Erik saw his parents only once after his divorce, when Emelie turned five. Sitting at the table to celebrate his daughter’s birthday, Erik saw the pain and disappointment in his father’s eyes, and that upset him. A feeling of sorrow and deceit hovered over the party, despite all the balloons, day-care friends, gifts and plates of cake. Erik had been forced to go out on the balcony to get some air.
Even though Lydia felt deeply disappointed in Erik after the divorce, she still understood him better than anyone else ever had. He had told her about his miserable childhood, about the complicated relationship he had with his mother, and how he’d become aware of his homosexuality. Lydia accepted him as he was, and after all the agitation connected with the divorce had faded, they were able to remain friends. He thought that Lydia realized he’d tried to do the best he could. They decided that the children should live with her, since they were still so young, but they would stay with their father every other weekend.
This arrangement worked well for six months. Erik did his job in an exemplary fashion and remained sober on the days when he had the children. His parents continued to deposit a sizeable sum into his bank account every month, although his mother made it clear that the money was for her grandchildren and not for him.
Then one Saturday after Erik had picked up the children from Lydia’s house, an old boyfriend of his turned up and stayed for dinner. After the children went to bed, the former lover started getting friendly, and they had sex. Then they began drinking some of the excellent whisky that he’d brought along. And, as usual, once Erik started he couldn’t stop.
The next day he woke up on the living-room sofa around noon when the doorbell wouldn’t stop ringing. It was Lydia. She came storming into the flat and found the three children sitting in the bedroom in front of the TV, munching on crisps, cake and raw spaghetti.
They were all supposed to have gone to Skansen amusement park that Sunday. That was the last weekend that Erik was allowed to have the children to stay with him, and his parents stopped the monthly payments.
He hadn’t seen his parents since.
By chance he once caught sight of his mother in the hat section of the NK department store. For a long time he stood behind a pillar and watched her laugh as she tried on hats along with a woman friend of hers. He couldn’t understand how this person he was looking at could be his mother. That she could have carried him inside her body, given birth to him, and nursed him when he was a baby. It was incomprehensible. Just as difficult to understand was the fact that she had once chosen to have children at all.
42
The night was black and cold. When he turned his car on to Valhallavagen, he didn’t see a soul around. The temperature was minus 12 °C. He pulled into an empty parking slot outside the 7-Eleven, almost all the way down to the open space at Gardet. It was far enough away that his car wouldn’t be immediately linked to the crime scene if anyone, contrary to all expectations, happened to notice him parking here.
The backpack stored in the boot was lightweight and well packed. He fastened the sling with the cardboard tube to his shoulder so he’d be able to move his arms freely. He headed quickly across the street, choosing a path along the edge of the fields of Gardet so as to avoid being seen.
At the Kallhagen Hotel and restaurant, he cut across the car park and continued down the slope towards the Djurgardsbrunn canal. A short distance away he saw that the magnificent white facade of the Maritime History Museum was illuminated, as always at night. The area around him was quiet and deserted. He could just make out the rocks of Skansen’s hill on the other side, outlined against the dark night sky. Further off in the distance he glimpsed the lights of the city. The centre of town seemed so far away, even though he was only a couple of kilometres from the main shopping district.
Down at the dock he put on his skates. The thin layer of snow covering the ice had now been blown away, making it easier to skate. Several times over the past few days he had tested the ice along this stretch; he knew it would hold if he stayed close to shore.
It was extremely unusual for anyone to take this route on skates. Normally the ice was either too thin and uneven, or the snow cover was too thick. But right now it was possible, and the means of transportation that he’d chosen was perfect. No one would see or hear him coming.
The ice crackled and whistled under his feet as he set off. First he had to make his way along the canal. He skated at a good speed and then rounded the point of Biskopsudden out near the Thiel Gallery. There the ice opened up in front of him like an expanse of polished floor. He hoped that it would hold. Further out in the waterway, near the sea approach to Stockholm, a channel had been broken in the ice so that boats could pass through in the wintertime.
At the Waldemarsudde dock everything was dark. He skated past and didn’t stop until he was right below the castle. It was pitch dark, and his fingers were stiff with cold. Quickly he took off his skates, leaving them on the ice. He picked up his backpack and crept up towards the building, which stood on a hill in solitary majesty. Fortunately there were no other buildings nearby; the closest neighbour’s house couldn’t be seen from the sea.
There were no lights on in the building. He was dressed in dark clothes with a knitted cap on his head. He had all the necessary tools in his backpack. Nothing was going to stop him now.
Climbing up the fire escape at the back of the building, he reached a small landing and then continued up to the part of the roof facing the sea. That’s where he knew he would find a hatch to a ventilation shaft. In old blueprints of Waldemarsudde, he’d seen that the ventilation shaft led straight down to a storage room near the stairwell.
He opened the hatch and went in, wriggling down through the narrow duct by pressing his elbows and knees against the walls. It took only a minute for him to reach the grating, which he quickly unscrewed. He was inside.
He found himself in a cramped, dark space with no windows. The light of his torch helped him to find the door. For a brief moment he stood still, hesitating, with his fingers gripping the door handle.
The instant he opened the door, it was highly likely that the alarm would go off, and he prepared himself mentally for the racket. Then the question was how long it would take before the police made it out to Waldemarsudde. Since the museum was located at the very end of Djurgarden, he figured it would take at least ten minutes. Unless a patrol car just happened to be in the vicinity, but that would be the ultimate bad luck. He had calculated that the operation would take six or seven minutes, which gave him a certain margin. Very slowly he pressed down the handle and opened the door.
The sound was deafening, screaming from every direction. His eardrums felt as if they would burst as he raced across the floor, through the dark rooms, and over to the salon where the painting he wanted hung on the wall. Moonlight was shining through the tall windows, making it easier for him to find his way.
The painting was bigger than he remembered, and the scene looked ghostlike in the dim light. He steeled himself to maintain his focus, even though the noise was driving him crazy. From his backpack he took out a collapsible ladder. It teetered a bit as he climbed up, and for a second he was afraid that it would topple over.
The painting was so big that the only solution was to cut the canvas out of the frame. He stuck his upholstery knife in one corner and drew it along the edge as carefully as he could. He finished the top without mishap and continued around the canvas until it fell to the floor. Swiftly he rolled up the painting and stuffed it into the cardboard tube. It fitted in perfectly.