The Killer's Art (21 page)

The director needed to sit down, but the police officer stopped him from doing so, as he might disturb possible evidence. Sommer felt numb with shock, but he turned away to see if anything else had been stolen.

That was when he discovered an object that he hadn’t noticed at first.

On a table in front of the missing painting stood a small sculpture. It did not belong in Prince Eugen’s home. Sommer didn’t recognize it at all. Slowly he leaned forward to get a better look.

‘What is it?’ asked Kurt Fogestam.

‘This isn’t part of the collection,’ said Sommer.

He reached out his hand to pick it up, but the inspector stopped him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This statue doesn’t belong to the museum. The thief must have put it here.’

They both stared in surprise at the little statue that had been carved from stone. It was a nude bust with a long neck; the head was turned to the side and tipped back slightly. The facial features had been carved with simplicity; the eyes were closed, the lips pressed together, the expression one of melancholy or yearning. It was hard to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Its androgynous image actually seemed well suited to the motif of the stolen painting.

‘What in the world does this mean?’

Per-Erik Sommer could only gawk with astonishment. It was one thing for thieves to steal something, but he’d never heard of a thief leaving behind a work of art at the scene of the crime.

W
hen Johan arrived at the Stockholm editorial offices of Regional News, he found his boss Max Grenfors in a frenzied state. He was sitting at his desk with his hair sticking out in all directions, his shirt wrinkled, and a wild look in his eyes. He held a phone to each ear and had a pen gripped between his teeth, and there were four half-empty coffee mugs in front of him – all signs that he was totally swamped. The fact that half of the reporters were off sick just as a big news story was breaking was a nightmare for the editor-in-chief. The bold theft at Waldemarsudde was going to dominate the broadcast. It was clear even from a distance that the situation was straining Grenfors’ nerves. His haggard face lit up when he caught sight of Johan.

‘Great that you’re here,’ he shouted, even though he was in the middle of two different conversations. ‘You need to get out there right away. Emil is waiting for you.’

Emil Jansson was a young, ambitious cameraman who worked mostly in hotspots like the Gaza Strip and Iraq. He gave Johan a friendly handshake, and then they hurried downstairs to his car in the SVT garage. It took them only five minutes to get out to Waldemarsudde. The headquarters of Swedish TV was just down the road from the bridge to Djurgården.

The police had blocked off the entire park surrounding the castle, the gallery and the old house. The grounds were still being searched. Johan got hold of a police officer who was willing to be interviewed. The conversation he’d had with the officer in charge during the brief car ride
to the museum had produced nothing that Johan didn’t already know.

It was a good backdrop for the interview, showing the police tape cordoning off the castle and officers walking around with police dogs.

‘So what happened here?’ Johan began. The simplest question was often the most effective.

‘At 2:10 a.m. we were alerted that the museum had been broken into. A painting had been stolen,’ said the policeman. ‘It was a painting that happened to be on loan. “The Dying Dandy” by the artist Nils Dardel.’

‘How did the thieves manage to do it?’

‘Or thief,’ the officer corrected him. ‘Although clearly it would be difficult to carry out this type of crime alone. There were probably at least two individuals involved.’

He turned to glance towards the museum building. Emil kept his camera fixed on the man. For a moment it almost seemed as if the officer was unaware that he was taking part in a filmed interview. He was behaving in an unusually natural manner and seemed genuinely distressed about what had happened. Johan also had the impression that he was actually interested in art.

‘How did they get in?’

‘Apparently through a ventilation duct at the back of the main building.’ He motioned with his head in that direction.

‘Aren’t there any security alarms?’

‘Of course there are, but the thieves just let the alarms go off, took what they’d come for, and then disappeared.’

‘Sounds like they had nerves of steel.’

‘Yes, it does. But since the museum is in an isolated location, it takes time for the police to get here.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘They say it was about ten minutes. And that’s rather a long time. Enough for a thief to make off with what he wanted and disappear. Which is precisely what happened.’

Johan felt his cheeks burning. It was extremely unusual for a police officer to criticize his own colleagues.

‘How long would be reasonable, in your opinion?’

‘I think it should be possible to get here in five minutes. If the alarms go off, it’s obviously an emergency.’

Johan was caught off guard by the officer’s candour.
This guy must be a real beginner,
he thought as he studied the young officer. He was probably no more than twenty-five, and he spoke with a strong Värmland accent.
He’s going to catch hell for this,
thought Johan,
but who cares? It’s to our advantage that the guy’s so clueless.

‘So how did they do it? If I remember correctly, that painting is really big.’

Johan was very familiar with Dardel’s painting. He’d seen it several times when his mother had dragged him along to the Museum of Modern Art in some of her countless attempts to interest him in culture.

‘The thief or thieves cut the canvas out of the frame.’

‘And nothing else is missing?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘But doesn’t that seem strange? Shouldn’t the thieves have taken other paintings? I assume that there are many valuable works of art inside.’

‘Yes, it does seem odd. But evidently that was the only painting they were interested in.’

‘Do you think it was a contract job?’

‘There seem to be clear indications pointing in that direction.’

The young officer now started to look nervous, as if he realized that he’d said too much.

The next second an older officer in uniform came over and pulled his colleague away from the camera. ‘What’s going on here? The police never give interviews in this kind of situation. You’re going to have to wait for the press conference this afternoon.’

Johan recognized the man as the newly appointed spokesman for the county police force.

The young policeman looked scared out of his wits and quickly took his leave, along with his older colleague.

Johan glanced at Emil, who had let the camera roll. ‘Did you get all that?’

O
n Monday morning Knutas had a phone conversation with the Stockholm police. It was his old friend and colleague Kurt Fogestam who rang. They’d met at a conference shortly after they’d both joined the force, and their friendship had remained strong ever since. They always tried to meet whenever Knutas was in Stockholm. Since both of them were devoted AIK fans, they usually went to a match together during the football season. Afterwards they would go to a pub for malt whisky, their favourite drink. Kurt had also come to Gotland a few times.

‘Hi,’ said Knutas happily. ‘It’s been a while. How are things?’

‘Can’t complain,’ replied Kurt Fogestam. ‘Thanks for asking. But right now I’m ringing because I’ve got news that seems to have something to do with the case you’re working on.’

‘Is that right?’ said Knutas, suddenly alert. New information was exactly what they needed at the moment.

‘Someone broke into Waldemarsudde during the night, and a very valuable painting was stolen. It’s “The Dying Dandy” by Nils Dardel. Do you know it?’

‘ “The Dying Dandy”,’ Knutas repeated. In his mind’s eye he saw a vague image of a pale, recumbent young man with his eyes closed. ‘Well, sort of,’ he replied. ‘But what does the theft have to do with my investigation?’

‘The thief cut the canvas out of the frame. It’s an enormous painting, you know.’

‘Is that so?’

Knutas still didn’t know where his colleague was going with this account.

‘But he happened to leave something behind. A little sculpture that he set on a table right in front of the empty frame. We checked up on it this morning. It’s the same sculpture that was stolen from the gallery in Visby owned by the murdered man. Egon Wallin.’

H
ugo Malmberg woke early on Monday morning. He got up, went into the bathroom and splashed water over his face and torso. Then he went back to bed. His two American cocker spaniels, Elvis and Marilyn, were asleep in their basket and didn’t seem to notice that he was awake. He absent-mindedly studied the detailed stucco work on the ceiling. He was in no hurry – he didn’t have to be at the gallery until just before ten. He always took his dogs with him to work, so they were used to having their morning walk on the way there. Hugo let his gaze slide over the brocade of the canopy bed, the dark tapestries of red and gold, the ostentatious mirror on the opposite wall. Amused, he reached for the remote control to have a look at the morning news.

A bold robbery had taken place in the early hours at Waldemarsudde. The famous painting ‘The Dying Dandy’ had been stolen. It was incomprehensible. A journalist was filing a live report from the scene at the museum. In the background Hugo caught a glimpse of the police and the blue-and-white tape cordoning off the area.

He made himself a breakfast of Eggs Benedict and a pot of strong coffee as he listened to the news on both the radio and TV. An incredibly brazen theft. The police suspected that the thief had made his getaway on skates.

He was late leaving. The fresh air felt exhilarating as he opened the door to the street. John Ericssonsgatan linked Hantverkargatan to the exclusive shoreline boulevard of Norr Mälarstrand, which ran from Rålambshov Park all the way to City Hall. Malmberg owned a corner flat with a view of both the water and the beautiful boulevard with
its trees, wide pavements, and lawns in the courtyard of every building.

There was a thick layer of ice on the water, but he still chose to take the route along the quay where the old boats were lined up even in the wintertime. When he glanced over towards Västerbron, he recalled the man he’d seen on the bridge on Friday night. What a strange experience that had been.

He turned his back to the bridge and briskly continued on, passing the proud City Hall, designed in the National Romantic style and built near the shore of Kungsholmen from 1911 to 1923. In his opinion, that had been the most exciting period in the history of Swedish art. His dogs were frolicking in the snow. For their sake he cut across the ice towards Gamla Stan. They loved to race over the open expanses created by the ice.

Several times that day Malmberg thought he caught sight of the man from Västerbron. Once a young guy happened to stop outside the gallery. He wore a down jacket and the same type of cap. The next second he was gone. Was that the same man who had followed him on Friday night? Malmberg brushed the thought aside. He was probably just imagining things. Maybe he was subconsciously hoping to meet the handsome man with the intense gaze again. It was possible that the youth had, in fact, been interested in Hugo, but then changed his mind.

Just before lunch, Hugo Malmberg received a phone call. The gallery was deserted at the time. When he picked up the receiver, there seemed to be nobody on the line.

‘Hello?’ he repeated, but got no response.

‘Who is this?’ he tried again, as he stared out at the street.

Silence.

All he heard was the sound of someone breathing.

T
here was an air of tension when the investigative team gathered for their meeting on Monday afternoon. Everyone had heard about the Gotland sculpture that was left at Waldemarsudde, and they were all eager to hear more. Even Kihlgård was silent as he fixed his eyes on Knutas taking his seat at the head of the table.

‘All right now, listen to this,’ Knutas began. ‘This case just seems to get more and more mysterious. Apparently there’s a connection between the murder and the theft that took place at Waldemarsudde in the middle of the night.’

He told them what Kurt Fogestam had reported.

‘Plus we have the stolen paintings found in Egon Wallin’s home,’ said Jacobsson. ‘So there must be some sort of link. Is there some disgruntled gangster who had dealings with the victim? Maybe Wallin neglected to pay him, so the guy ended up killing him. And now for some reason he wants to talk about it, so to speak.’

‘What else could it be? It’s obvious that this has something to do with stolen artworks,’ said Wittberg.

‘But why did the thief take only one painting?’ Kihlgård looked at his colleagues. ‘If this has to do with art thieves who are willing to take the risk to carry out a coup against one of Sweden’s most well-protected museums, why then steal only one painting? And not even the most valuable one. I can’t figure it out,’ he said as he unwrapped a chocolate cake he’d brought along.

No one said a word.

‘We actually know nothing about what Egon Wallin was doing with
those stolen paintings,’ Jacobsson then said. ‘How extensive was his involvement? And how long had it been going on? None of the interviews done here on Gotland has proved productive, and he seems to have been totally unknown among the art thieves and fences in Stockholm. Good Lord, surely we should be able to flush out at least one person who knows something about his shady art dealings. Those paintings hidden in his house weren’t just trifles.’

‘We should actually be glad that Waldemarsudde was burgled,’ said Norrby tersely. ‘At least we have something new to investigate, and we really needed that.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Knutas, rubbing his chin. ‘But why would the thief make such a point of linking the two crimes? I just don’t understand it.’

No one had any response to that.

‘Another question is why he chose to take “The Dying Dandy”. He made no attempt to hide the purpose of his actions by stealing at least one other painting.’