Liza crept into a little room not much bigger than a cell at Hinseberg. There was a chair and an unmade bed, and a table with a pile of books. In front of the sofa on one side of the room was a little tea table and two armchairs. Above the armchairs hung two pictures of the king and the royal couple, and two smaller reproductions of old nymphs and angels. There was a noticeboard on the wall to the right with lots of Post-it stickers and a poster for this year’s student carnival. She picked up one of the books and started to browse. The History of Art. Just like the chief barman had said, the girl evidently studied art history. Liza opened the wardrobe door. There hung some trousers, blouses and skirts, and on the floor below them was a heap of shoes and boots. At the back of the wardrobe she caught a glimpse of some paintings. This got her excited and she pulled them out. They were reproductions, but so modern that she couldn’t tell what they represented. She shook her head and put them back in again. No Claude Monet or Auguste Renoir there, that was certain. She closed the wardrobe and started to look through the desk. The top drawer contained letters, pens, erasers, paper clips and a pair of scissors. In the next drawer were photographs and a packet of postcards. She quickly looked through them. Some views of Stockholm, the Vasa ship, the palace, the Grand Hotel and a bundle with art motifs. She went through them slowly. The last two cards showed the missing paintings. Why had the girl saved those? Liza looked up at the wall again and decided to turn the paintings over to see if there was anything on the back. She went up to the picture with the royal couple and carefully started to turn it round. Then she heard steps out in the corridor. The door to the bathroom was open and she just had time to nip in there and close it after her before a gang of rowdy young people stormed into the room. For a moment there was silence, and then somebody tried the door handle. ‘Petra, we know you are in there!’
Liza heard laughter and cries and then they all started singing: ‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday …’
Liza stood still in front of the mirror.
‘… Happy Birthday to you. Three cheers for Petra!’ There was another cry and whispering, and then somebody yanked the door open. Liza cowered.
‘What? Who the hell are you?’ The girl with the birthday cake leading the group took a step back and the others did too.
‘I was going to surprise her on her birthday,’ said Liza, putting her lipstick back in her handbag. ‘I’m her cousin.’
‘Are you? That’s cool!’
‘I’ve got an idea. Wait here in the room for Petra and I’ll go and meet her in the lobby,’ she went on and quickly walked past them before anybody could say a word. On her way down the stairs she saw a young girl with red hair and a rucksack over her shoulder. Perhaps this was her, but Liza didn’t dare hang around to find out. It was bad enough that she had been seen.
When she had got her breath back and was on her way into the city on the underground, Liza started thinking about the pictures. Perhaps she had been too optimistic expecting that she could find them. If they weren’t at the hotel, and none of the staff had them, then they were probably already out of the country. They might possibly have been hidden away in a cellar, or some attic or other, but she didn’t really think so. Surely it would be too risky to hide them there? Pity about that Petra girl. Liza had hoped that she would have understood the value of the paintings and taken care of them but she clearly didn’t have any taste. To have such fancy gilded frames around an ordinary portrait of the king and the royal couple seemed ridiculous. The frames were far too large too. No, she was certainly no art connoisseur. Liza huddled up on the seat. As she sat there she started thinking about the picture that she had started turning round. It had been surprisingly heavy and had a remarkably large frame. Perhaps there was something fishy about all of it.