The Killer's Art (25 page)

One thing that Jacobsson and Knutas had in common was that they were both morning people. He’d been at work only half an hour and was putting together a draft for his plan when he heard Karin’s light footsteps in the corridor. He asked her to come into his office.

‘Sure,’ she said happily. ‘I’ve found out some really interesting things over the weekend, and I can’t wait to tell you about them.’

‘All right, but that can wait,’ he said dismissively as she sat down in his visitor’s chair. ‘There’s something else we need to talk about first.’

‘OK.’ Jacobsson gave him an inquisitive look.

‘I don’t want you to resign, Karin. You know that. So I have an offer to make. You don’t have to answer right now; take some time to think
about it, and then let me know sometime this week whether you accept my proposal or not. OK?’

‘Of course.’ Jacobsson looked both nervous and full of anticipation.

‘I want you to be the assistant superintendent for the criminal division. Meaning my deputy. One day, when I retire, I want you to take my place. This police station has never had a woman detective superintendent, and it’s certainly about time.’

‘But—’

‘No, no, I have no plans to retire. But I’m at an age when ten more years on the job will be the maximum. And besides, Lina has been telling me that she wants to try working on the mainland in a few years, and I’m open to the idea. If she decides to do that, I’ll move over there with her. We have more freedom now the children are older. I want a deputy I can trust completely. And you’re the only one, Karin.’

She gave him a bewildered look. Her expression had changed from nervousness to surprise to astonishment. The tell-tale red spots had appeared on her throat. She opened her mouth as if to speak.

‘No, Karin, please don’t say anything right now. The only thing I ask is that you think it over. And let me also say something about the salary. Of course you’ll receive a significant pay increase, and we can discuss that in greater detail if you decide to accept the offer. But just so you have some idea what you’re looking at, it would be at least seven thousand kronor more per month, plus you’d be attending a number of courses in management skills, and so on. And you should know that I have the full support of the county police commissioner. She would like to see you as assistant superintendent.’

‘But Lars …’

‘Lars Norrby is my problem, not yours, Karin. So I hope you’ll consider the offer.’

Karin nodded mutely.

‘Good,’ said Knutas, relieved to have the conversation out of the way. He got up and went over to stand at the window, not daring to look at her. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

‘Shall I tell you what I found out?’ she asked.

‘Yes, tell me.’

‘This weekend I checked out the connection between Nils Dardel and Muramaris. The original of the sculpture that was found at Waldemarsudde after the theft happens to stand in the garden at Muramaris, and I wanted to find out whether Dardel had any links to the place.’

‘Smart thinking,’ murmured Knutas.

‘But I found out something else. Listen to this,’ said Jacobsson eagerly. She leaned forward and gave him an intent look. ‘Did you know that Dardel was homosexual?’

‘I’d heard that mentioned, yes. But wasn’t he married?’

‘Yes, he married Thora Klinckowström, and they had a daughter, Ingrid. Dardel had several serious relationships with women. For example, he was secretly engaged to Nita Wallenberg before he met Thora. But their engagement was broken off because her father didn’t think Dardel would make a proper son-in-law. Even back then, rumours were raging about his alcoholism, homosexuality and decadent tendencies. That was in 1917, when he was twenty-nine years old. But at the same time that he fell in love with women, he was in love with men. Dardel had a long-lasting and relatively open homosexual relationship with his friend and patron Rolf de Maré, the only son of Duchess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl’s daughter, Ellen.’

‘Is that right? But what do Dardel’s sexual inclinations have to do with Gotland?’ Knutas sounded tired. This news was not as exciting as he had hoped.

Jacobsson’s eyes were shining. It wasn’t hard to see that she was interested in the artist’s life. ‘Well, there’s more. Do you know anything about Wilhelmina von Hallwyl – the archduchess with the Hallwyl palace in Stockholm?’

‘No, I’ve never heard of her before.’

‘The palace is on Hamngatan, right across from Bern’s Restaurant and Berzelii Park – you know, next to Norrmalmstorg. A fantastic place. Duchess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl was fabulously wealthy, and she devoted her life to collecting things that are now on display there: art,
silver, oriental porcelain and ceramics. I think there are close to five thousand objects, and she donated both her home and the collection to the state. You really should go there the next time you’re in Stockholm,’ said Jacobsson enthusiastically. ‘But this is where the story gets really unbelievable. Duchess von Hallwyl had four daughters, and one of them was Ellen, who married a top military officer, Henrik de Maré. They had a son, Rolf, and they moved to Berlin because Henrik was the military attaché there. The son needed a tutor, and so Ellen hired a young man named Johnny Roosval. Now it so happened that Ellen and Johnny fell in love. He was twelve years younger than her and a complete nobody, while she was part of high society and from a noble family. All the elements for a classic drama. Ellen defied convention; she got divorced from her military husband and married the young Johnny Roosval!’

Jacobsson clapped her hands in delight, while Knutas still looked puzzled.

‘OK, but what about Gotland?’ he said wearily.

‘Yes, I know. We’re getting to that. Naturally the whole thing caused a big scandal – bear in mind that this was around 1910! The archduchess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl broke off all contact with her daughter and took her grandson, Rolf de Maré, away from Ellen. But Ellen and Johnny were still very much in love, and they had their dream house built – on Gotland. It was called Muramaris, of course. It was finished in 1915, and Ellen also had a small summerhouse built for her son. It still exists today, and it’s known as Rolf de Maré’s cottage. Ellen was an artist and sculptor, and Muramaris became her studio. She was the one who made most of the sculptures in the garden. Johnny Roosval later made a name for himself, and he became Sweden’s first professor of art history. That gave him access to the more exclusive homes, and do you know what happened next? Well, the sour old Duchess von Hallwyl took Ellen back into her favour, and she was allowed to resume contact with her son. So Rolf de Maré spent a lot of time at Muramaris during the summers. And guess who he often brought along? Nils Dardel. He even ended up designing the garden at Muramaris. There’s a lovely baroque garden in the grounds, you know. And the estate
is in such a beautiful location, right near the sea. Isn’t that a romantic story?’

Jacobsson leaned back in her chair with a pleased look on her face. She took another sip of her coffee, which was now cold.

‘It’s a good story, all right,’ said Knutas, relieved that it was finally over. ‘So there
is
a link between Nils von Dardel and Muramaris, after all. But what on earth does all of this have to do with Egon Wallin?’

‘Well, I’m not really sure, but it was so interesting to read about him – Dardel, I mean. He was a fascinating person, such a complex personality,’ said Jacobsson dreamily.

Knutas seemed to have had enough of Nils Dardel for the morning. He drained the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘Good work, Karin. It’s time for our meeting. Afterwards I think I’ll head out to Muramaris.’

He didn’t dare admit to Jacobsson that he’d never set foot in the place before, even though he’d driven past the sign a thousand times on the way out to his summerhouse.

W
hen Hugo Malmberg picked up the morning newspaper under the letterbox, he discovered a folded slip of paper that had landed partway under his extravagant wooden shoe rack from Norrgavel. It was a nice little piece of red paper. He thought it might be an unusually small advertisement, yet he had an eerie sense of foreboding as he opened it. Only a single word was printed inside: ‘Soon’. He went into the kitchen and sat down. The dogs were yapping at his feet, as if they too felt there was something menacing about the mysterious message.

He automatically wrapped his dressing-gown more tightly around him before he looked at the word again. It had been written with a black marker in bold letters – the same sort of print that might be used for an invitation to a party.
Soon.
What on earth could that mean? He felt a cold sweat come over him at the thought of its intent. This was clear evidence that he was actually being stalked. He hadn’t been imagining things, after all.

Ever since he’d seen the man on Västerbron 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 Kihlgård 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.

K
nutas 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.