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around, only to witness more camera flashes.
    He recognized the photographer from the newspaper
Gotlands Allehanda,
accompanied by one of the paper’s most persistent reporters. His face flushed with anger, Knutas brusquely grabbed her by the arm.
    ‘What in hell do you think you’re doing? This might be a suicide case. Right now we don’t know anything for sure. Absolutely nothing! The family hasn’t even been informed yet. He’s only just been found!’
    ‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked quickly as she pulled her arm away,ignoring Knutas’s agitation. ‘I think it looks like Egon Wallin, the art dealer.’
    ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s not certain that any crime has been committed here. Get out of here now and let us do our job in peace!’
    Suicide at least was something that journalists in Sweden respected and didn’t usually report. Not yet, at any rate. But with the sort of developments that were occurring in the media, it wouldn’t be long before they began revelling in such cases.
    Knutas was even angrier because he knew and respected Egon Wallin. Not that they’d actually spent much time together, but they’d met on various occasions over the years, and Knutas had always liked the man. There was something very straightforward and candid about him. An honest individual who had both feet on the ground and who was content with his life, unlike so many others who complained non-stop. He seemed to be a thoroughly decent guy who treated everyone well. A real mensch. They were about the same age, and Knutas had always looked up to Egon Wallin. He had an appealing aura about him that made people want to be his friend. And now here he was, hanging from the gate – dead as a doornail.
    Every minute that passed without taking the body down was a torment. He was already dreading having to tell Wallin’s wife about the tragedy.
    More journalists had appeared on the other side of the police tape. He did understand that they had a job to do. If this turned out to be a homicide case, the police would be forced to schedule a press conference.
    Knutas was grateful at least that so far no TV crew had turned up. But the next moment he caught sight of Pia Lilja, the most zealous TV cameraperson he’d ever encountered. She worked with Johan Berg at Swedish Television. At the moment she was alone, but that didn’t prevent her from filming. They were in a public place, after all, and as long as she stayed outside the cordoned-off area, there was nothing he could do to stop her.
    Knutas sighed. He cast one last look at the body before he left the scene, accompanied by Jacobsson.
    It was going to be a busy day.
    U sually Sundays were calm in the editorial offices of the Regional News division at the headquarters of Swedish TV in the Gärdet district, and today was no exception. Johan Berg was feeling hung-over and worn out as he sat at his desk, listlessly scanning the daily papers. Absolutely nothing was going on. Not in Stockholm, on Gotland, or in Uppsala, which were the areas covered by Regional News.
    The previous evening had turned out to involve far more drinks and had lasted much longer than he had planned. He’d gone out for a few beers with his best friend Andreas, who was also a journalist. They’d ended up at Kvarnen, and had then stupidly accompanied several colleagues from Swedish Radio’s Eko news programme to a party out in Hammarbyh͎jden. Not until four a.m. had he stumbled through the door of his one-bedroom flat on Heleneborgsgatan.
    Adding to his distaste for spending Sunday on the job was the fact that the editor in charge was a substitute in whom he had very little faith. He had hardly taken off his jacket before she was enthusiastically proposing one mediocre assignment after another. She seemed to be nervously grasping at every straw. Good Lord, there were still ten hours left before the five-minute fluff piece they usually broadcast on Sundays. And besides, they had a report in