‘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.’
44
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 Malarstrand, which ran from Ralambshov 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 Vasterbron, 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 Vasterbron. 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.