The Killer's Art (31 page)

‘And then you returned later on?’

‘Yes,’ he said, sounding distracted. ‘When my ex-wife Lydia and I were still married, we once rented Rolf de Maré’s cottage, and we took all the children along. That was years ago. But it wasn’t a very successful holiday. It’s not a practical place for young children. Steep steps down to the beach and not much of a play area. And the cottage isn’t very big.’

‘But you went back again?’

‘Yes, I’ve been there twice since then.’

‘Who went with you, if I might ask?’

‘A friend of mine. His name is Jakob,’ replied Mattson tersely. Suddenly he looked uncomfortable. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’

‘There are actually two reasons,’ Johan lied. ‘Partly to get some background material for our report on the murder on Gotland. But I also happen to think that Muramaris is an interesting place, and I’d like to do a documentary about it for Swedish TV.’

‘Really?’ Erik Mattson’s voice suddenly took on renewed energy. ‘That’s fantastic. There’s so much to tell, and the place is spectacular inside. Have you seen the amazing sandstone fireplace that Ellen created?’

Johan shook his head. He studied Mattson intently. ‘So you’ve been married. How many children do you have?’

‘Three. But what does that have to do with anything?’

‘I’m sorry. I was just curious. You said that you took “all” the children along, so I was picturing a whole flock.’

‘I see.’ Erik Mattson laughed. He looked relieved. ‘I’ve got only three. But they’re not kids any more. They’re all grown up now. Living their own lives.’

J
ohan didn’t really know what compelled him to take that route on his way home. But after having a pleasant dinner at his mother’s house in Rönninge and seeing all his brothers, he found himself driving past Erik Mattson’s building on Karlavägen. He parked the car outside and looked up at the lovely facade. It was an impressive, well-kept building with an ostentatious front entrance and a profusion of flower beds. Without knowing what he expected, Johan got out of the car and went over to try the door. Locked, of course. There were lights on in most of the windows. Earlier in the day he’d checked to see which flat belonged to Mattson, and now he saw that there too the lights were on. There was both an intercom and a keypad that required a code number. On impulse, Johan pressed the number next to Mattson’s name. He tried again several times with no response. Then he heard a man’s voice, but it wasn’t Mattson’s. There was loud music playing in the background. The man sounded speedy and slightly drunk.

‘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 Östermalm wearing expensive suits under their coats, and with their hair slicked back.

They walked past Johan’s car without noticing him and disappeared into Humlegården 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 Fårö 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.

‘Huh,’ said Pia. ‘Maybe somebody from Radio was working here overnight.’

‘Shh.’ Johan gave her another nudge.

When he got close enough to the far wall to see what the photograph showed, at first he couldn’t believe his eyes.

It was a picture of himself, sitting in his car outside Erik Mattson’s house. The picture was dark, but it was still possible to see that he was staring up at a window.

Slowly he sank down on to a chair, without taking his eyes off the photo. ‘What’s wrong?’ he heard Pia saying behind him.

Johan couldn’t say a word.

T
he entire team was present at the police meeting on Monday morning. Someone had made coffee and set on the table a basket of fresh cinnamon rolls from the Siesta pastry shop. Kihlgård was whistling merrily. Knutas guessed that he was the one who had brought the provisions. Kihlgård loved to munch, as he put it.

The murder of Hugo Malmberg had pushed the controversy about Karin Jacobsson’s promotion on to the back burner. Knutas was grateful for that.

The meeting began with Jacobsson reporting on what she’d discovered about Hugo Malmberg’s background.

‘So who’s the son who was given up for adoption?’ asked Wittberg.

‘I think it would be worthwhile checking out one potential candidate,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Someone who was invited to Egon Wallin’s gallery opening, who was in Visby at the time of Wallin’s death, who has a special interest in Nils Dardel, and who also happened to rent the cottage at Muramaris. He’s in his forties, and he’s been popping up in the investigation like a jack-in-the-box right from the start.’

‘Erik Mattson,’ exclaimed Kihlgård. ‘That soft-spoken, ultra-correct man who has made so many public statements with regard to the theft at Waldemarsudde! Could he really be the perp?’

‘But that’s impossible. He’s much too thin,’ objected Wittberg. ‘Do you really think he could have hoisted Egon Wallin up in the gate and dragged Hugo Malmberg – his father – to the cemetery? Not on your life.’

‘He could have had help, of course. I realize that he couldn’t have done
it alone.’ Jacobsson glared at Wittberg. Apparently the promotion controversy wasn’t completely forgotten, after all.

‘And the motive would be … what? The fact that his biological father had abandoned him?’ Wittberg looked dubious.

Lars Norrby was quick to chime in. ‘And what about Egon Wallin? Why would Erik Mattson kill him?’

‘Obviously I don’t have answers to all the questions,’ said Jacobsson crossly.

‘So you haven’t checked to see whether Mattson really is the son given up for adoption?’ Knutas gave Jacobsson an enquiring look.

Her face fell. ‘Well, no…’ she had to admit. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Maybe that would be a good idea before we start jumping to conclusions.’

Even though his tone of voice was a bit stern, he sympathized with Jacobsson when he saw the pleased expressions on the faces of Wittberg and Norrby.

Later that afternoon, there was a knock on Knutas’s door. Jacobsson came in and sat down with a dejected look.

‘I’ve talked to Erik Mattson’s adoptive parents – Greta and Arne Mattson, who live in Djursholm. They’ve never told Erik that he was adopted. So he has no idea that Hugo Malmberg is his father.’

‘What sort of relationship does Mattson have with his parents?’ Knutas asked.

‘It’s non-existent. They broke off all contact with him when it became apparent that he was using drugs and was homosexual.’

‘Homosexual? He’s gay too? That seems to be a common thread in this whole investigation.’

‘I agree.’

‘But that sounds rather harsh. Did they really break off contact just because of that? It certainly doesn’t sound very loving.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Jacobsson agreed. ‘On the other hand, they seem to have a good relationship with his ex-wife Lydia and his children. Or at least two of them.’