Inspector Arne Lönnberg had received a telephone call from an overwrought young woman at the Diamond House retirement home. Five people had disappeared, even though the home was closely guarded. He looked through his papers. Could it really be true? Five people didn’t usually disappear at the same time, especially since the people concerned were not exactly young—they were seventy-five years old or more. The woman who phoned him had sounded rather anxious and had asked him to be discreet. If it became known that people had disappeared, the retirement home risked losing their clients, she had said. Clients? He snorted. Being a client was surely something you chose yourself. Nowadays it was mainly children and grandchildren who put you away in a home. You could hardly be considered a client then, could you? He was lucky he was single and would not have to put up with well-meaning children who involved themselves in his living arrangements when he got old.
He thumbed the piece of paper on his desk and wondered what he should do. Old people could walk out from retirement homes as the mood took them, at least in theory, and the police had neither the will, the resources, nor the authority to go out looking for them. One could, of course, put them on the observation list in various registers, that was true, and then they would be located if they tried to leave the country. But otherwise, no. As long as no next of kin had reported them missing and they hadn’t committed a crime, it was not the business of the police. Inspector Lönnberg leaned back in his chair. He did not begrudge the old people a good time. He hoped that they had gone on a ferry cruise in secret or were keeping out of the way of some greedy relatives. There were, in fact, some cases where old people didn’t get a moment’s peace because their children were so intent on getting their inheritance.
He took the piece of paper with his notes and wrote down the name and telephone number of the girl who had phoned, in case she got in touch again. But then he changed his mind, screwed up the paper and threw it into the waste-paper basket. If they phoned from the retirement home again, he could note the oldies’ names in the register. But they should at least be able to enjoy a few days at liberty before being forced back into the fold.
The men became impatient after having to walk around the suite with their wet towels looking for the paintings. The Princess Lilian suite was as large as a big city flat with its five rooms, and it was full of potential hiding places. So they quite simply failed to find the paintings. In the end, they returned to their room, had a shower and got dressed. They had hardly finished when they heard Christina’s joyful voice.
‘You are not allowed to give up, try again!’ Her eyes glowed, and she quoted yet another of the classic Swedish poets, but she playfully added in a few words about towels—which indicated that she was in a particularly good mood. She was otherwise always very careful to treat the classics with due respect.
Since nobody had found the paintings, she organized a game and the person who found them was promised a large bowl of chocolate creams. Anna-Greta pursed her lips, Brains raised his eyebrows and Rake smiled to himself. Martha, for her part, was pleased that her friend had brightened up and was so full of ideas. She thought it was because they had left Diamond House and that she enjoyed Rake’s company. Perhaps Christina had even fallen in love?
‘It was such a lot of trouble to steal the paintings that I really hope you haven’t hidden them so well that we can’t find them again,’ said Rake.
‘Oh no, but as you have travelled so much in the world you ought to have enough imagination to find them,’ Christina teased.
Rake straightened his back and looked around him with the air of somebody who knew what he was about. He so very much wanted to please Christina, so it must be he who found the paintings. Granted, he was not a connoisseur of fine art, but during his years as a seaman he had now and then visited various museums when in port. He started looking at the paintings on the walls in the various rooms, went up to them, lifted them up in the air and checked if there was anything written on the back. Then he came to an abrupt halt. Above the grand piano hung some paintings that he recognized. One showed a man and a woman sitting and talking at a café; the other was a river scene with old sailing boats. But in the painting that he likened to the Renoir the man had acquired a strange hat, long hair and spectacles. And in Monet’s painting from Scheldt there was a modern little yacht that hadn’t been there before. Now he understood. Christina had hidden the paintings in her own very special way. A wave of tenderness flooded over him. The clever woman had quite simply altered them with the help of some watercolour paint—not very much, but just enough to confuse the observer. The signatures had been altered too. He examined the bottom-right corner. Instead of Renoir’s signature he could now read Rene Ihre and Monet had been given the name Mona Ed.