Reluctantly he continued. He wondered whether he had really known anything about Egon. His friend had never let on that he had a lot of money. He never talked about it, although whenever they had dinner together Egon would always insist on paying the bill. But he didn’t boast about his wealth. He insisted on living in that terraced house, even though he could afford a much larger and more luxurious home. Of course, those particular terraces were uncommonly elegant and in a superb location. But still.
Sverker wondered what had happened to his old childhood friend. Whether it was some lunatic who had chosen his victim at random. Whether Egon had been killed by chance, or whether there was some reason for his murder.
He reached the enclosed area of the grave. In front was a row of wreaths, and at first that was all that Sverker saw. His eyes took in the velvet ribbons, the flowers and the printed greetings. Suddenly he caught sight of something on the frozen ground that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Under a heavy wreath with a pink-and-white ribbon from the Visby Art Association, a hand was sticking up through the snow. It was a man’s hand, with the fingers curled. Sverker Skoglund slowly moved his eyes, inch by inch, as he held his breath. The man was lying on his stomach next to the monument, with his arms by his sides. He was naked except for a pair of undershorts, and he was partially covered with snow. There were bruises and wounds all over his body. Around his neck was a noose.
Sooner than he’d expected, Sverker Skoglund had received an answer to his question. There was undeniably a reason for his friend’s death.
66
The call came in to Visby police headquarters at one fifteen in the afternoon. Twenty minutes later Knutas and Jacobsson climbed out of the first car to arrive at the site, followed closely by Sohlman and Wittberg. More police vehicles were on the way. Knutas took long strides as he headed towards the grave.
‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘There’s only one person it could be.’
Sohlman caught up with them and was the first to approach the body. He leaned down and studied the parts sticking up from the snow.
‘He’s covered with wounds. Burn marks from cigarettes and other signs of abuse. The poor devil seems to have been tortured before he was killed.’ He shook his head.
‘Is it Hugo Malmberg?’ Knutas let his gaze slide over the lacerated body.
‘Let’s have a look.’ Sohlman carefully turned over the corpse. ‘Yes, it’s him all right.’
Jacobsson gasped.
Everyone bent down to look at the noose. There was no doubt that it was the work of the same person.
Knutas straightened up and surveyed the deserted cemetery.
‘The body is still warm,’ said Sohlman. ‘He can’t have been dead very long.’
‘We need to search the area with police dogs. Immediately,’ said Knutas. He began issuing orders. ‘The killer may not have got far. He must have a vehicle. When the hell does the next ferry leave for the mainland? We have to stop it and search every single car. All the passengers have to be checked. This time he’s not going to get away.’
67
Johan and Pia had worked like dogs ever since receiving the press release stating that Hugo Malmberg’s tortured body had been found lying on top of Egon Wallin’s grave. The murder launched a feeding frenzy in the media, and in Stockholm everybody wanted material for transmission before it had even been recorded.
This second scandalous murder in Visby had also evoked strong reactions among the locals. All of the galleries in Visby had been closed, and the owners were meeting to discuss the situation. Speculation was running rampant, and everyone was wondering whether the killer was only after people involved in the art world. The police had held a chaotic press conference, with questions hurled from all directions by the fifty or so journalists who were present. The news had even spread to the rest of Scandinavia, and reporters from both Denmark and Norway had arrived in Visby during the day.
After editing the final story for the evening news, Johan decided to stay in the office for a while. He was much too stressed to go home yet. He needed to gather his thoughts. Pia left as soon as they sent off the story because she was planning to go to the cinema. To the cinema? Now? thought Johan. Who could concentrate on watching a film after everything that happened here today?
He sat down with a pen and paper and began to summarize the events, starting from the very beginning.
The murder of Egon Wallin. The stolen paintings found in the storage room of his house.
The theft of ‘The Dying Dandy’ at Waldemarsudde.
The sculpture stolen from Wallin’s gallery, only to show up at Waldemarsudde at the same time as the painting was stolen. The original sculpture was at Muramaris. The perpetrator had stayed in a cottage there, at least when he committed the first murder. Then Hugo Malmberg was also killed, and his body was found on top of Egon Wallin’s grave.
Johan wrote down the points of intersection between the two victims. Both were art dealers.
Both were gay, as he understood it. Hugo was open about his sexual inclinations. Egon was not.
They were planning to become partners in an art business in Stockholm. Partners, thought Johan. Were they also sexual partners? He considered that highly likely. He added ‘sexual partners?’ as another possible link between the two.
He sat at his desk for a while, staring at what he had written. As he saw it, there were two main questions. He wrote them down. 1. Why was ‘The Dying Dandy’ stolen? 2. Was there going to be another victim?
There was nothing to indicate that the murderer would stop his killing spree. There might be more people he wanted out of the way. Johan wrote down the word ‘dandy’. What exactly did it mean?
He looked up the word on the internet and found this explanation: ‘Snob, fop. A dandy is associated with elegance, cold-heartedness, sarcasm, irony, androgyny or sexual ambivalence.’
Did the killer view himself as a dandy? Or were his victims dandies?
Johan thought about the various individuals who figured in the investigation. Pia had made a note of the names of everyone who had been invited to Egon Wallin’s gallery opening. She’d obtained the list from Eva Blom at the gallery, but Johan hadn’t asked Pia how she’d managed that. He wasn’t sure that he really wanted to know.
What if I start with the list? he thought. It didn’t take him long to focus on one name. Erik Mattson. He was the Dardel expert who had made several statements on TV about the theft at Waldemarsudde. That was a strange coincidence. Mattson worked for Bukowski’s Auction House in Stockholm. Johan decided to ring him. He pulled up Bukowski’s website and found Mattson’s name and photograph. Talk about a dandy. Erik Mattson was wearing a pinstriped suit, with an ice-blue shirt and tie under an elegant waistcoat. His dark hair was combed back. He had even, regular features and an aristocratic nose, dark eyes and narrow lips. He was smiling at the camera; it was a slightly superior, even ironic smile. The classic dandy, thought Johan. He glanced at his watch. It was too late to ring now. Bukowski’s would be closed. He would have to wait until the morning. He sighed and got up to put some coffee on while thoughts whirled through his mind.
Who was this Erik Mattson? Did he have any connection to Gotland?
He had no clue where the idea came from; suddenly it just popped into his head. He glanced at his watch again. Eight forty-five. It wasn’t too late to ring. Anita Thoren picked up the phone herself.
‘Hi, this is Johan Berg from Regional News. I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the evening, but I have an urgent question that can’t wait.’
‘What’s this about?’ she asked in a friendly tone of voice.
‘Well, I’m doing some research, and I understand that you rent out the cabins to guests in the summertime. How long have you been doing that?’