Pia stopped typing on the computer keyboard and took her eyes off the screen, with its sweeping image of the woods and the imposing building just visible in the background. She took out a small tin of snuff and took a pinch.
‘Hmm… who the hell might know something? Wait a minute, there’s a restaurant out there that’s open in the summertime. And I know a girl who usually works there. It’s a long shot, but I can try ringing her.’
Ten minutes later they were on their way to Muramaris again to do a piece-to-camera. Johan was going to report on the latest news on-site with the house in the background, even though it was barely visible because the grounds had been blocked off by the police. But it would be much more effective on TV. Pia Lilja’s friend turned out to be the girlfriend of Anita Thoren’s son, and she was surprisingly well informed. She knew about the police searching the place, and she told them about Nils Dardel’s connection to Muramaris. She also said that it was presumably there that he had painted the stolen work of art. She said she’d heard that the police suspected that the perpetrator had rented Rolf de Mare’s cottage just before Egon Wallin was murdered.
57
The story on the TV news startled him so badly that he nearly spilled his coffee. Of course he had expected it. The connection was bound to come out eventually; he knew that. But not so soon. He studied the reporter standing there with Muramaris in the background; he recognized the man from earlier reports. He was annoyed by the reporter’s manner of speaking. So self-confident, even though he didn’t have a clue as to what this was all about.
It was bad enough that he had the police on his heels; now he also had to worry about journalists. There was something about the reporter’s face that he found especially irritating. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Then his name appeared on the screen. Oh, that’s right, it was Johan Berg.
Tonight he wasn’t sitting in front of the TV alone, and he had to make a real effort not to reveal how upset he was. He had to maintain a neutral expression. That was almost worse than anything else. Pretending that nothing was going on, that everything was the same as usual. He would have liked to shout to the whole world about what he had done and why. Those two seconds had been burned into his soul, and the evil wouldn’t go away until he’d carried out everything he had planned. Only then would he be free. After he had washed away the shit. Done a thorough clean. Then they could start over again, and everything would be fine.
Today he’d done an extra-long workout at the gym. The more he worked out, the better control he felt he had over himself. It somehow provided a release for his frustration, nervousness and doubt. When he studied his body in the countless mirrors in the weight-training room, he felt strong. His reflection spoke loud and clear — he’d be able to carry it out. No one was going to catch him. Not the police, not some cocky reporter who thought he was hot stuff because he was on TV. Fucking idiot. Just let that guy try and stop him.
58
The man who had rented the cottage at Muramaris had used a false name. There was no Alexander Ek with the address he had given. He had paid cash, and the van he’d been driving was traced to a carrental company in Visby. The police spent a long time interviewing the gardener, even though he had been away most of the week in question. But on the day when the guest arrived, he’d seen the man’s vehicle and even noticed on the back window the name of the rental agency, which he was able to recall. The van had been rented for the same period as the cottage, also under a false name. All indications were that the perpetrator was indeed the man who had rented the cottage at Muramaris. Rolf de Mare’s cottage was combed for evidence.
Both blond and pitch-black strands of hair were found in the bed and bathroom. Cigarette butts, the Lucky Strike brand, were scattered outside on the ground. In a bag of rubbish forgotten behind the cottage, the police found a used bottle of foundation make-up and disposable coloured contact lenses that were bright blue.
The fact that the police had cordoned off Muramaris attracted a lot of attention, and when representatives from the local media arrived on the scene, they began asking the usual questions. Knutas had instructed Norrby not to say anything about the link between Muramaris and Egon Wallin’s murderer. Yet strangely enough, Johan Berg included that information in his report on the evening news. Knutas was at least grateful that the journalist didn’t know more of the details. The passenger lists from the ferries had been examined, and Alexander Ek was found to be one of the passengers who arrived from Nynashamn on the morning of Wednesday 16 February. He returned on Sunday 20 February. He did not take a car aboard the ferry.
‘So at least we now know when the killer arrived and departed,’ said Jacobsson when the investigative team gathered for a meeting at police headquarters late that night.
‘He rented a car from Avis in Ostercentrum,’ Sohlman went on as he motioned for Jacobsson to turn off the lights. ‘It was a white van like this one. The van is being searched at the moment. The tracks in the snow at Norra Murgatan match the tyre tread on this vehicle, so there’s no longer any doubt. The van was definitely used by the perp.’
59
On Wednesday morning, only a few minutes after Knutas had arrived at work, Karin Jacobsson knocked on the door of his office. ‘Come in.’
He could tell from her expression what she wanted to discuss. He felt a lump rise in his throat. It was as if his own fate were about to be determined. It was crazy that Karin could have such a strong effect on him. Ever since he presented his proposal to her on Monday, he’d tried not to think about the matter, but he’d been having nightmares about Karin vanishing and leaving him all alone. Their fifteen years together on the job had made a big impression on him. It wasn’t so easy just to let it all go. He would never find anyone else like Karin.
Without giving away what she was thinking, Jacobsson sat down opposite him. Knutas didn’t say a word, awaiting the verdict.
With each second that passed, he felt more discouraged.
‘I accept, Anders. I’ll stay. But on one condition. I don’t want to have anything to do with the press.’
Then she gave him a big smile, revealing the gap between her front teeth that had always delighted him.
Knutas was so relieved that he felt dizzy. This was too good to be true. He jumped up from his chair, rushed around the desk and pulled his dear colleague to her feet to give her a hug.
‘Thank you, Karin! Wonderful. I’m so happy! You won’t regret it. I promise!’
For a brief moment she stood motionless in his embrace. Then she gently pulled away.
‘You’re welcome, Anders. I think it’s going to be both fun and exciting for me.’
‘When this investigation is over, I want to take you out for a fancy dinner. We have to celebrate!’
He glanced at his watch. He would have just enough time to talk to Norrby before the meeting started. He wanted to announce the news that Karin was going to be his deputy as soon as possible. Then a thought occurred to him.
‘Does Martin know about this?’
‘Yes, I told him yesterday evening.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘It was no problem. You know how he is. Don’t worry about it.’
Knutas had assumed that Lars Norrby would have a strong reaction, but not this strong.
‘What the hell are you telling me? Is that the thanks I get after all these years? We’ve worked together for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years!’
His colleague had straightened up to his full height and was angrily staring down at Knutas as he sat in his old chair, feeling more uncomfortable than he’d ever felt before.