The Killer's Art (12 page)

‘Hello?’ he said, his voice muffled.

‘Hi, it’s Anders Knutas. How are things?’

‘Knutie!’ exclaimed his colleague with delight. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ring. Wait just a minute, I need to finish what I’m eating.’

A frantic chewing could be heard on the other end of the line, followed by a couple of gulps of some sort of liquid. That was finished off by a quick belch. Knutas grimaced. Kihlgård’s insatiable appetite always got on his nerves, along with the fact that his Stockholm colleague insisted on calling him Knutie, even though Knutas had repeatedly asked him not to use that nickname.

‘All right, I guess I’ll live now. But I’m glad you rang, because I was starting to think that nothing much was happening over here.’

‘You’re lucky,’ said Knutas drily. ‘We need your assistance.’

Briefly he explained the facts of the case as Kihlgård listened, murmuring his agreement now and then. Knutas could picture him sitting in his cluttered office in the NCP building in Stockholm, his huge body weighing down his chair, his long legs propped up on another chair. Kihlgård was six foot three and must have weighed well over 220 pounds.

‘There’s certainly a lot of action over in your neck of the woods. Sounds like the wild West.’

‘Yes, I keep wondering where this is all heading,’ said Knutas with a

sigh.

‘I’ll gather up a few colleagues, and we’ll probably catch the first flight over tomorrow morning.’

‘Fine,’ said Knutas. ‘See you soon.’

H
e’d gone past the place several times. At first he wanted to go inside, but decided to wait. Each time he went there, he put on a slight disguise. Just to be on the safe side. There was always a risk that he might run into somebody he knew. He’d decided to do everything in the proper order and take his time. Slowly but surely he would make his approach, so that when the time was right he could ruthlessly launch his attack. First he wanted to get to know his victim. Afterwards it would be too late.

Right now he stood watching the man on the other side of the windowpane, trying to gather his courage to go inside. Not because he was afraid of the man; rather, he was afraid of himself. That he might not be able to stop himself from assaulting him. He took several deep breaths. Self-control was usually his strong point; at the moment he wasn’t so sure.

He noticed that he was breathing hard and knew that wouldn’t do. He took a walk around the block to calm his nerves. When he came back, the man was on his way out, carrying a big bag in his hand. He headed for the subway.

He followed the man. After three stops the man got off and took the escalator up to the street level, crossed the street and disappeared into the premises of one of the city’s largest and most exclusive gyms. He followed, paying the fee at the check-in counter. It was shockingly expensive. They wanted 150 kronor for one visit.

The gym was almost deserted at this time of day. A few machines clattered, and music was thumping. A girl in leggings and a tight-fitting
leotard was using a step machine while reading a book. After a while the man he was following came out of the locker room. He began running on a treadmill; it looked pathetic.

Since he hadn’t brought any workout clothes, he couldn’t join in, which was a shame. It would have been great to run right next to the man and provoke him in some way.

Even though he’d made the decision to proceed slowly in order to prolong the suffering as much as possible, he was seized by a strong desire to think up something right now, just to give the man a scare. He went into the toilet to make sure that his disguise was still in place.

When he came out, the man had moved over to the weight-training equipment. He was lying on a bench and lifting the weights overhead. From a distance he watched the man add more and more weight. Finally he lay there, gasping loudly with the effort. Each end of the barbell had 88 pounds on it.

Cautiously he glanced around before approaching. The man was lying on his back and didn’t notice him. No one was near; the girl on the step machine was in a different room and had her back to them. The other guy who had been in the weight-training room had now left. But he needed to be careful.

At the last second he stopped himself. Something made him pause and then retreat a couple of paces. It wouldn’t be good to get too eager right now. That would wreck everything. He had to restrain himself, not try any mischief that might ruin it all. What if he was arrested by the police before he was ready? That would be disastrous.

He went up the half flight of stairs to the gym’s café, sank down on a chair and tried to concentrate on breathing calmly.

After a while he stood up to get a glass of water, but was suddenly overcome by nausea. He had to rush to the nearest gents’, which happened to be in the weight-training room.

Strong convulsions surged through his body and he vomited into the toilet. He was mortified to discover tears running down his face. For a long time he sat on the floor, trying to gather his wits. Would he really be able to carry out the plan he had devised?

All of a sudden somebody knocked on the door. He froze, and his heart began pounding fast.

He swiftly got to his feet, moved to the sink and splashed water on his face. Then he flushed the toilet several times. When he opened the door he almost had a heart attack. There stood the man, asking him with a worried look whether everything was all right.

For what seemed like an eternity but was actually only a few seconds, he stared into those grey-green eyes that showed both worry and sympathy. Then he muttered that he was OK and pushed his way past.

A
t the meeting later in the day, Knutas informed the investigative team of Martin Kihlgård’s imminent arrival. His announcement was met with scattered applause.

The cheerful, boisterous inspector from the NCP was not only a skilled officer but also a clown who had lightened the mood at many a dismal morning meeting when an investigation had seemed at its most hopeless. One person who was particularly fond of him was Karin Jacobsson, and right now she was beaming. Knutas hadn’t seen her look so happy in a long time. Occasionally he thought the two of them might be sweethearts. At the same time, the very idea of those two as a couple seemed ridiculous. Karin weighed only half as much as Kihlgård and she hardly reached up to his chest. He was also fifteen years older; not that the age difference would in itself be a hindrance. But Kihlgård seemed much older, as if he belonged to a different generation. Knutas thought he actually bore a strong resemblance to the old slapstick film star Thor Modéen from the forties. Sometimes they seemed ludicrously alike. But Kihlgård’s jovial exterior was deceptive. He was an incisive police detective: tough, analytical and completely fearless.

When the excitement over the welcome news had died down, the meeting continued with a discussion of what had been uncovered so far. Thomas Wittberg had been out knocking on doors and had gathered some interesting information from Snäckgärdsvägen, where the Wallins lived.

‘First of all, it appears that Monika Wallin has a lover,’ Wittberg began.

‘Is that right?’ said Knutas in surprise.

He hadn’t picked up any clue that something like this was going on when he had interviewed Egon Wallin’s widow the previous day.

Everyone sitting at the table was paying close attention.

‘She’s sleeping with a neighbour, Rolf Sandén. He lives in the same row of terraced houses. He’s been a widower for a number of years, and his children have all moved away. He’s a construction worker who took early retirement. Apparently they’ve been fooling around for years, according to the neighbours. Just about everyone said the same thing, except for an old woman who seemed almost blind and deaf, so it’s not so strange that she hadn’t noticed anything. If Egon Wallin knew nothing about their affair, then he was the only one in the whole neighbourhood.’

‘The neighbour, Rolf Sandén – have you got hold of him?’ Knutas asked Wittberg.

‘You bet. He’d just come home from the mainland when I rang the bell, but he was on his way out again. I made an appointment to interview him tomorrow. At any rate, he was quite talkative and readily admitted to his affair with Monika Wallin. Considering the circumstances, I thought his behaviour rather odd; he seemed almost exhilarated. It seems crazy to act so happy when your neighbour and the husband of your mistress has just been murdered. He should have at least pretended to show some sympathy.’

‘He probably sees his chance now,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Finally able to make their relationship public after all the sneaking around in secret. Maybe he’s really in love with Monika Wallin and has been waiting to take her to the altar.’

‘Maybe he’s the one who did it,’ Norrby interjected.

‘Well, it’s possible,’ said Wittberg. ‘Provided it wasn’t the wife, of course.’

‘Or both of them,’ growled Sohlman in a ghoulish voice, holding up his hands like a vampire ready to attack.

Knutas stood up abruptly. Sometimes all the wild speculating that went on got on his nerves.

‘The meeting is adjourned,’ he said and left the room.

B
etween interviews, Johan and Pia stopped by the Regional News office to pick up some batteries for the camera and check on the latest news. Just as Johan was about to switch on his computer he received a text message on his mobile. It said: ‘Yes, I will. Soon.’

He sat in his chair, staring at the message with a silly smile on his face.

‘What is it?’ asked Pia, noticing that he had stopped what he was doing. Without saying a word, he handed her his mobile.

Pia read the words but merely looked puzzled. ‘What does it mean?’

‘That Emma said she will.’ He turned to face Pia. ‘She said she will!’ he shouted happily. ‘Don’t you understand? She’s ready – at last!’ He pulled an astonished Pia out of her chair, gave her a big hug, and then danced her around the room.

She laughed. ‘But “will” what? What’s this all about?’

Then it finally dawned on her.

‘Wow. Do you mean it? She wants you to move in with her? Get hitched for real?’

‘Yes!’ shouted Johan. ‘YES!’

A few colleagues from the radio division stuck their heads in the door to see what was going on. Johan’s joyous outburst had been heard in half the offices.

Pia grabbed his mobile again. ‘And it says “soon”. How soon? What does that mean?’

‘No idea, but I’d marry her tomorrow if I could. This is fucking fantastic!’

In his mind Johan saw images flit past at breakneck speed. Standing next to Emma in a church, with all of their relatives and friends; the big wedding party afterwards with Emma in a romantic white gown, cutting the wedding cake; Emma in overalls with a kerchief on her head and a big belly, expecting their second child; peacefully baking a cake in the kitchen while Elin played on the floor; with Emma and the children on a sun-filled holiday somewhere; parent meetings at the school; and buying a summerhouse so they could sit on the porch in their old age, each holding a cup of coffee while their grandchildren ran around on the lawn. Johan rushed over to his colleagues from the local radio station and gave each of them a hug before he picked up his phone to ring Emma.

She sounded out of breath, and he could hear Elin gurgling and babbling in the background.

‘Is it really true? You will?’ he cried, his face radiant.

Emma laughed. ‘Yes, I will. I’m sure about that.’

‘That’s crazy. I mean, it’s wonderful, sweetheart! I’ll go and get my things and move in today – is that OK with you?’

‘Sure, do that,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Then we can start living together right away.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can tonight.’

‘Ring when you’re on your way.’

‘Hugs and kisses.’

‘Kisses. Bye.’

‘Bye …’

Slowly he put down the phone, hardly daring to believe what he’d just heard. Had she really said yes after all the vacillating back and forth? He stared at Pia with tears in his eyes. ‘You think she means it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course she does,’ said Pia, smiling. ‘She really means it, Johan.’

E
rik Mattson usually left his job at Bukowski’s Auction House around five. On the way home he often stopped at the Grodan Restaurant on Grev Turegatan to have a drink. The bar had just opened when he stepped inside, but it wouldn’t take long before it was filled with well-to-do residents from the Östermalm district, having a drink after work. People like himself. At least in appearance.

He and his closest friends met here as often as they could. On this particular evening Per Reutersköld, Otto Diesen and Kalle Celling were having a beer when Erik came in. They’d all known each other for years, ever since they went to secondary school at Östra Real.

Now they were over forty, which was more obvious on some than others. The difference nowadays was that most of his friends made do with a beer or two and then went home to their families. On a couple of evenings each week Erik, on the other hand, would just stop by his flat for a quick shower before he was back in the neighbourhood around Stureplan.

He had children too, but he was divorced and the kids had grown up living with their mother. The reason for this was Erik’s abuse of alcohol and drugs. He managed to keep his habit relatively in check, but not entirely. After having several relapses while he was taking care of the children, he’d lost joint custody. The divorce had deeply affected him, and he’d landed in a terrible depression. At the time the three children had been very young, and presumably they hadn’t noticed how chaotic his life had become or the bitterness that had welled up between their parents.

Over time things had improved. Erik succeeded in controlling his dependence enough that it wouldn’t have an impact on the children, and after a while he was allowed to spend time with them every other weekend. Those days were priceless. Erik loved his children and would do anything for them. Almost. He couldn’t completely give up drinking. That was asking too much. But he kept it to an acceptable level, as he said to himself.

He did his job well, except on those occasions when he partied too hard, which happened at regular intervals. His boss accepted that if he wanted to keep Erik on his staff, he’d have to tolerate those times when he simply didn’t show up for work. Erik’s expertise was well known and he was a definite asset to Bukowski’s already excellent reputation. He also saved the company money because he was so fast. Yet he could never be promoted to curator because of his drinking problem. This was a fact he had accepted long ago.