especially spacious or remarkable, but the location meant that it would be easy to sublet. He just had to get permission from the building owner.
He looked at his worn leather sofa, the oak coffee table that his mother had given him, and the Billy bookshelf from Ikea. He wouldn’t miss any of his furniture. On the other hand, he had to take his CD collection and player with him to Gotland. Not surprisingly, Emma’s ex-husband Olle had laid claim to the stereo after their divorce.
He went over to the kitchen and stood there a moment, leaning against the doorpost. How spartan everything looked compared to Emma’s fully furnished big house in Roma. The kitchen held nothing more than a small drop-leaf table and two chairs next to the window. He saw nothing he wanted to take with him, except possibly the sandwich-toaster, which in his bachelor existence he had used constantly. Actually, it might be a relief not to see it again. Nor did the bedroom contain much to shout about. The bed was covered with an ugly old spread, and it lacked a headboard. It dawned on him that he’d made no real effort to furnish a home for himself. He’d had this flat for over ten years and was comfortable here, but it was as if he’d been using it as some sort of way-station. Not a real home. It now seemed anonymous and inhospitable, somehow empty and lifeless. It would be great to move out.