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 Djurgarden.
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 Varmland 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?’
43
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.’
