The Killer's Art (9 page)

The meeting was interrupted by the ringing of Knutas’s mobile. He pulled it out of his inside jacket pocket and took the call.

Everyone waited in silence. They listened to the murmuring and grunting of their boss and watched his expression change from great surprise to worried circumspection. When he ended the conversation, everyone’s eyes were fixed on him.

‘That was Monika Wallin. A little while ago a removal van parked outside their house. The removal guys had been hired by Egon Wallin with clear instructions as to what they were supposed to pick up. He’d paid for the entire job in advance.’

T
he premises of the venerable Bukowski’s Auction House were sombrely elegant. The reception area faced Arsenalgatan, between Berzelii Park and Kungsträdgården Park in central Stockholm.

The art valuer Erik Mattson, clad in a grey suit and with his hair combed back, received the customer, whose attire was significantly simpler than his own and who seemed rather bewildered and ill at ease in the discreet and distinguished setting. The man had brought an oil painting, tucked under his arm and securely wrapped in newspaper and silver tape.

On the phone that morning the man had described the painting as an archipelago scene painted in various shades of grey, with an expanse of sky and sea and a little white house with a black roof. Even though the work of art was unsigned, Erik thought it sounded interesting, and he’d asked the customer to bring it in to be evaluated.

Now he was here, wearing a coat that had seen better days, and with a thin, old-fashioned scarf around his neck. His shoes could have used a good polishing; that was something that Erik Mattson always noticed. Well-cared-for shoes always indicated that a customer took good care of himself. This was not the case with the man who now stood in front of him, nervously fingering the large package. He had beads of sweat on his forehead. The collar of his shirt was wrinkled, his coat was threadbare, and the gloves that he’d placed on the table had worn through the lining. He spoke with the distinct accent of Söder, the old working-class district of the city. Not many people talked that way any more. It was almost charming.

Erik hoped that the painting wasn’t stolen. He studied the customer carefully – no, he didn’t look like a criminal. Besides, the painting probably wasn’t worth anything; that was the usual situation with unsigned works. But he always liked to have a look. Every once in a while they’d find a real gem, and nobody wanted to miss out on such a possibility. The worst-case scenario was that the valuable item would then end up with their fiercest competitor, Auction Works, instead. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Mattson showed the customer into the cramped but elegant valuation room. It was furnished with a Gustavian table with a chair on either side; a painting by Einar Jolin hung on the wall. There was also a bookcase filled with reference works. A laptop lay on the table, so that he could quickly check the history of a work or find out about its possible creator. If it was difficult to assess the value of a work, he might have to ask a colleague for help. Sometimes a painting would be kept for a few days if a more extensive examination was required. It was exciting work, and Erik Mattson loved it.

Together they placed the painting on the table, and Erik felt a familiar sense of anticipation fill his chest. This was one of the golden moments of his job: when he stood next to a customer he had never met before, with a painting that had been described to him, but that he hadn’t actually seen yet. He felt the excitement of wondering whether it might be an unknown, perhaps forgotten work by a great artist, worth millions of kronor, or a worthless copy by some art student.

Erik had worked as an assistant to the curator of modern painting and sculpture at Bukowski’s for fifteen years, and in that time he’d become an expert appraiser of the art they handled. Yet he hadn’t advanced to the position of curator, as most assistants did after a few years. But there was a reason for this.

The newspaper rustled; it was hard to get the tape off.

‘Where did you get the painting?’ he asked, to ease the customer’s obvious nervousness.

‘It hung in Pappa’s summerhouse in the archipelago for years, but when he sold the house, all of us children were allowed to take whatever
we wanted. I’ve always liked the painting, but I didn’t think it was valuable.’ He glanced at Erik with an expression of both hope and concern. ‘A neighbour happened to see it on the wall, and he said that it was so expertly done that I ought to have it valued. I really don’t think that it’s worth anything, you know,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out.’

‘Of course. That’s what we’re here for.’

Erik gave the man an encouraging smile, and he seemed to relax a bit.

‘Where did your father get it?’

‘My father and mother bought it at an auction sometime in the forties. Since then it has always hung in the summerhouse. It’s on the island of Svartsö. You know, one of those old merchant’s villas. They liked having a scene from the archipelago on the wall. So, that’s about the whole story.’

Now only the innermost paper was left.

Erik turned the painting over and was astounded by what he saw. He couldn’t hide his surprise, and the customer stared at him with delight as he eagerly took out a loupe to study the authenticity of the work. Neither of them said a word, but their excitement resonated through the room.

Erik immediately recognized the style of the artist. This particular motif had been used by the painter several times, even though his total oeuvre wasn’t extensive; there were less than a hundred known works. After an acrimonious divorce in 1892 and subsequent court proceedings in which he lost custody of his three children, the artist had devoted himself to painting. Stockholm’s archipelago became his refuge. The lighthouses and navigational buoys, the sparse vegetation and the defiant rocks exposed to the elements all became symbols for the artist himself, struggling against the tides of the time and defending his right to think freely.

He was meticulous in his observations of nature; in greyish-blue nuances he had depicted the capricious weather of the archipelago. Erik Mattson had seen him use this motif at Dalarö. In the solitary beacon on a desolate shore under a dramatic sky, he had found a motif that suited
him during that period. The fact that the artist hadn’t signed the painting was not unusual. He had regarded painting as a sideline, something he turned to whenever he developed writer’s block.

Yet he was considered one of the greatest artists of his day. Erik Mattson did a quick mental calculation and placed the value of the painting at between four and six million kronor.

The artist was none other than August Strindberg.

T
o say that Monika Wallin was plain was no exaggeration. Her mousy brown hair was cut short and carelessly styled, her thin lips bore no trace of lipstick, and her posture, though erect, was a bit awkward. At first glance she seemed to be someone who would easily disappear in a crowd. She opened the door to the terraced house on Snäckgärdsvägen after Knutas rang the bell four times. She looked pale and tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

Knutas was surprised that he didn’t recognize her. He knew that they had met several times before, although they had never actually spoken to each other. Yet Monika Wallin was not someone who made a lasting impression; that much was clear.

Knutas introduced himself and reached out his hand. ‘My condolences.’

She shook his hand without changing her expression. Her handshake was surprisingly firm. ‘Come in,’ she said, and led the way into the house.

Knutas could see as soon as he stepped into the hall that the house was occupied by art lovers. Covering nearly every square inch of the light-coloured walls were paintings, both large and small, by all sorts of modern artists. Everything was of the highest quality; even Knutas could see that.

They each sat down in an armchair in the living room, where the windows faced the greyish-blue sea. Only the narrow road towards Snäck divided the property from the shore.

Knutas took out his notebook and pen. ‘So, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?’

Monika Wallin was holding a handkerchief in her hand, twisting and turning it as she talked.

‘Well, I was sitting in the kitchen when a big removal van suddenly came roaring up our driveway. At first I thought it had taken the wrong turn. But when the men rang the bell, they showed me the contract that Egon had signed. He had hired them.’

‘Do you have a copy of the contract?’

‘Yes, they left several documents.’

Monika Wallin got up and continued to talk as he heard her opening a drawer in the kitchen.

‘They left empty-handed, of course. It didn’t really make any difference to them, since Egon had paid for everything in advance.’

She came back and handed Knutas a sheet of thin, light-blue paper. He saw that it was a copy of a contract, and that the removal van was supposed to transport the goods to Artillerigatan in Stockholm.

‘Artillerigatan,’ he mused. ‘Isn’t that in the Östermalm district?’

Monika Wallin shook her head. ‘I don’t know where it is.’

‘There’s no number for a land line on the contract,’ murmured Knutas. ‘Just a mobile number. Is it Egon’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t know anything about this?’

‘No, it was a complete surprise. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only one. Egon has a desk here in the house with several locked drawers. Of course I knew where he kept the key, but I’ve never had any reason to snoop through his things. I opened the drawers just before you arrived.’

She reached for a folder lying on the table. Her lips were thin and dry, and right now they narrowed even more.

‘There’s a divorce application in here, and he’d even taken the trouble to fill it out. There are also documents stating that he’d bought a flat on Artillerigatan in Stockholm, and that he’d sold our gallery to a certain Per Eriksson,’ she said bitterly. ‘It’s hard to believe.’

‘May I have a look?’

Knutas studied the documents intently, making his way quickly
through the pile. It was clear that Egon Wallin had been making plans to decamp.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to make it through,’ she said plaintively. ‘First the murder. And now this.’

‘I can understand how tough this must be for you,’ said Knutas sympathetically. ‘And I’m sorry that I have to trouble you right now. But I need to ask you a few questions. For the sake of the investigation.’

Monika Wallin nodded. She continued to crumple the handkerchief in her hand.

‘Tell me about Saturday, when you had the gallery opening,’ Knutas began. ‘What did you both do that day?’

‘Egon left for the gallery early in the morning, before I was even awake. That wasn’t unusual if we were having an opening. He liked to be there in plenty of time, to make any last-minute changes, see that the paintings were hung correctly, and so on. I always take care of the catering, and I arrived just after eleven, at the same time that the food arrived.’

‘How did Egon seem? Was his behaviour different in any way?’ ‘He seemed jumpier than usual, impatient and irritable. I thought it was odd because everything was going so smoothly.’ ‘Then what happened?’

‘The artist, Mattis Kalvalis, showed up, and after that we didn’t have a moment’s peace. He was constantly asking for something – a glass of water, an ashtray, cigarettes, pastries, a plaster, all sorts of things. He seemed totally wound up; I’ve never met anyone so nervous before. And incredibly self-absorbed. He showed no concern for the fact that we had other things to do. It was as if he filled up the whole room.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘But then all the guests began to arrive, and after that it was non-stop activity until seven o’clock.’

‘Did anything unusual happen during the course of the day that you noticed?’

‘Yes, actually there was something. Egon was gone for a long time. I went looking for him, but no one knew where he was.’

‘How long was he gone?’

‘It must have been over an hour.’ ‘Did you ask him where he’d been?’

‘Yes, but he just said that he’d gone out to get more wine. There was so much to do that I didn’t give it another thought.’

She turned to stare out of the window, and for a while neither of them spoke. Knutas was waiting for her to go on without his prompting. During sensitive interviews, it was important to know when to keep quiet.

‘How did he seem when he came back?’

‘Exactly like earlier in the day – strangely agitated.’

‘Do you think one of the guests had upset him?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘If so, it was most likely Sixten Dahl. He was the only one there that Egon didn’t like. He’s an art dealer in Stockholm.’

Knutas gave a start. Sixten Dahl was the one who had accompanied the artist and his manager back to Stockholm on Sunday morning. But for the time being, Knutas didn’t let on what he knew.

‘Why didn’t Egon like him?’

‘They would run into each other occasionally, and Egon always complained that he found Sixten overbearing. Maybe it was more the fact that they were very alike,’ she mused. ‘They often competed for the same artists and had the same taste in art. Mattis Kalvalis was one example. I know that Sixten Dahl was interested in him too, but Mattis had chosen Egon.’

‘What happened after the opening?’

‘We went to Donners Brunn for dinner.’

‘Who was there?’ asked Knutas, even though he already knew the answer.

‘Egon and I, Mattis Kalvalis, and the others who work at the gallery.’

‘How many of you work there?’

‘Four altogether. The others are Eva Blom and Gunilla Rydberg. They’ve both been with us for twenty years.’

Knutas was busily taking notes. The mention of Sixten Dahl was extremely interesting. He hoped that by now Wittberg had managed to
get hold of the art dealer and the two others. Eva Blom was an old acquaintance. She and Knutas had been in the same class as children, and he knew that she lived with her family in Väte parish. On the other hand, he didn’t know Gunilla Rydberg.