Erik hoped that the painting wasn’t stolen. He studied the customer carefully — no, he didn’t look like a criminal. Besides, the painting probably wasn’t worth anything; that was the usual situation with unsigned works. But he always liked to have a look. Every once in a while they’d find a real gem, and nobody wanted to miss out on such a possibility. The worst-case scenario was that the valuable item would then end up with their fiercest competitor, Auction Works, instead. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.
Mattson showed the customer into the cramped but elegant valuation room. It was furnished with a Gustavian table with a chair on either side; a painting by Einar Jolin hung on the wall. There was also a bookcase filled with reference works. A laptop lay on the table, so that he could quickly check the history of a work or find out about its possible creator. If it was difficult to assess the value of a work, he might have to ask a colleague for help. Sometimes a painting would be kept for a few days if a more extensive examination was required. It was exciting work, and Erik Mattson loved it.
Together they placed the painting on the table, and Erik felt a familiar sense of anticipation fill his chest. This was one of the golden moments of his job: when he stood next to a customer he had never met before, with a painting that had been described to him, but that he hadn’t actually seen yet. He felt the excitement of wondering whether it might be an unknown, perhaps forgotten work by a great artist, worth millions of kronor, or a worthless copy by some art student.
Erik had worked as an assistant to the curator of modern painting and sculpture at Bukowski’s for fifteen years, and in that time he’d become an expert appraiser of the art they handled. Yet he hadn’t advanced to the position of curator, as most assistants did after a few years. But there was a reason for this.
The newspaper rustled; it was hard to get the tape off.
‘Where did you get the painting?’ he asked, to ease the customer’s obvious nervousness.
‘It hung in Pappa’s summerhouse in the archipelago for years, but when he sold the house, all of us children were allowed to take whatever we wanted. I’ve always liked the painting, but I didn’t think it was valuable.’ He glanced at Erik with an expression of both hope and concern. ‘A neighbour happened to see it on the wall, and he said that it was so expertly done that I ought to have it valued. I really don’t think that it’s worth anything, you know,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out.’
‘Of course. That’s what we’re here for.’
Erik gave the man an encouraging smile, and he seemed to relax a bit.
‘Where did your father get it?’
‘My father and mother bought it at an auction sometime in the forties. Since then it has always hung in the summerhouse. It’s on the island of Svartso. You know, one of those old merchant’s villas. They liked having a scene from the archipelago on the wall. So, that’s about the whole story.’
Now only the innermost paper was left.
Erik turned the painting over and was astounded by what he saw. He couldn’t hide his surprise, and the customer stared at him with delight as he eagerly took out a loupe to study the authenticity of the work. Neither of them said a word, but their excitement resonated through the room.
Erik immediately recognized the style of the artist. This particular motif had been used by the painter several times, even though his total oeuvre wasn’t extensive; there were less than a hundred known works. After an acrimonious divorce in 1892 and subsequent court proceedings in which he lost custody of his three children, the artist had devoted himself to painting. Stockholm’s archipelago became his refuge. The lighthouses and navigational buoys, the sparse vegetation and the defiant rocks exposed to the elements all became symbols for the artist himself, struggling against the tides of the time and defending his right to think freely.
He was meticulous in his observations of nature; in greyish-blue nuances he had depicted the capricious weather of the archipelago. Erik Mattson had seen him use this motif at Dalaro. In the solitary beacon on a desolate shore under a dramatic sky, he had found a motif that suited him during that period. The fact that the artist hadn’t signed the painting was not unusual. He had regarded painting as a sideline, something he turned to whenever he developed writer’s block.
Yet he was considered one of the greatest artists of his day. Erik Mattson did a quick mental calculation and placed the value of the painting at between four and six million kronor.
The artist was none other than August Strindberg.
18
To say that Monika Wallin was plain was no exaggeration. Her mousy brown hair was cut short and carelessly styled, her thin lips bore no trace of lipstick, and her posture, though erect, was a bit awkward. At first glance she seemed to be someone who would easily disappear in a crowd. She opened the door to the terraced house on Snackgardsvagen after Knutas rang the bell four times. She looked pale and tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
Knutas was surprised that he didn’t recognize her. He knew that they had met several times before, although they had never actually spoken to each other. Yet Monika Wallin was not someone who made a lasting impression; that much was clear.
Knutas introduced himself and reached out his hand. ‘My condolences.’
She shook his hand without changing her expression. Her handshake was surprisingly firm. ‘Come in,’ she said, and led the way into the house.
Knutas could see as soon as he stepped into the hall that the house was occupied by art lovers. Covering nearly every square inch of the light-coloured walls were paintings, both large and small, by all sorts of modern artists. Everything was of the highest quality; even Knutas could see that.
They each sat down in an armchair in the living room, where the windows faced the greyish-blue sea. Only the narrow road towards Snack divided the property from the shore.
Knutas took out his notebook and pen. ‘So, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?’
Monika Wallin was holding a handkerchief in her hand, twisting and turning it as she talked.
‘Well, I was sitting in the kitchen when a big removal van suddenly came roaring up our driveway. At first I thought it had taken the wrong turn. But when the men rang the bell, they showed me the contract that Egon had signed. He had hired them.’
‘Do you have a copy of the contract?’
‘Yes, they left several documents.’
Monika Wallin got up and continued to talk as he heard her opening a drawer in the kitchen.
‘They left empty-handed, of course. It didn’t really make any difference to them, since Egon had paid for everything in advance.’
She came back and handed Knutas a sheet of thin, light-blue paper. He saw that it was a copy of a contract, and that the removal van was supposed to transport the goods to Artillerigatan in Stockholm.
‘Artillerigatan,’ he mused. ‘Isn’t that in the Ostermalm district?’
Monika Wallin shook her head. ‘I don’t know where it is.’
‘There’s no number for a land line on the contract,’ murmured Knutas. ‘Just a mobile number. Is it Egon’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t know anything about this?’
‘No, it was a complete surprise. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only one. Egon has a desk here in the house with several locked drawers. Of course I knew where he kept the key, but I’ve never had any reason to snoop through his things. I opened the drawers just before you arrived.’
She reached for a folder lying on the table. Her lips were thin and dry, and right now they narrowed even more.