The Killer's Art (30 page)

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 Thorén 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?’

‘Ever since we took over Muramaris in the eighties, actually. For almost twenty years now.’

‘Do you keep a record of who has rented the cabins?’

‘Of course. I’ve always kept a record.’

‘Do you happen to have access to it at the moment?’

‘Yes, my office is here at home.’

‘Have you got time to take a look at it?’

‘Of course. I have the ledger here somewhere. Wait a minute.’

The ledger?
thought Johan.
What century is she living in? Hasn’t she heard of computers?

After a minute she was back.

‘OK, here it is. I always enter the name, address and phone number of everyone who rents a cabin. I also record the amount they paid and how long they stayed.’

‘You don’t have the information computerized?’

‘No,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s embarrassing, but this is the way I’ve always done things. We’ve been renting out the cabins for twenty years, after all. I suppose it’s a form of nostalgia for me to keep things the way they were always done. Do you know what I mean?’

Johan knew exactly what she meant. His mother was just learning to send text messages, even though he’d been trying to teach her for years.

‘Could you do me a favour?’ he said.

‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ she said hesitantly.

‘Could you check to see whether an Erik Mattson has ever rented a cabin?’

‘All right, but it will take a while. I’ll have to go through twenty years’ worth of records.’

‘Take all the time you need.’

An hour later Anita Thorén rang him back.

‘That was so strange. Right after we talked, Karin Jacobsson from the police called and wanted to know the same thing.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And I actually did find the name of Erik Mattson listed in the records. Several times, in fact.’

Johan felt his mouth go dry.

‘Yes?’

‘The first time he rented from us was in June 1990 – so that was fifteen years ago. Rolf de Maré’s cottage. For two weeks, from June the thirteenth to the twenty-sixth, together with his wife, Lydia Mattson, and their three children. I have their names too: David, Karl and Emelie Mattson.’

‘And after that?’

‘The second time was two years later, in August 1992. But that time he didn’t bring his wife and children.’ ‘Was he there alone?’

‘No, he rented the cottage with another man.’

‘Do you have the man’s name?’

‘Of course. Jakob Nordström.’

‘And the last time?’

‘July the tenth to the twenty-fifth of the following year. Again with Jakob Nordström. So he rented the same place all three times. Rolf de Maré’s cottage.’

I
t was on that Saturday in November that he realized he was capable of killing another human being. It had taken him two seconds to make up his mind. How he wished he hadn’t witnessed that scene, which had lasted no more than a moment. The images would stay with him for the rest of his life.

At first he hadn’t intended to follow the man who was the focus of his interest; it was an impulse that made him do it. He was just going to walk past the gallery. He hadn’t yet decided how to deal with what he’d found out; he had no idea what to do about it. He was planning to put it all aside until he figured out his next move. But that wasn’t how things worked out. Maybe what happened was predestined. That was what he thought afterwards. And after what he’d been forced to see, there was only one option. The realization had struck him like the blow of a club. Brutally, irrevocably.

He almost missed him. When he turned on to Österlånggatan, he saw Hugo Malmberg locking up the gallery, even though it was an hour before closing time. Curiosity got the better of him. He decided to follow Malmberg and find out why the man he was tailing had broken his routine.

He followed a few yards behind, over to the bus stop on Skeppsbron. Malmberg was smoking a cigarette and talking to somebody on his mobile. Then the bus arrived. He dashed across the street to climb aboard, with Malmberg right in front of him. Uncomfortably close. If he simply reached out his hand, he could have touched the man’s arm.

He felt sick at the sight of the elegant woollen coat, the scarf
nonchalantly flung over his shoulder. That self-confident, pompous man who thought he was invulnerable; so far he was happily unaware that his life was about to be shattered. Malmberg got off the bus near the NK department store on Hamngatan. He turned down Regeringsgatan and headed along the street for a while, then turned left on to a side street. He smoked another cigarette. Cars passed and people strolled by, going home or on their way into the city. Still curious, he continued following the man. He’d never been in this part of town before.

He was careful to keep a good distance between them, and for safety’s sake, he stayed on the opposite pavement. As luck would have it, there were still enough people about to prevent him drawing attention to himself. Suddenly the man he was following disappeared. Swiftly he crossed the street to stand in front of the nearest building. The facade had seen better days, and the display window had been painted black, making it impossible to see inside. A small sign on the metal door said ‘Video Delight’, lit up in red and gold. This must be where Malmberg had gone. It wasn’t hard to guess what type of video shop it was. He waited a minute before entering.

Inside he found a stairway illuminated with tiny red lights that led him downstairs. There he found a big video shop offering nothing but porn films, all the hard-core kind. Sex toys were also for sale, and there were small booths for private viewings. Behind the counter stood a young girl wearing a black hoodie. She seemed completely unaffected by the place; she might as well have been selling pastries or sewing supplies. She was chatting happily with a guy her own age as he put price tags on DVDs. Everywhere were close-up images from porn films on big-screen TVs. A few male customers were making their selections from the films.

Slowly he walked around, looking for the man he’d been following. The place was bigger than it had seemed at first glance. He peeked into one of the small, cramped booths. All he saw was a black vinyl recliner in front of a huge TV screen, an ashtray, tissues, a wastebasket and a remote control. Nothing else.

*

He made a quick survey of all the empty booths; Malmberg seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth. Puzzled, he went over to the red-painted counter and asked the girl if there were any other rooms.

‘Yes,’ she said, pointing to a door that he hadn’t noticed before. ‘In there. But it’s only for guys. Homos, you know.’ A small sign on the door said ‘
BOYS ONLY
’. ‘And there’s a fee. Eighty kronor.’

‘OK,’ he said and paid her the money.

She cast a deliberate glance at a basket on the counter. It was full of condoms. ‘They’re free,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Well, you can have two for free. If you need more, you have to pay.’

He shook his head, opened the door and went inside.

It was even darker in there, and the stairway was narrower and steeper than the first one.

The only sound was the roar of the air conditioning. There was a fresh, almost herb-like fragrance, almost as if it were a spa. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found a long, narrow corridor stretching out in front of him. It was dimly lit, with red neon lights along the ceiling. The walls were painted red, and the floor was black. On either side were booths that seemed to be the same as those upstairs. Several doors were closed, and faint groans were audible through the thin walls.

A guy who looked to be about twenty-five was standing at a booth with the door half open. As he passed, he caught sight of someone sitting inside. The guy was obviously going to go in and keep the customer company.

Everywhere were screens showing porn films. He wondered where Malmberg had gone. Maybe he was sitting in one of these booths, enjoying himself. He found the thought disgusting.

A man came out of one of the rooms, and his face lit up. The man tried to tempt him into the room without saying a word, just using blatant body language to indicate what he wanted. He hurried past.

The place was unbelievable. The corridors were like a labyrinth, and he soon lost track of where he’d entered. All he saw were more booths and pictures.

He started feeling dizzy, and he longed to get out of there. He tried to find his way back, hurrying in the direction that he thought would lead to the stairs. He turned out to be mistaken. Instead he ended up in front of a door at the end of the corridor where he had heard the moaning. Cautiously he opened the door just enough to peer inside. He was looking at a small movie room. On one wall was a screen showing the same type of films that he’d already seen a hundred times over during his brief visit here. All of the furnishings were black – the walls, ceiling, floor, sofa and armchairs.

At first he saw only three bodies that were fully engaged on the sofa in front of the screen. He immediately recognized Malmberg as one of the men. Then he saw the face of another, who might have been in his fifties. The man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. The face of the third person wasn’t visible. He was younger, and the two older men were leaning over him. They were all naked, and none of them seemed to notice his presence. All of their attention was focused on each other.

He was seized by a sense of unreality – as if the scene unfolding before his eyes couldn’t possibly be happening.

Just as he was about to turn round and leave, he saw the face of the third man.

Two seconds. That was all it took to recognize him.

Quickly he shut the door. For a moment he stood outside, leaning against the wall. Sweat was pouring down his face. He wanted to scream.

He stumbled back along the corridor and finally managed to locate the stairs to the exit. He avoided looking at the girl standing behind the counter.

Out on the street he blinked in the light. A woman pushing a pram walked past. Daily life was proceeding as usual. When he turned the corner, he threw up. Not only because of what he’d just witnessed, but because of what he was going to have to do.

O
n Friday morning Jacobsson knocked on Knutas’s office door as soon as he turned up at police headquarters. Her eyes were shining with eagerness.

‘Listen to this – I’ve uncovered some damned interesting stuff. I tried to ring you last night, but nobody answered.’

‘Come on in.’

‘I checked out Hugo Malmberg’s background. You’ve got to hear this.’ She sat down on the sofa in Knutas’s office. ‘He lived alone in a gorgeous flat on John Ericssonsgatan in Kungsholmen, and for years he was part owner of that gallery on Österlånggatan. He was openly gay, and I had the impression that he always had been, but that turned out not to be true. He was once married to a woman named Yvonne Malmberg, but she died a long time ago, back in 1962. So that’s over forty years ago. And guess how she died.’

Knutas shook his head without saying anything.

‘She died in childbirth. To be more precise, in the maternity ward at Danderyd Hospital.’

‘What about the child?’

‘It was a boy. He survived and was given away for adoption when he was only a few days old.’

Knutas whistled.

‘And that’s not all.’

‘No?’

‘Do you know who rented Rolf de Maré’s cottage out at Muramaris several times?’ She went on without waiting for an answer. ‘That valuer at Bukowski’s. Erik Mattson.’

J
ohan had a busy three days ahead of him. On Friday he took the first plane back to Stockholm. He’d made an appointment to meet Erik Mattson at Bukowski’s Auction House at ten o’clock. Then he was going to have lunch with his youngest brother. In the afternoon, the head of the news bureau wanted to see him. Some time in between he really needed to squeeze in a meeting with Max Grenfors to discuss a pay rise. In the evening there was going to be a family dinner at his mother’s house out in Rönninge, and on Saturday morning he’d made an appointment to meet the person who was going to sublet his flat. Johan had received permission to lease the flat for a year. The prospective tenant was a colleague from Swedish TV in Karlstad who had been hired for a temporary position in the sports division.

Then on Saturday afternoon Johan had to fly back to Visby because he and Emma were planning to meet the pastor at four o’clock.
What a schedule,
he thought as he sat on the plane, squashed next to a man who must have weighed over three hundred pounds. He didn’t have the energy to change seats.

Erik Mattson was just as elegant in person as on the photo on the web page of the auction house. He was an attractive man with a distinct sexual aura; Johan wondered if he was gay.

They sat down in a empty conference room, and Erik served coffee and Italian biscotti. Johan chose to get right to the point.

‘I understand that you’ve stayed at Muramaris many times. Why is that?’

‘I was there for the first time when I was nineteen. Some of my friends
and I were studying art history at the university, and we were on Gotland for a cycling holiday. Even back then I was fascinated by Dardel’s work, and I knew that he’d spent several summers at Muramaris.’

He smiled at the memory.

‘I remember how we went down to the beach and pictured Dardel walking along the same stretch of shoreline almost a century earlier. We imagined him with Rolf de Maré, Ellen and Johnny, and all the other artists who came to visit. What a life they lived. Filled with love, art and creativity. Carefree in so many ways, and removed from reality,’ he said wistfully.