Free The Killer's Art by Mari Jungstedt Page B

were picked up in the Östergravar area will be studied, but they’re not really of great interest since the perpetrator probably never entered that area at all.’
    ‘A first interview was conducted last night with the victim’s wife, Monika Wallin,’ said Knutas. ‘We know that she was the last one to see Wallin alive. After the dinner at Donners Brunn on Saturday night, the couple returned to their terraced house on Snäckgärdsvägen. Mrs Wallin went to bed, but her husband said he wanted to stay up for a while. In the morning when she woke, he wasn’t there. He had apparently put on his coat and gone out. The rest we know.’
    ‘Could there have been a third person in the house?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘I mean, maybe he received an unexpected visitor, or else someone broke in?’
    ‘Unlikely. He seems to have left alone.’
    ‘Did his wife have any idea where he was going?’ asked Wittberg.
    ‘No,’ said Knutas. ‘But I’m going to see her today, so maybe I’ll learn more. She was in shock yesterday.’
    ‘What about the tyre tracks?’ asked Norrby.
    ‘Hard to say. They’re from a larger type of vehicle. I’d guess a van or a small truck. We need to check on any stolen vehicles and talk to the car rental agencies,’ said Knutas.
    ‘I really wonder what the motive was behind this whole thing,’ said Wittberg pensively, running his hand through his curly blond hair. ‘I mean, it takes a lot to kill somebody. Why would the killer then hang his victim from the gate? It must mean something specific.’
    Wittberg seems unusually alert for a Monday morning,
thought Knutas. Normally he was good and tired after his weekend escapades. The attractive twenty-eight-year-old was the Casanova of police headquarters. His cornflower-blue eyes, his dimples and his toned bodycharmed all the female employees on the force. With the possible exception of Karin Jacobsson, who seemed to regard him as a nice but slightly cocky little brother. Thomas Wittberg had had a constant stream of new girlfriends, but lately he seemed to have settled down. He’d just come back from a holiday to Thailand with his current girlfriend, and his deep suntan formed a sharp contrast to his pale and hollow-eyed colleagues.
    ‘It can’t be just a random killing,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘I mean, some kind of impulsive attack on the street or anything like that. Or he just happened to run into some lunatic. This seems very well planned. The murderer must have been someone he knew.’
    ‘We have a complete list of everyone who was invited to the gallery opening, plus we’re checking whether anyone decided to crash the party,’ Knutas continued. ‘We’re interviewing them all. And we need to pull out all the stops to get hold of the artist and his manager.’
    ‘They haven’t checked out of the hotel over here, at any rate,’ said Wittberg. ‘Their belongings are still in their rooms, and they haven’t paid the bill, so maybe they’re just out for the day. I’ll keep trying to track them down; so far they’re not answering their mobile phones. But I’m hoping to get hold of Sixten Dahl, at least. His gallery will be opening soon, and somebody there should be able to help us. It’s very possible that he knows the whereabouts of the other two men.’
    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.