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 Goteborg… Going, going, gone.’ And then finally the little crack of the gavel.
A painting titled ‘Indolence’ by Robert Thegerstrom 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.
47
Karin Jacobsson arrived at Waldemarsudde, accompanied by Kurt Fogestam from the Stockholm police. In the meantime, Kihlgard 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 Djurgarden 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.’
‘A real cool customer,’ said Jacobsson. ‘And speaking of cool, it’s freezing out here. Shall we go inside?’
In the entrance they found the museum director, Per-Erik Sommer, who insisted on offering them coffee so the two frozen police officers could thaw out a bit first. He was a tall, vigorous-looking man with kind eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
They sat down in the cafe, which was located in what had once been the prince’s kitchen. Coffee and warm apple cake with vanilla sauce was served. It tasted delicious after their cold walk outdoors.
Kurt Fogestam had explained to Jacobsson that he was simply there to keep her company. The Stockholm police had already interviewed Sommer, so now it was Jacobsson’s turn to ask any other questions that she wanted answered.
‘This is so terrible, just terrible,’ said Sommer with a sigh as he stirred his coffee. ‘We’ve never had a burglary here before. Well, not from inside the building,’ he quickly corrected himself. ‘Several sculptures have been stolen from the garden, and that was serious enough. But this… this is a whole different matter. The alarm system was on, but what good did it do? The police didn’t get here in time.’
‘Do you have security cameras?’
‘In a few places, but unfortunately we didn’t get any pictures of the thief.’
‘How many people work here?’
‘Let me see now…’ The museum director mumbled to himself, counting on his fingers. ‘There are nine full-time employees, if you count taking care of the grounds and building maintenance. We have our own gardener and caretaker. There are also a number of temporary staff that we bring in now and then.’
‘How many altogether?’
‘Hmm… probably ten or fifteen, I’d think.’
‘Do any of them have ties to Gotland?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Did you or anyone else here know Egon Wallin?’
‘I didn’t, but I can’t speak for the others. Although I think I would have heard about it if they did, considering the horrible thing that happened to him.’