The Killer's Art (5 page)

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Come on, Knutas. You know my situation. I’m sitting over here in Stockholm. I need to know whether it’s worth me coming to Gotland or not. What does it look like? Murder or suicide?’

‘Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to answer that question.’ Knutas’s tone was a bit less stern.

‘Do you know who the victim is?’

A brief pause.

‘Yes, but he hasn’t been formally identified. And as you very well know, we can’t give out the name just yet. Not until the family’s been notified.’

Knutas was breathing hard. Johan could hear that he was walking as he talked.

‘How old is the victim?’

‘He’s middle-aged. That’s as much as I can tell you. I’ve got to go now. We’ll be sending out a press release later on. There are lots of journalists here, asking questions.’

‘When will you know more?’

‘We’ll probably have a preliminary report by lunchtime, at the earliest.’

‘I’ll get back to you then.’

‘Do that.’

J
ohan frowned as he put down the phone. It was incredibly frustrating not being able to determine whether he should go over to Gotland. He was also acutely aware of how late he’d be in reporting the story if it did turn out to be murder. His Gotland colleagues would obviously have a big head start.

For several years he’d been fighting to establish a permanent reporting team on Gotland, but so far he’d had no success. He thought it was unbelievable that his bosses couldn’t see that a permanent team was needed over there. The island encompassed a relatively large area. And there were almost sixty thousand residents. At the same time, life on the island was changing; the college there was flourishing, as were its cultural life and art community. Gotland was no longer just a place that came alive in the summertime when it was invaded by hundreds of thousands of tourists.

A few minutes later a news bulletin from the TT news service appeared on his screen.

Just to be on the safe side, Johan booked a seat on the next flight to Visby. Time was of the essence. If it was confirmed that this was a homicide, he needed to get there quickly. The fatigue he had felt was gone and the adrenaline was flowing, as it always did when there was something major happening. If this was murder, he was convinced it would be a big story on all the Swedish TV news programmes. A corpse found hanging from the historic ring wall in idyllic Visby. Bloody hell.

He couldn’t help thinking that if he did end up flying to Gotland, he’d be able to see Emma and Elin sooner than expected. And he found himself in the absurd situation of hoping that the man at the gate had been murdered.

It didn’t take long before the national news editor came rushing into the office to ask them what Regional News was planning to do about the story.

Johan didn’t get a chance to answer before his phone rang again. It was Pia Lilja.

‘I’m almost certain it’s a homicide, Johan. I think you’d better come over here.’

‘What makes you think it’s murder?’

‘My God, I’ve been at the scene! He’s hanging from a noose attached to the portcullis above the gate – and Dalman Gate is really high. The opening itself is over fifteen feet. It would have been impossible to get up there on his own. Plus the police have cordoned off a big area. Why would they do that if there was no crime involved?’

‘OK,’ he said excitedly. ‘Did you get any material? Have you interviewed anyone?’

‘No. The police aren’t saying a word. Not to anybody, if that’s any consolation. But I did get some good footage. I managed to make my way round to the other side of the wall before they put up the police tape, so I got some fucking great angles of the body itself before they took it down. Talk about a macabre sight! I think we’re the only ones on the story at the moment.’

‘Yes, I haven’t seen any other talk about it. See you soon.’

T
he minutes seemed to crawl by. It was unusual for the ferry to be late, and of course it would have to happen on this particular morning. He began fidgeting as he sat in a lounge chair in the quiet salon on the foredeck. There were few passengers on board. Ahead sat an elderly couple who had already taken out a thermos and sandwiches, which they ate as they did the crossword. A man about his own age, his jacket spread over him, was dozing in the row of chairs behind.

When the ferry finally pulled away from the dock, he heaved a sigh of relief.

For a while he’d been convinced that the police were going to come rushing into the salon and arrest him. Gradually he’d allowed himself to relax. In three hours and fifteen minutes they would reach the mainland. He was longing for that moment.

In the cafeteria he ordered pasta with chicken and a salad. He also had a glass of milk. After the meal he began to feel better. The mission had been a success. With surprise he recalled that it hadn’t been difficult, even from an emotional viewpoint. Like a soldier in the field, he had carried out the operation with great concentration, keeping strictly to the plan. He had stayed focused on the task at hand. Afterwards he had felt a sense of calm and satisfaction that he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

When they reached the open sea he got up from his chair, took both plastic bags, and went up to the top deck. There were no other passengers outside in the cold, but he needed to act quickly before anyone turned up. He made sure that no one was around. Then he heaved the bags over the side.

When they disappeared into the foaming waves far below, the last remnants of pressure lifted from his chest.

T
he results of the first examination that crime tech Erik Sohlman had made of the body were unambiguous. All indications were that Egon Wallin had been murdered. Knutas immediately summoned his colleagues to a lunchtime meeting. The investigative team consisted of four individuals besides Knutas: the police spokesman and assistant head of the criminal unit Lars Norrby, Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg, whose title was the same as Jacobsson’s. Only Sohlman was missing; he was still at the crime scene waiting for the ME. Also in attendance was the hardened chief prosecutor Birger Smittenberg, who had interrupted his day off so he’d be able to follow the investigation from the very beginning.

Knutas stressed that they had to get started on all fronts as soon as possible – the first twenty-four hours after a murder were crucial.

Someone had shown enough foresight to order meatball sandwiches and coffee. After everyone at the table had helped themselves to the food, Knutas began the meeting.

‘Unfortunately, we’re dealing with a homicide. The victim is the art dealer Egon Wallin. His body was discovered by a woman on her way to work at six forty-five this morning. As you probably all know by now, he was found hanging from the very top of Dalman Gate. The injuries to his neck show that Wallin was murdered. Erik is on his way here and will be able to tell us more. The ME has just arrived from Stockholm and is at the crime scene.’

‘This is insane,’ exclaimed Thomas Wittberg. ‘Another hanged victim like last summer? What the hell is going on?’

‘Yes, it’s strange,’ Knutas agreed. ‘But at least Wallin doesn’t seem to have been subjected to a ritual killing. The witness who found the body is being interviewed,’ he went on. ‘She was first taken to the hospital, where she was examined and given something to calm her nerves. She was clearly in a state of shock.’

Knutas got up and used a pen to point to a map on the wall at the front of the room. It showed the eastern side of the ring wall, with Dalman Gate and the green area called Östergravar.

‘We’ve cordoned off all of Östergravar along Kung Magnus Road from Österport to Norderport. We’re going to have to maintain the restricted zone for an unspecified amount of time, until any and all evidence has been secured. On the inside of the wall, we’ve cordoned off part of Norra Murgatan and Udden Lane, closest to the gate, but we’re going to have to open it up very soon. Not because there’s a lot of traffic up there at Klinten, but still. That’s the area where the techs have been focusing their attention first. It seems reasonable to assume that the perpetrator came from that direction.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Karin Jacobsson.

‘Because according to Sohlman, the victim was probably not killed at Dalman Gate. The body was transported there from some other location.’

‘How could he figure that out so quickly?’ Wittberg fixed his blue eyes on Knutas in surprise.

‘Don’t ask me. He just said that the site of the murder was not the same as where the body was found. He’ll have to explain when he gets here. But if the perpetrator – or perpetrators – killed Wallin somewhere else, they must have had a vehicle. Lugging around a corpse wouldn’t be easy. And I don’t think they would have driven across Östergravar.’

‘Are there any witnesses?’ asked Birger Smittenberg. ‘Didn’t anyone who lives nearby see or hear anything? The gate is right in the middle of a street with houses on both sides.’

‘We’ve started knocking on doors, and we can only hope that it’ll produce something. There’s actually only one house that has windows directly facing Dalman Gate. The location was well chosen, considering
it’s right in the centre of town, if the killer wanted to be undisturbed. With a little luck, it would be possible to do something like this at night without being seen by anyone.’

‘It still seems incredibly risky,’ Wittberg objected. ‘I mean, it would take time to drag the body out of a car and hang it up there like that.’

‘And physical strength,’ added Norrby. ‘Not everyone could hoist a body up that high. Provided there wasn’t more than one person involved, that is.’

‘No matter what, whether it was one or more killers, they’ve probably been to the gate several times before, to check it out and make preparations. That’s what I mean. We need to find out if anyone in particular had been noticed at the gate over the past few days.’

Knutas sneezed loudly. As he blew his nose, the prosecutor seized the opportunity to ask a question.

‘Is there any concrete evidence so far?’

As if on command, the door opened and Erik Sohlman came in. He greeted everyone briefly before hungrily reaching for a sandwich and pouring himself a cup of coffee. Knutas decided to let him finish eating before plying him with questions.

‘So what do we know about the victim?’ Knutas looked down at the papers in front of him. ‘His name is Egon Wallin, and he was born in Visby in 1951. He has lived here all his life. Married to Monika Wallin, with two grown-up children. He lives in a terraced house over on Snäckgärdsvägen. His wife has been informed of his death. She’s been taken to hospital, and we’ll interview her later. The two children have also been contacted; both live on the mainland. Wallin is well-known in town, of course. He and his wife have run the art gallery for twenty-five years. He took it over from his father, and it’s been in the family for as long as I can remember. Wallin has no criminal record. I’ve met him many times over the years, although I can’t say we really knew each other. A hell of a nice guy, and he seemed to be well liked. Is there anyone here who knew him?’

They all shook their heads.

By this time Sohlman had washed down two sandwiches, so Knutas assumed that he was ready to talk. ‘Erik, what can you report?’

Sohlman went over to the computer in the middle of the room. He signalled for Smittenberg, who sat closest to the door, to switch off the lights.

‘This was the sight that Siv Eriksson encountered this morning on her way to work. She was walking along the path from Kung Magnus Road when she discovered the body hanging in full view from the top of the gate. Egon Wallin was fully clothed, but he had neither his wallet nor his mobile on him. We’ll be sending his clothes to the National Crime Lab later today for analysis. A scarf was found on the ground beneath the body. We don’t know whether it belonged to the victim or not, but it’s going to the NCL too.’

Sohlman clicked through images of the body taken from various angles.

‘I’ve only given him a preliminary examination, but I’m almost positive that we’re dealing with a homicide. And that’s because of the wound on the neck. When we took the body down, I was able to get a closer look, and it seems likely that he did not die by hanging.’

He paused for effect and gulped down some coffee. Everyone around the table was listening closely.

Sohlman used a pen to point at the image.

‘Wallin has visible injuries that have nothing to do with the noose around his neck. Both of the thin parallel marks that we can see here go all the way round his neck, just above the larynx and continuing around in back. The marks indicate that he was strangled from behind with a thin, sharp cord – a piano wire or something similar. Either the killer wasn’t sure that his victim was really dead after the first attempt, or else Wallin struggled and his attacker had to try again – hence the two parallel lines. There are reddish ruptures inside the marks, indicating that it was some sort of cord that caused his death. In addition, we can see this thicker mark, which probably resulted from the rope that was put around Wallin’s neck when he was hanged. There is no sign of bleeding
or discoloration. That indicates that he was already dead before he was hanged. Otherwise his injuries would look very different.’

More photographs showed the victim’s face. Knutas flinched. It was always worse if he happened to know and like the victim. He could never disconnect his own feelings completely.

Sohlman, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble doing so. There he stood with his unruly mop of red hair, wearing his usual brown corduroy jacket, speaking in a calm and pleasant voice as he informed them of the details of the horrifying crime that had been committed. Now and then he took a sip of coffee, as if he were showing them his holiday snaps. Knutas would never be able to understand how Sohlman did it.