Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  On 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.’

  Hugo 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.

  There 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.’

  ‘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 foun
d 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?

  The 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.

  Karin 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.’