possible to Norrby, who gladly dealt with one reporter after another.
Most people asked the same questions, and they didn’t vary greatly from what had been asked during the press conference.
After an hour, it was finally over and Knutas felt completely drained.He regretted offering to participate at all. Especially at such an early stage in a homicide investigation, when it was important for him to be available to his colleagues and not to journalists. Lars Norrby could just as well have handled the press conference on his own. He was the police spokesman, after all.
K nutas shut himself up in his office for a while after the press conference. Exhaustion overcame him as he sat there in silence. He took out his pipe and began filling it, pondering how to get Norrby to take responsibility for the press and devote less of his time to the actual investigation. Knutas didn’t feel he had the patience to deal with the media to the same extent as he had in the past. It seemed senseless for the person in charge of the investigation to waste his time on keeping the press informed, especially when the police had so little to report.
Generally he and Norrby got on well together. His colleague could be a bit slow and long-winded, but there was nothing wrong with the way he did his job.
Knutas and Norrby were about the same age, and they had worked together for twenty years. It was not at all clear in the beginning that Knutas and not Norrby would be the one to be promoted to head of the criminal division. That was how it had turned out, but Knutas couldn’t really explain why.
Lars Norrby was a likeable person, divorced, with two teenage sons who lived with him. The most striking thing about his appearance was his height. He was almost six foot seven. The fact that he was thin, bordering on gaunt, made his height all the more impressive.
If Norrby felt slighted because it was Knutas who had become detective superintendent, he concealed his feelings well. He had never shown even a hint of jealousy. Knutas respected him for that.
*
He stuck the unlit pipe in his mouth and rang Wittberg on his mobile, but the line was busy.
A list of those who had attended the opening at the gallery was being put together. The employees who had been at the dinner afterwards had been contacted, and interviews were going on.
Knutas had asked Wittberg to find the artist and his manager at once. According to the victim’s wife, Monika Wallin, who had undergone an initial interview at the hospital, both the artist and his manager were supposed to stay on Gotland until Tuesday.
Knutas hoped to clear up various matters by speaking with them. The fact that Wallin had been killed on the very day that he held the first exhibition opening of the season, which had also attracted a great deal of interest, might not be a coincidence.
He had asked Jacobsson to help out with the interview since his English wasn’t adequate.
The phone rang. It was Wittberg, and he sounded out of breath.
‘Hi, I’m at the Wisby Hotel.’
‘Yes?’
‘Mattis Kalvalis isn’t here. Or his manager either. The clerk at the front desk ordered a taxi to take them to the airport this morning.’
‘What? You mean they’ve run off?’ Knutas tapped his chin.
‘Apparently. I rang Gotland Air to find out if they really did take the flight to Stockholm. And they did. The plane left at nine this morning.’
E mma had just come through the door when the phone rang. She set Elin down on the floor. Dressed in a heavy snowsuit, her daughter sat there motionless, looking like a little Michelin man.
‘Emma Winarve.’
‘Hi, it’s me, Johan.’
Why did she always feel a burning in her stomach whenever she suddenly heard his voice?
‘Hi!’
Elin started to cry. Emma kept her eyes fixed on her daughter as she spoke.
‘I’m in Visby. Tried to ring earlier, but no one answered.’ ‘No, I’ve been out for a long walk. But listen, could I call you back in ten minutes?
Most people asked the same questions, and they didn’t vary greatly from what had been asked during the press conference.
After an hour, it was finally over and Knutas felt completely drained.He regretted offering to participate at all. Especially at such an early stage in a homicide investigation, when it was important for him to be available to his colleagues and not to journalists. Lars Norrby could just as well have handled the press conference on his own. He was the police spokesman, after all.
K nutas shut himself up in his office for a while after the press conference. Exhaustion overcame him as he sat there in silence. He took out his pipe and began filling it, pondering how to get Norrby to take responsibility for the press and devote less of his time to the actual investigation. Knutas didn’t feel he had the patience to deal with the media to the same extent as he had in the past. It seemed senseless for the person in charge of the investigation to waste his time on keeping the press informed, especially when the police had so little to report.
Generally he and Norrby got on well together. His colleague could be a bit slow and long-winded, but there was nothing wrong with the way he did his job.
Knutas and Norrby were about the same age, and they had worked together for twenty years. It was not at all clear in the beginning that Knutas and not Norrby would be the one to be promoted to head of the criminal division. That was how it had turned out, but Knutas couldn’t really explain why.
Lars Norrby was a likeable person, divorced, with two teenage sons who lived with him. The most striking thing about his appearance was his height. He was almost six foot seven. The fact that he was thin, bordering on gaunt, made his height all the more impressive.
If Norrby felt slighted because it was Knutas who had become detective superintendent, he concealed his feelings well. He had never shown even a hint of jealousy. Knutas respected him for that.
*
He stuck the unlit pipe in his mouth and rang Wittberg on his mobile, but the line was busy.
A list of those who had attended the opening at the gallery was being put together. The employees who had been at the dinner afterwards had been contacted, and interviews were going on.
Knutas had asked Wittberg to find the artist and his manager at once. According to the victim’s wife, Monika Wallin, who had undergone an initial interview at the hospital, both the artist and his manager were supposed to stay on Gotland until Tuesday.
Knutas hoped to clear up various matters by speaking with them. The fact that Wallin had been killed on the very day that he held the first exhibition opening of the season, which had also attracted a great deal of interest, might not be a coincidence.
He had asked Jacobsson to help out with the interview since his English wasn’t adequate.
The phone rang. It was Wittberg, and he sounded out of breath.
‘Hi, I’m at the Wisby Hotel.’
‘Yes?’
‘Mattis Kalvalis isn’t here. Or his manager either. The clerk at the front desk ordered a taxi to take them to the airport this morning.’
‘What? You mean they’ve run off?’ Knutas tapped his chin.
‘Apparently. I rang Gotland Air to find out if they really did take the flight to Stockholm. And they did. The plane left at nine this morning.’
E mma had just come through the door when the phone rang. She set Elin down on the floor. Dressed in a heavy snowsuit, her daughter sat there motionless, looking like a little Michelin man.
‘Emma Winarve.’
‘Hi, it’s me, Johan.’
Why did she always feel a burning in her stomach whenever she suddenly heard his voice?
‘Hi!’
Elin started to cry. Emma kept her eyes fixed on her daughter as she spoke.
‘I’m in Visby. Tried to ring earlier, but no one answered.’ ‘No, I’ve been out for a long walk. But listen, could I call you back in ten minutes?
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