The Killer's Art Read Free

might even upset the whole plan. At the same time, it presented certain advantages. The worse the weather, the fewer people would be out, and that lessened the risk of discovery.
    His throat felt scratchy. Was he coming down with a cold? He pressed his hand to his forehead. Damned if he didn’t have a fever. Shit. He found a bottle of acetaminophen and swallowed two tablets with water from a container on the counter. This was no time to be getting a cold, because he was going to need every ounce of muscular strength.
    The backpack with all the equipment was ready. One last time he checked to see that he had everything he needed. Then he quickly zipped it shut and sat down in front of the mirror. With practised movements he applied the make-up, inserted the contact lenses, and glued the wig in place. He had tried out this disguise so many times, just to make sure it would be perfect. When he was done he paused to study the transformation for a moment.
    The next time he looked in the mirror, he would be seeing the face of a murderer. He wondered if it would be obvious.
    M attis Kalvalis was nervous and had to go out to have a smoke practically every ten minutes.
    ‘What if nobody comes?’ he kept saying in his strident Eastern European accent. His face was even paler than usual, and his lanky body was in constant motion among his paintings. Several times Egon Wallin had shown him the advertisement in the paper and patted him on the shoulder.
    ‘Everything will be just fine – trust me.’
    Kalvalis’s manager, who had come with him from Lithuania, wasn’t much help. He mostly sat outside the gallery smoking and talking on his mobile phone, apparently not bothered by the icy wind.
    It looked as though there was going to be a good turnout for the opening of the show. When Egon unlocked the door of the gallery, there was a long queue of people waiting outside, stamping their feet in the cold.
    Many familiar faces smiled at him, their eyes bright with anticipation. He looked in vain for a certain person in the crowd now streaming into the gallery. There was still plenty of time. It was going to be hard to feign indifference.
    He noted with satisfaction that the cultural reporter from the local radio station had just come in. After a while he caught sight of yet another journalist from one of the local papers, interviewing the artist. His PR campaign, with press releases and follow-up phone calls, had apparently worked.
    A good-sized crowd soon filled the gallery. With its 3,000 square feet on two levels, the space was disproportionately large for Gotland. Butthe premises had been passed down through several generations, and Egon Wallin had tried to keep it in its original state as much as possible. He liked giving works of art plenty of space so as to make the best impression. And the gallery really did do these paintings justice – the rough walls presented an intense contrast to the brilliant colours and the expressive and ultramodern style. The gallery visitors strolled among the works, sipping sparkling wine. Music could be faintly heard between the rooms – the artist had insisted on the songs of a Lithuanian rock band that sounded like a mixture of Frank Zappa and the German synth band Kraftwerk.
    Egon had at least persuaded him to turn down the volume.
    Mattis was now looking much more relaxed. He walked through the crowd, talking loudly, laughing and gesticulating with his large hands, making the wine splash out of his glass. His movements were abrupt and uncontrolled, and every once in a while he would burst into hysterical laughter, almost doubling over.
    For one terrible moment Egon suspected that the artist must be on drugs, but he quickly brushed that thought aside. It was probably just his way of releasing nervous tension.
    ‘Hell of an opening, Egon. Really well done,’ he heard someone say behind him.
    He would recognize that hoarse, ingratiating voice from miles away.
    He turned around and found himself