Liza scratched her itchy scalp and shook out her hair. She stared at herself in the mirror and swore. Why should she bother combing her hair? She was back at Hinseberg again. No wonder she was in a lousy mood. She hadn’t enjoyed many days of freedom before the police nicked her again. Just because she had tried to snatch that old guy’s wallet. OK, she had faked that signature at the jeweller’s and got away with some jewels too—but not very many. It was when she took that guy’s wallet that she was caught. Jeeesus, so embarrassing. To get nicked for a few hundred kronor, when she had set her sights on millions—it was a disaster! If only she had had time to look for the paintings a little longer, she probably would have found them. That heavy kitschy gilded frame around one of the royal pictures wasn’t just any old frame, and sooner or later she would have got Petra to squeal. That girl must be involved—who else could it be? Liza was dead certain that it was an inside job.
She had intended to visit the student residences at Frescati again, but the police arrested her first. Clumsy of her to mess things up like that. Oh well, she would have to wait for her next temporary release or quite simply abscond in some way. If she couldn’t find anything at Petra’s, then she would put the pressure on Martha. The old cow was back at the retirement home so it would be easy to find her. Martha certainly knew more about the paintings than she had let on and that ten million in ransom money that the museum had forked out was hardly something you mislaid! Liza went into the communal room to fix a cup of coffee when she saw one of the guards wave to her from behind the glass. He opened the door and came up to her.
‘Well now, there’s something I wanted to ask,’ said the guard.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Do you remember Martha Andersson?’
‘Who could forget that old gal?’
‘Did you ever talk to her about the painting theft?’
Liza didn’t answer. The guard tried again.
‘She admitted to committing the robbery but then claimed that the paintings had been stolen. Do you know if she suspected anybody in particular?’
Liza pretended not to have heard the question.
‘Anyhow, now the paintings are back at the museum. But nobody knows where they have been and why they have been returned just now.’
‘Then you’ll have to find out, won’t you?’ said Liza.
‘I just thought that you might know something about it.’
‘I don’t give a toss about all that,’ said Liza and she went off. Then she started swearing and clenched her fists tightly. So the paintings were back! Her idea of getting her hands on them and blackmailing Martha for a million or so was ruined. For the rest of the day, Liza worked in the screen-printing workshop, but everything went wrong there too. She wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing and by mistake she printed all the slogans on the inside of the T-shirts.
Petra turned the TV off, opened the fridge and poured out a glass of wine. Her exams were over for the time being and she wondered what she would do during the weekend. She had broken up with her boyfriend again, and this time it was for good. Strangely, she didn’t feel sorry but rather relieved. At last they had set things straight. She didn’t feel lonely either and several other guys had already expressed an interest in her. She just couldn’t make up her mind which one to go out with. On her way to the sofa she cast a glance at the posters of Stockholm. They hung in the same place she had hung the museum paintings, and now, looking back, it was hard to believe that she had had works of art worth thirty million hanging there—paintings that she had very nearly destroyed. It could all have ended up a real mess that evening when she had spilt her bilberry juice over the pictures. She had been on her way from the kitchen to the sofa when she had tripped and the contents of her glass had splashed onto the wall. A lot of it had ended up on the paintings. The King’s fancy grey uniform had turned all blue-spotty, and Queen Silvia had acquired a sticky covering of lilac blue just where she had had a facelift. Thank God that the posters had absorbed most of the bilberry liquid and it hadn’t damaged the works of art behind them, but the royal portraits had got all buckled and were likely to fall out of the frames. Not only had she had a mysterious visit from someone claiming to be her cousin, but she had also almost destroyed some art treasures. It was high time she got rid of the paintings before something serious happened.
That same evening she had sat down and written her note to the League of Pensioners. She assumed that they still had money left from the art theft and that one hundred thousand as a ‘reward’ was a fair amount to demand. Not too little and not too much, but perfectly reasonable. To demand more would have felt dishonest. Admittedly, she had considered asking for half a million, but that would have made her a proper criminal, she reasoned. This felt more like compensation for her work, and surely she deserved something for having rescued the paintings from the annex? Now she could live and eat for the rest of term without thinking about money, and she could even afford some new clothes and holidays too. She didn’t ask for much from life.
She couldn’t leave the masterpieces covered by the royal posters which were now damaged with the bilberry stains. The solution was to be found in the antique and bric-a-brac fair that was held in Kista and which she had visited just two days later. There she had caught sight of a painting of the girl in tears and the skipper with his sou’ wester and pipe—and that was that. Once she was home again, all she had had to do was to trim the edges of the newly purchased paintings so that they would cover the real paintings and fit inside the frames. What a commotion the kitsch art must have created at the National Museum, she thought, and even wished that she could have been there.
Petra sat on the sofa with a glass of wine, picked up the newspaper and once again read the article about the paintings. It said that the missing paintings by Renoir and Monet had been found in a stroller together with a doll. She smiled at that image and wondered why the pensioners had done that. A baby doll! It all seemed to have been cleared up, though, except that surprisingly little had been written about the case. The most important thing of all was that Petra had got her hundred thousand—and got them in five-hundred-kronor notes too. She could now use her money as she wished, and nobody would suspect her. She raised the wine glass, closed her eyes and drank. Life immediately looked much brighter.
Chief Inspector Petterson and Inspector Strömbeck sat in front of the computer, each with a cup of coffee. The press release about the paintings having been found had been issued to the media and everybody thought the case was now solved. However, here at the police station they knew better. The paintings were still missing and every attempt at analyzing the joke with the stroller had failed. The police had been fooled yet again. Chief Inspector Petterson didn’t have much faith in the idea that the article would lure the criminals into the open, but as the situation was now, they must try everything they could. Without knowing what he was looking for, Petterson stared at the surveillance film from the entrance to the National Museum and saw how a man with a peaked cap let go of the double stroller.
‘Just look at this. He plonks the stroller down as if it was a sack of potatoes. No wonder it collapsed.’
‘But I don’t see why. It could hardly be to destroy any leads,’ said Strömbeck.
In the film images you could clearly see how the stroller juddered, landed at an angle and ended up deformed. A few seconds later, Martha Andersson and her younger friend, Christina, appeared together with two museum visitors whose faces you couldn’t see. With considerable effort they pushed the stroller into the elevator and closed the elevator doors. Then they turned round and walked towards the entrance. Judging by the images, they were very pleased with themselves. Petterson looked at that sequence time and time again and suddenly it clicked. My God, if Martha Andersson and her friend were involved in this, then they ought to be the real paintings.
‘Strömbeck. I think we should make another visit to the National Museum. Believe it or not, I think the mystery has already been solved.’
‘You mean—’
‘There’s no time to talk. Come on now!’
A little while later, the two police officers stood together with the museum director down in the storage area. They stared at the crying girl and the skipper with his sou’ wester.
‘Just think, almost everybody in Sweden has these paintings on their walls,’ said Petterson as he pulled out his penknife.
‘We don’t,’ said the museum director with a grimace.
Petterson started to carefully cut into a corner of the frame and soon could make something out.
‘Now then, look here!’ he said, working the canvas frame back and forth until the crying girl was at an angle. ‘There’s a painting underneath. Look!’
‘So there is—Monet!’ the museum director whispered. ‘I can’t believe this.’
Ten minutes later, Petterson had also uncovered the Renoir painting.
‘Renoir!’ the museum director exclaimed.
‘That’s that! We have solved the case!’ said Petterson authoritatively. He straightened his back and folded his penknife. ‘Now you must make sure that you get proper alarms for the museum so that we can avoid this sort of thing in the future.’
‘Alarms are expensive. Our budget is too small,’ the museum director complained.
‘Then you will have to make sure that you are given a bigger budget,’ answered Petterson.
On their way up in the elevator, the atmosphere was oppressive, but just as the elevator doors opened, the museum director plucked up courage.
‘As for our funding, Chief Inspector, if the ransom money can be found, the ten million, I mean, then we could—’
‘The ransom money?’ Petterson came to a halt.
‘Yes, the money the museum paid to the villains with the help of the Friends of the Museum.’
Petterson held on to the door frame to steady himself. Oh, heavens above! He had completely forgotten about that ransom. The investigation could not be closed at all.
‘Of course. We are still busy working on that angle. I’ll have to get back to you,’ he mumbled and rushed off. On his way down the steps, he turned to Strömbeck.
‘Damned nuisance that the director mentioned the ransom money now. One is never allowed to be really pleased.’