The Little Old Lady Who Broke All the Rules (28 page)

‘The mission has been accomplished,’ she said.

‘Accomplished? Are you quite sure about that?’ said Christina. ‘We forgot the baby doll.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Martha. Despite this serious mistake, she started laughing. ‘Paintings worth thirty million—and then we forget a doll with a hat on. You can’t say that life isn’t full of surprises.’

When they arrived at Bromma, they went for a walk inside the terminal and the departure hall and made sure people noticed them before they took the bus back into the city. Once there, they gave Malin back to Emma, after which they returned to Diamond House. Brains and Rake helped them off with their coats, and Anna-Greta was in such high spirits that she didn’t even bother with her record player. Instead, she laid the table in her room with tea and biscuits for them to have a celebration. They each helped themselves to a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa.

‘Well?’ Anna-Greta inquired, polishing her glasses and holding them up against the light. She had bought new, modern frames which suited her perfectly and didn’t slide down her nose.

After a few gulps of tea, Martha and Christina started to retell what had happened. When they came to the part where the stroller collapsed, Anna-Greta wrinkled her face in delight and chuckled in a completely new manner, which made the
others look at each other nervously. But when Martha mentioned the baby doll they had left behind, Anna-Greta let out her usual neigh of laughter and they were all most relieved. Anna-Greta had just been tired, so the horsey neigh had taken a bit longer to materialize.

‘That “Best in Test” is evidently not very reliable,’ she said at the end, when she had more or less pulled herself together.

‘In the old days, you had shops with knowledgeable staff who could answer questions,’ said Martha. ‘Now everything is sold on the Internet and anybody at all who doesn’t know a thing can give their opinion. “Best in Test”? Of two strollers which collapsed, this one collapsed the least, perhaps?’

‘But society develops. The Internet is here to stay,’ declared Rake.

‘Just because society develops, it doesn’t mean it gets better,’ said Martha. ‘Not always.’

‘You and your philosophizing,’ he muttered.

Silence reigned a while, and they all occupied themselves with their teacups. Christina made a bit of extra clatter with hers, and finally put the cup down.

‘You know what? I think we have missed something again,’ she said.

They all listened carefully—when Christina used that special tone, she usually had something important to say.

‘Missed what?’ Brains asked.

‘Why all this sneaking around with the paintings? Martha, you said in the police interrogation that we only wanted to kidnap the paintings and then give them back again as soon as we got the ransom money.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Martha replied.

‘Well, then. There was no need at all for us to complicate things. We could have taken the paintings under our arms and walked in with them—and avoided all the hassle with the baby doll and everything. It is not a crime to give something back. The false trail out at Bromma airport was completely unneccessary.’ Christina gave a light snort, which developed into several sneezes. She had sat in a draught and caught a cold again. ‘It was totally pointless to do all that,’ she concluded, pulling out her hanky and blowing her nose.

Martha looked down at the table and her face had turned bright red. Brains held his hands on his stomach and Rake hummed to himself. It was Anna-Greta who broke the silence.

‘But for goodness’ sake! When you are old, you make mistakes sometimes. It doesn’t matter, does it?’

‘For future crimes we need young and strong people who can think straight,’ said Christina. ‘Like Anders and Emma, for example. If you can’t manage everything yourself, you need help, and we’re not getting any younger.’

‘Pah, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with our pace,’ said Anna-Greta. ‘And haven’t we had fun? Surely that’s the most important thing? Nobody and nothing came to harm—except that wretched stroller, of course.’

At the word ‘stroller’ she couldn’t control herself any longer, and gave a happier and louder laugh than ever before. At that moment, Martha wanted to give her a big hug, because on the way out to the airport she herself had realized that she had been wrong again. She needn’t have sneaked around with the paintings at all. She hadn’t dared say anything then, and had hoped nobody else would realize
it. Now she consoled herself with the fact that the visit to Bromma airport had been useful as regards research. She had got a good look at the check-in counter as well as the security control. That was something that would certainly be of use for future crimes.

The shrill ring of the telephone cut through the room and Chief Inspector Petterson glared at the apparatus. He had been talking on the phone all day long and didn’t want to take yet another call. Besides, he hated the ringing tone. It sounded like the Norwegian national anthem and he had become fed up with that after the last skiing world championship. Petterson lifted the receiver.

‘What! Paintings found in the elevator? A large gilded frame, two paintings, you think they are Renoir and Mon—no, no, don’t touch anything … no, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, I forbid it! We’ll come at once!’

Chief Inspector Petterson gasped. Could it really be true? He had been convinced that the paintings had been sold on the international market long ago. The woman on the phone had sounded quite certain. Best to hurry. He grabbed Inspector Strömbeck and together they drove at high speed to the National Museum. They parked on the quay beside the Cadier bar outside the Grand Hotel, and just as Petterson closed the car door, he saw a banknote on the pavement. He
bent down and picked up a five-hundred-kronor note, but when he looked around he couldn’t see anyone nearby.

‘Who the hell scatters five-hundred-kronor notes around?’ he muttered, putting it into his jacket pocket.

In the museum lobby they were met by a uniformed guard. He showed them to the elevator, the same elevator that had been out of order the last time they had been there. Now instead of
out of order
a sign on the door said simply
closed.
A group of pensioners who had booked a guided tour of the ‘Sins and Desires’ exhibit were standing in a circle outside the elevator doors.

‘We demand that you start the elevator immediately. How are we going to get upstairs otherwise? Do you expect us to fly?’ an elderly lady complained as soon as she caught sight of the guard.

‘Or do you intend to carry us up the stairs?’ a grumpy-looking man joined in.

‘Take it easy, take it easy,’ Chief Inspector Petterson urged them and pushed his way through to the elevator. ‘We are police. I’m afraid you must wait a little.’

‘The police?’ A distinguished-looking woman wearing an elegant suit held out her hand.

‘I am the director of the museum,’ she said.

‘Chief Inspector Petterson.’

‘The paintings are in here.’ The director pressed the button to open the elevator doors. An unpleasant smell spread through the lobby.

‘Is this some sort of joke? The remains of a stroller—and what is that? Good God, a baby doll with a little pink bonnet.’

‘No, can’t you see the paintings? You said that I was
absolutely forbidden to touch anything so I haven’t taken the paper off, but I recognize the frames,’ the director said, pointing.

‘Oh well, in that case.’ Chief Inspector Petterson bent down and with feverish eagerness put his hands into the stroller.

‘Be careful, the stroller can pinch your fingers,’ Strömbeck warned him.

Petterson stopped, but only for a moment. He had worked so long on this case that he couldn’t restrain himself.

‘It would be fantastic if the art robbery could finally be solved,’ he said, digging deeper in the innards of the stroller. ‘What the hell?!’ Swearing, he took a step back, pulled out the dirty diaper and threw it onto the floor.

‘I am so terribly sorry, chief inspector, but the p-p-paintings—’ the director stuttered.

With fast, jerky movements, Petterson wiped his hands on his pants and continued somewhat more cautiously. Only the gilded frame stuck out, and he pulled out his penknife.

He ripped off a large piece of the paper and threw it on the floor. At that moment he heard a gasp and saw the director cover her face with her hands.

‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed.

Chief Inspector Petterson pulled off the rest of the paper and took a step back. He recognized the painting and had seen it many times. In the fancy gilded frame was the well-known motif of a little girl in tears, the painting that almost every Swede had a copy of hanging in the outhouse at their summer cottage. Without a word, Chief Inspector Petterson put the painting down on the floor and started on the other one. This
time he wasn’t so careful. He made some quick slits in the paper and then ripped it off.

‘I might have known!’

The painting depicted a skipper with a sou’ wester and a pipe.

‘Kitsch!’ the director gasped.

‘So you don’t think the police have more important things to do?’ said Petterson, his voice rising to a falsetto. ‘Not to mention this.’ He held up the baby doll and sat it astride the frame so roughly that the little pink hat fell off.

‘If only I’d known, I really am sorry,’ said the director as her cheeks turned bright red. Then a guffaw was heard. Inspector Strömbeck had been standing on the side and had filmed the whole incident. Now he couldn’t restrain himself any longer.

‘For the investigation,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’ll put this on the net.’

‘Like hell you will! Just think, if that got into the papers …’

‘Yeah, right. “Police tricked. The League of Pensioners has struck again.”’ Strömbeck burst out laughing.

‘Stop it!’ yelled Petterson. He stood there in silence for a few moments. ‘Do you remember? Martha Andersson said that she had wanted to give the paintings back to the museum, but they had been stolen from the suite at the Grand Hotel. So how do we explain this? Now we’ve got the frames but not the paintings.’

‘We will have to look to see who came here with the stroller. We do have the film from the surveillance cameras, after all.’

‘What? CCTV images? No, not again!’ Petterson groaned.

‘Now listen, I know what we can do,’ said Strömbeck, now in a serious voice. ‘We’ll send out a press release saying that we have found the paintings. Then the real villains will be uncertain. We’ll lure them out into the open, quite simply. That can give us some leads.’

‘That sounds too far-fetched. What if the press want to look at the paintings?’

‘Then we’ll say that they can but they will have to wait, since the paintings are being examined.’

‘What shall we do with these, then?’ Petterson wondered, pointing at the painting of the girl in tears. Strömbeck managed a wide smile.

‘Yard sale?’

‘No, there could be some valuable DNA here,’ said Petterson.

‘That’s just what I said,’ the museum director pointed out. ‘In that case, we can store the paintings in the museum warehouse for the time being.’

‘Don’t forget the stroller,’ said Strömbeck. ‘What an installation!
A Frozen Moment
by … yes, whoever the artist is.’

‘This isn’t the Modern Museum. At the National Museum we only have proper paintings,’ the director said sharply.

‘Yes, we understand,’ said Chief Inspector Petterson. ‘Regardless, we have made no progress in the investigation. The paintings are still missing and—’

‘Yes, exactly, the paintings are still missing and a lot can happen yet,’ Strömbeck noted.

Liza scratched her itchy scalp and shook out her hair. She stared at herself in the mirror and swore. Why should she bother combing her hair? She was back at Hinseberg again. No wonder she was in a lousy mood. She hadn’t enjoyed many days of freedom before the police nicked her again. Just because she had tried to snatch that old guy’s wallet. OK, she had faked that signature at the jeweller’s and got away with some jewels too—but not very many. It was when she took that guy’s wallet that she was caught. Jeeesus, so embarrassing. To get nicked for a few hundred kronor, when she had set her sights on millions—it was a disaster! If only she had had time to look for the paintings a little longer, she probably would have found them. That heavy kitschy gilded frame around one of the royal pictures wasn’t just any old frame, and sooner or later she would have got Petra to squeal. That girl must be involved—who else could it be? Liza was dead certain that it was an inside job.

She had intended to visit the student residences at Frescati again, but the police arrested her first. Clumsy of her to mess things up like that. Oh well, she would have to wait for her next temporary release or quite simply abscond in some way. If she couldn’t find anything at Petra’s, then she would put the pressure on Martha. The old cow was back at the retirement home so it would be easy to find her. Martha certainly knew more about the paintings than she had let on and that ten million in ransom money that the museum had forked out was hardly something you mislaid! Liza went into the communal room to fix a cup of coffee when she saw one of the guards
wave to her from behind the glass. He opened the door and came up to her.

‘Well now, there’s something I wanted to ask,’ said the guard.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Do you remember Martha Andersson?’

‘Who could forget that old gal?’

‘Did you ever talk to her about the painting theft?’

Liza didn’t answer. The guard tried again.

‘She admitted to committing the robbery but then claimed that the paintings had been stolen. Do you know if she suspected anybody in particular?’

Liza pretended not to have heard the question.

‘Anyhow, now the paintings are back at the museum. But nobody knows where they have been and why they have been returned just now.’

‘Then you’ll have to find out, won’t you?’ said Liza.

‘I just thought that you might know something about it.’

‘I don’t give a toss about all that,’ said Liza and she went off. Then she started swearing and clenched her fists tightly. So the paintings were back! Her idea of getting her hands on them and blackmailing Martha for a million or so was ruined. For the rest of the day, Liza worked in the screen-printing workshop, but everything went wrong there too. She wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing and by mistake she printed all the slogans on the inside of the T-shirts.

Petra turned the TV off, opened the fridge and poured out a glass of wine. Her exams were over for the time being and she
wondered what she would do during the weekend. She had broken up with her boyfriend again, and this time it was for good. Strangely, she didn’t feel sorry but rather relieved. At last they had set things straight. She didn’t feel lonely either and several other guys had already expressed an interest in her. She just couldn’t make up her mind which one to go out with. On her way to the sofa she cast a glance at the posters of Stockholm. They hung in the same place she had hung the museum paintings, and now, looking back, it was hard to believe that she had had works of art worth thirty million hanging there—paintings that she had very nearly destroyed. It could all have ended up a real mess that evening when she had spilt her bilberry juice over the pictures. She had been on her way from the kitchen to the sofa when she had tripped and the contents of her glass had splashed onto the wall. A lot of it had ended up on the paintings. The King’s fancy grey uniform had turned all blue-spotty, and Queen Silvia had acquired a sticky covering of lilac blue just where she had had a facelift. Thank God that the posters had absorbed most of the bilberry liquid and it hadn’t damaged the works of art behind them, but the royal portraits had got all buckled and were likely to fall out of the frames. Not only had she had a mysterious visit from someone claiming to be her cousin, but she had also almost destroyed some art treasures. It was high time she got rid of the paintings before something serious happened.

That same evening she had sat down and written her note to the League of Pensioners. She assumed that they still had money left from the art theft and that one hundred thousand as a ‘reward’ was a fair amount to demand. Not too little and not too much, but perfectly reasonable. To demand more
would have felt dishonest. Admittedly, she had considered asking for half a million, but that would have made her a proper criminal, she reasoned. This felt more like compensation for her work, and surely she deserved something for having rescued the paintings from the annex? Now she could live and eat for the rest of term without thinking about money, and she could even afford some new clothes and holidays too. She didn’t ask for much from life.

She couldn’t leave the masterpieces covered by the royal posters which were now damaged with the bilberry stains. The solution was to be found in the antique and bric-a-brac fair that was held in Kista and which she had visited just two days later. There she had caught sight of a painting of the girl in tears and the skipper with his sou’ wester and pipe—and that was that. Once she was home again, all she had had to do was to trim the edges of the newly purchased paintings so that they would cover the real paintings and fit inside the frames. What a commotion the kitsch art must have created at the National Museum, she thought, and even wished that she could have been there.

Petra sat on the sofa with a glass of wine, picked up the newspaper and once again read the article about the paintings. It said that the missing paintings by Renoir and Monet had been found in a stroller together with a doll. She smiled at that image and wondered why the pensioners had done that. A baby doll! It all seemed to have been cleared up, though, except that surprisingly little had been written about the case. The most important thing of all was that Petra had got her hundred thousand—and got them in five-hundred-kronor notes too. She could now use her money as she wished, and
nobody would suspect her. She raised the wine glass, closed her eyes and drank. Life immediately looked much brighter.

Chief Inspector Petterson and Inspector Strömbeck sat in front of the computer, each with a cup of coffee. The press release about the paintings having been found had been issued to the media and everybody thought the case was now solved. However, here at the police station they knew better. The paintings were still missing and every attempt at analyzing the joke with the stroller had failed. The police had been fooled yet again. Chief Inspector Petterson didn’t have much faith in the idea that the article would lure the criminals into the open, but as the situation was now, they must try everything they could. Without knowing what he was looking for, Petterson stared at the surveillance film from the entrance to the National Museum and saw how a man with a peaked cap let go of the double stroller.

‘Just look at this. He plonks the stroller down as if it was a sack of potatoes. No wonder it collapsed.’

‘But I don’t see why. It could hardly be to destroy any leads,’ said Strömbeck.

In the film images you could clearly see how the stroller juddered, landed at an angle and ended up deformed. A few seconds later, Martha Andersson and her younger friend, Christina, appeared together with two museum visitors whose faces you couldn’t see. With considerable effort they pushed the stroller into the elevator and closed the elevator doors. Then they turned round and walked towards the entrance. Judging by the images, they were very pleased with themselves. Petterson
looked at that sequence time and time again and suddenly it clicked. My God, if Martha Andersson and her friend were involved in this, then they ought to be the
real
paintings.

‘Strömbeck. I think we should make another visit to the National Museum. Believe it or not, I think the mystery has already been solved.’

‘You mean—’

‘There’s no time to talk. Come on now!’

A little while later, the two police officers stood together with the museum director down in the storage area. They stared at the crying girl and the skipper with his sou’ wester.

‘Just think, almost everybody in Sweden has these paintings on their walls,’ said Petterson as he pulled out his penknife.

‘We don’t,’ said the museum director with a grimace.

Petterson started to carefully cut into a corner of the frame and soon could make something out.

‘Now then, look here!’ he said, working the canvas frame back and forth until the crying girl was at an angle. ‘There’s a painting underneath. Look!’

‘So there is—Monet!’ the museum director whispered. ‘I can’t believe this.’

Ten minutes later, Petterson had also uncovered the Renoir painting.

‘Renoir!’ the museum director exclaimed.

‘That’s that! We have solved the case!’ said Petterson authoritatively. He straightened his back and folded his penknife. ‘Now you must make sure that you get proper alarms for the museum so that we can avoid this sort of thing in the future.’

‘Alarms are expensive. Our budget is too small,’ the museum director complained.

‘Then you will have to make sure that you are given a bigger budget,’ answered Petterson.

On their way up in the elevator, the atmosphere was oppressive, but just as the elevator doors opened, the museum director plucked up courage.

‘As for our funding, Chief Inspector, if the ransom money can be found, the ten million, I mean, then we could—’

‘The ransom money?’ Petterson came to a halt.

‘Yes, the money the museum paid to the villains with the help of the Friends of the Museum.’

Petterson held on to the door frame to steady himself. Oh, heavens above! He had completely forgotten about that ransom. The investigation could not be closed at all.

‘Of course. We are still busy working on that angle. I’ll have to get back to you,’ he mumbled and rushed off. On his way down the steps, he turned to Strömbeck.

‘Damned nuisance that the director mentioned the ransom money now. One is never allowed to be really pleased.’