Ever since he’d seen the man on Vasterbron on that Friday night, he’d had a feeling that someone was spying on him. He’d also started to wonder whether he might be losing his mind.
But now there was no question. Somebody was after him. He suddenly felt vulnerable even in his own home, and he nervously glanced around the flat. This person knew where he lived, had come into the building and stood in front of his door. With trembling hands, Malmberg reached for the phone and punched in the number for the police. He had to wait a long time before he was transferred to someone who told him that if he wished to file a report, he would have to come down to the police station in person. Impatiently Malmberg hung up.
He sank down on to an armchair in the living room and tried to collect his thoughts. The only sound was the antique clock on the wall, ticking nervously. He needed to think clearly and objectively. Did this have anything to do with Egon’s murder?
In his mind he went over recent events, the people he’d met and what he’d done, but he couldn’t recall anything out of the ordinary.
Then he happened to think about the young man standing outside the gallery. There was something about his expression.
After he’d pulled himself together, Malmberg did go over to police headquarters on Kungsholmen and filed a report. The inspector who took the details seemed moderately interested. Malmberg was advised to come back if he received any further threats.
When he left the police station, he didn’t feel a bit reassured.
K nutas began the morning meeting with a question that had been nagging at him all weekend, although he’d pushed it aside out of sheer self-preservation. He had wanted to be able to devote himself to his family in peace and quiet.
He dropped a pile of weekend newspapers on the table. The headlines screamed: ‘ MURDERER BEHIND ART THEFT ’, ‘ HUNT FOR KILLER AT ART MUSEUM ’ and ‘ PANIC IN THE ART WORLD. ’ All of the newspapers made reference to the TV news programmes on Friday evening, when Johan Berg had reported that a sculpture stolen from a gallery in Visby owned by the murdered Egon Wallin had been left in front of the empty frame in Waldemarsudde.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ asked Knutas.
Everyone seated around the table looked worried, but the question prompted only muted murmuring as a few people shook their heads.
‘Who leaked this to the press?’ Knutas fixed his eyes on his colleagues.
‘Maybe you need to stop for a moment and calm down,’ said Wittberg crossly. ‘It didn’t necessarily come from here. Maybe somebody in Stockholm leaked the news. So many people are involved in this case that it makes the risk of a leak even greater.’
‘So none of you has talked to anyone outside of this room about the sculpture?’
Before anybody had time to answer, the door opened and Lars Norrby came in. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he mumbled. ‘My car wouldn’t start. I’m really getting tired of this freezing weather.’
His eyes fell on the evening paper with the big headline that Knutas was holding up, and then he caught sight of the rest of the papers spread out on the table.
‘That was unfortunate,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ growled Knutas. ‘Do you have any idea how this got out?’
‘Absolutely not. I’ve only given out the bare essentials to the press. As usual.’
‘The county police commissioner is on my back, demanding an explanation. What do all of you think I should do about it?’
There was utter silence in the room until Kihlgard spoke.
‘Come on now, Anders. What makes you think the leak came from here? Plenty of people might know about the sculpture being found at Waldemarsudde. The museum employees, for example. Can you really trust them not to talk?’
His colleagues seated at the table immediately agreed with him.
‘All right, we’re not going to waste time trying to find out who leaked the information. But let me emphasize again how important it is for all of you to show discretion,’ said Knutas. ‘Things like this can harm the investigation, and we can’t afford to have that happen. Lars, could you send out an internal memo about this?’
Norrby nodded without changing expression.
55
Knutas decided not to wait any longer and went out to Muramaris right after lunch. He’d rung the owner after the morning meeting. He’d explained briefly why he’d like to see the place, although without going into detail. He didn’t need to. She’d seen the newspapers and understood perfectly the reason for his visit.
As he turned off the main road and headed towards Muramaris, he thought it was strange that he’d never been here before. The road meandered down towards the sea with stands of stunted pines and spruce trees on either side. When he rounded a curve, the house and the entire estate came into view. It stood on a plateau with woods all around and the sea far below the steep cliff. The big, sand-coloured main building looked like a Mediterranean villa with large mullioned windows. The house was enclosed by a wall, and the garden was austerely laid out with low hedges and shrubs that were now covered with snow. Sculptures had been placed here and there, looking ghostlike in the desolate grounds. In one corner stood a small structure built in the same style as the main house. It looked as if it might be a gallery or an artist’s studio. In the distance stood a cluster of small wooden cabins.
He parked in front of the main building and got out to look around. The owner was nowhere in sight. He glanced at his watch and realized that he was a little early. He breathed in the fresh air. What a peculiar place. The building looked abandoned, like a decaying beauty. It seemed to have been unoccupied for years. The sculptures were like mementoes of a bygone era. Art and love had both flourished here at one time, but that was clearly long ago.
Now the owner came walking towards him along the gravel path from the cabin area. She was a stylish woman in her fifties with her blonde hair drawn into a knot on top of her head. She was wearing bright-red lipstick but no other make-up. Even though they were about the same age, Knutas didn’t know Anita Thoren. They’d gone to different primary schools before starting secondary school, but even then they hadn’t frequented the same circles.
She gave him a friendly but slightly wary look as they shook hands.
‘Well, truth be told, I’m not sure exactly why I’m here,’ he explained. ‘But I wanted to see the original of the sculpture that was found at Waldemarsudde.’
‘Of course.’
They went around the corner, and there it stood, against a wall. ‘It’s called “Yearning”, and I think you can see that emotion in her eyes, can’t you?’
‘Is it a woman? I can’t really tell.’
‘Yes, I agree that there’s something rather sexless about her. And that fits in well with Dardel… the androgynous, slightly indeterminate…’
Anita Thoren looked as if she were seeing the sculpture for the first time. A genuine enthusiast, thought Knutas. Imagine taking over a place like this. It would undoubtedly require a real commitment, and he admired that sort of person, someone who had a genuine passion for something.
‘The sculptor’s name was Anna Petrus. She and Dardel were contemporaries, and she was also good friends with Ellen Roosval.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard the whole story about how he often came here. And that he was the one who designed the garden,’ said Knutas, feeling like a real expert.
‘And that wasn’t all,’ said Anita Thoren. ‘That art thief really knew what he was doing when he placed a sculpture from Muramaris under the empty frame. It was actually here that Nils Dardel painted “The Dying Dandy”.’
Knutas raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so?’
‘That’s what people say, at any rate. Come on, I’ll show you.’
She led the way through a creaking wooden gate. The house had certainly been grand and imposing in its day, but now it looked dilapidated and run-down. The walls were crumbling in places, the paint was peeling off, and the windows were in dire need of repair. They used the side entrance and entered an old-fashioned kitchen.