The Killer's Art (22 page)

‘He probably didn’t have time,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘Because the alarms went off.’

‘That may be true, but the question still remains: why the Dardel? Why that particular painting?’

‘It could have been a contract job,’ suggested Wittberg. ‘A fanatic collector who hired somebody to steal the painting. It won’t be possible to sell it, at least not in Sweden. What do we know about the painting?’

Lars Norrby looked through his papers. ‘I’ve done a little research. It was painted in 1918 by Nils von Dardel, or rather just plain Nils Dardel. He came from a noble family, but he dropped the “von” from his name after he grew up. I’ve actually found out all sorts of titbits about him.’

He smiled with satisfaction. His colleagues looked at him, uncomprehending.

‘Dardel began painting in early 1900 and had his heyday in the twenties and thirties. His painting “The Dying Dandy” has been owned by various private individuals, but in the early nineties the Museum of Modern Art bought it from the financier Tomas Fischer. It was also once sold at an auction run by Bukowski’s firm for a record amount. You may
remember the sale; there were plenty of articles about it in the newspapers at the time.’

Bukowski’s,
thought Knutas.
How strange that the firm keeps cropping up.
Erik Mattson’s name flitted through his mind. He still hadn’t received any explanation for why Mattson hadn’t mentioned going to Egon Wallin’s gallery opening. Something wasn’t right. He needed to talk to Mattson again. He wrote himself a reminder in his notebook.

‘Who in Sweden has a strong interest in Nils Dardel? Should we be looking at that angle?’ Jacobsson suggested.

‘Yes, but what did Egon Wallin have to do with Nils Dardel? There must be some kind of link,’ said Wittberg.

‘We don’t know, but that’s one of the threads we need to follow,’ said Knutas. ‘I recommend that one of you go to Stockholm immediately to meet the police, visit Waldemarsudde, and try to do some more digging into the whole art business. It might also be a good idea to meet Sixten Dahl and Hugo Malmberg on their home turf.’

‘I’ll go,’ offered Kihlgård.

‘In that case, I’d like someone from our team to go with you,’ said Knutas.

‘I can do it,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I’d like to go.’

‘Fine. That’s settled then,’ said Knutas, giving her a rather disapproving look. Why her? And why him?

T
he long, narrow hall of Bukowski’s Auction House had a thick, patterned carpet covering the oak parquet floor. Rows of chairs made of steel and black plastic had been arranged to fill the space all the way to the entrance, where the reception area and cloakroom were located. At the front, above the podium, hung a big white banner with a portrait of Henryk Bukowski, a serious-looking man with a high forehead, beard and moustache, wearing glasses. His eyes were looking upward, as if he were peering into an uncertain future. The exiled Polish nobleman had founded the auction house in 1870, and over the years it had become Scandinavia’s largest enterprise auctioning quality artworks.

He studied the podium, which was made of gleaming white wood with a gilded ‘B’ in the middle. His disguise was in place. No one would recognize him. He was on the lookout for a particular man, but he didn’t see him anywhere.

The scent of expensive perfume and exclusive aftershave wafted through the room. Everyone took off their coats and furs and hung them in the cloakroom. Programmes were sold, and auction paddles were handed out. There was an air of tense anticipation. A longing and a need to spend money.

It made him feel sick.

He was sitting in the last row on the left side of the room; from there he had a good view of the entrance. A woman in her forties came in and sat down next to him. She was wearing a brown fur coat and glasses with thin gold frames. Her skin was lightly tanned.
Maybe from a Christmas
holiday spent at some idyllic beach on the other side of the globe,
he thought enviously. She reeked of money. Her brown hair was pulled back in a classic chignon. She wore a shawl, leather boots and black trousers; a heavy diamond ring glittered on one finger.

Otherwise the average age in the hall was over fifty. There were just as many women as men present, all well dressed, well groomed, and radiating the same calm and self-confidence. An innate sense of assurance and self-esteem that was largely based on money.

He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes left before the auction began. Again he looked for the man who was the reason why he was here. The hall was almost full now; a soft murmur passed through the crowd and a few phrases in English were heard. At the very back of the room groups of people had gathered, conversing in low voices; the whole scene had the air of a cocktail party. They all seemed to know each other, and scattered greetings of ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello’ and ‘Nice to see you’ could be heard.

Now the husband of the woman seated next to him also arrived. He was grey-haired and sun-tanned, wearing a made-to-measure jacket, a canary-yellow sweater and a bright-blue shirt. The colours of the Swedish flag.
Give me a break.
He looked like a typical big shot in the business world.

An acquaintance greeted the couple. ‘You’d better keep her under control. Ha, ha. Make sure she doesn’t spend a bundle. Watch out for that.’

He felt nausea come creeping over him. He had to force himself to stay seated on the uncomfortable chair.

Up at the front the auctioneer had taken his place on the podium. He was in his fifties, austere and elegant. A bit haughty-looking, tall and thin, with a crooked nose and his hair combed back. He pounded the gavel three times on the lectern to silence the murmuring in the room.

The first work was brought out by two rosy-cheeked boys who looked no older than sixteen or seventeen. They were well dressed in newly pressed dark trousers and crisp white shirts, with dark-blue ties under leather aprons wrapped around their boyishly slim figures. Their eyes
followed the bids with interest as they kept a light grip on the work of art that rested on an easel as it was offered for sale.

With growing contempt mixed with the deepest envy, he watched what went on in the hall. The auctioneer efficiently guided the bidding; he seemed to enjoy the tension and energy. The bidding went back and forth like a ping-pong ball between those seated in the room and the invisible customers on the phones. He knew that on the balcony above, Bukowski’s experts had customers on the line. They couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see them. The price rose quickly as bidders either nodded or shook their heads, lifted their bidding paddles, blinked, or raised their hands. Energy and anticipation, hopes dashed or fulfilled. Binoculars were raised in order to better examine the smaller objects. The auctioneer stood in the spotlight the whole time, striking like a cobra at the various bids, and allowing himself a pleased little smile whenever the price went up. The auctioneer held all the bidders in a tight grip. ‘The lady in the third row … A bid from Göteborg … Going, going, gone.’ And then finally the little crack of the gavel.

A painting titled ‘Indolence’ by Robert Thegerström started off at 80,000 kronor. The final price was 295,000.

Close to the back of the hall sat an elderly couple. The man kept bidding for various works with an inscrutable expression on his face while his wife sat next to him, giving him admiring glances.

A woman in an ankle-length mink bid 100,000 kronor without batting an eye and without saying a word to her husband.

Up by the podium, a silver-haired woman carefully announced the name of the artist and motif of each painting. Only once did she hesitate. ‘It says “peregrines”, but we suspect that they’re really goshawks.’ An amused murmur spread through the rows.

This is a game for the rich,
he thought as he sat there, watching the spectacle. As far removed from the daily life of ordinary people as possible.

Sometimes the crowd got too noisy, and the auctioneer had to hush them.

When the two handsome boys with the ruddy cheeks brought in a
magnificent oil painting by Anders Zorn, a respectful silence settled over the room. The opening bid was 3 million kronor. There were fewer bidders as the price skyrocketed. Everyone was attentively following the bidding. An entirely new sense of focus came over the room when the bidding went over 10 million. Finally it stopped at 12,700,000 kronor. The auctioneer announced the amount with exaggerated drama, as if relishing every syllable. Before he let the gavel fall, he paused with his hand over the table for a few extra seconds, prolonging the moment and giving the interested competitors one last chance. When the gavel finally fell, everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

This is pure bullshit,
he thought.

He got up and left; he couldn’t bear to wait any longer. The man he was looking for had never turned up. Something must have gone wrong.

K
arin Jacobsson arrived at Waldemarsudde, accompanied by Kurt Fogestam from the Stockholm police. In the meantime, Kihlgård was taking care of the interviews with Sixten Dahl and Hugo Malmberg.

They started by walking around the cordoned-off park area surrounding the museum building. The garden was completely covered with snow, and the water outside had frozen over. It was exquisitely beautiful.

‘We suspect that the perpetrator got away across the ice,’ said Fogestam.

He and Jacobsson had met several times before when she had visited police headquarters in Stockholm.

‘I know. But aren’t there boats that go through here even in the winter?’

‘Yes, but it has been exceedingly cold this year, so there’s ice all along the Djurgården shore, and it extends out for several yards. Closest to shore, the ice is four inches thick and solid enough to walk or skate on. And for a change, it’s unusually smooth. We think he made his getaway on long-distance skates.’

‘An art thief who comes in the middle of the night to steal a famous painting from a museum, and then takes off wearing long-distance skates. It sounds like pure James Bond.’

Kurt Fogestam laughed. ‘I suppose it does. But that’s how he did it.’

The inspector led the way down the steep steps to the rocks at the icy shore. He stopped and pointed. ‘This is where he came ashore. He left the same way.’

‘How far were you able to follow his tracks?’

‘We got here ten minutes after the alarms went off, but it took another fifteen or twenty minutes before the dogs arrived. And unfortunately that cost us a lot. They were only able to track him down to this spot. Nothing after that. And it’s impossible to see the marks of his skates because there’s hardly any snow on the ice.’

‘How did he get inside the building?’

‘This guy knew what he was doing. He entered through the ventilation shaft at the back and climbed down so that he landed in the hallway. After that he didn’t care about the alarm sounding; he just took what he came for and got out.’

‘A real cool customer,’ said Jacobsson. ‘And speaking of cool, it’s freezing out here. Shall we go inside?’

In the entrance they found the museum director, Per-Erik Sommer, who insisted on offering them coffee so the two frozen police officers could thaw out a bit first. He was a tall, vigorous-looking man with kind eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

They sat down in the café, which was located in what had once been the prince’s kitchen. Coffee and warm apple cake with vanilla sauce was served. It tasted delicious after their cold walk outdoors.

Kurt Fogestam had explained to Jacobsson that he was simply there to keep her company. The Stockholm police had already interviewed Sommer, so now it was Jacobsson’s turn to ask any other questions that she wanted answered.

‘This is so terrible, just terrible,’ said Sommer with a sigh as he stirred his coffee. ‘We’ve never had a burglary here before. Well, not from inside the building,’ he quickly corrected himself. ‘Several sculptures have been stolen from the garden, and that was serious enough. But this … this is a whole different matter. The alarm system was on, but what good did it do? The police didn’t get here in time.’

‘Do you have security cameras?’

‘In a few places, but unfortunately we didn’t get any pictures of the thief.’

‘How many people work here?’

‘Let me see now …’ The museum director mumbled to himself,
counting on his fingers. ‘There are nine full-time employees, if you count taking care of the grounds and building maintenance. We have our own gardener and caretaker. There are also a number of temporary staff that we bring in now and then.’

‘How many altogether?’

‘Hmm … probably ten or fifteen, I’d think.’

‘Do any of them have ties to Gotland?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Did you or anyone else here know Egon Wallin?’

‘I didn’t, but I can’t speak for the others. Although I think I would have heard about it if they did, considering the horrible thing that happened to him.’

‘Have you ever had any sort of collaboration with his gallery in Visby?’

‘Not since I’ve been the director here.’

‘Do you know if anyone has been in contact with Muramaris, the gallery in Visby, or any other enterprise on Gotland?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Jacobsson turned to Fogestam. ‘Have you interviewed all the staff?’

‘The interviews are still being conducted. I don’t think they’re finished yet.’

‘I’d like a list of the employees.’

‘Of course. I’ll take care of it. But there are no indications that this was an inside job.’

‘The thief was very familiar with the site,’ Jacobsson pointed out.

‘Yes, but the blueprints of the building are available to anybody who bothers to look for them.’

‘By the way, what else is on display in the current exhibition?’ she asked Sommer.

‘Swedish art from the early 1900s to 1930s. And of course we have paintings from the prince’s personal collection. Some of them are on permanent display and are never moved. Many of the works of art are much more valuable than the Dardel painting. We have works by Liljefors and Munch that could raise a significantly higher price than
“The Dying Dandy”. Why was that the only painting that the thieves took? It’s incomprehensible.’