‘Eriksson didn’t voice any doubts. Instead he confirmed that it was indeed the case. Over the course of the past year, he had in fact facilitated the sale of eight of the original twenty objects. Four of the icons, including Versjagin’s painting of Saint Theodore, which went under the hammer at an auction of Russian art at Sotheby’s in London about a month ago, a dinner service and two different canteens of silver cutlery. And an antique gold cigar-lighter. It was as a result of the circumstances surrounding these sales that he was so keen to meet me.’
‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said, nodding encouragingly, pleased that his glass had just been refilled and he was now in a position to listen to an unusually prolix GeGurra.
‘The practical arrangements regarding the sales were handled by an art expert Eriksson had originally chosen to engage, and he was also responsible for looking after the artworks, but for various reasons … which Eriksson was unwilling to go into … he wanted a second opinion regarding the value of the various items. What this was really all about, of course, is that he was worried he was going to be cheated. Or was already standing there with great big donkey’s ears.’
‘So what did you say?’ Bäckström asked.
‘My intention was actually to reassure him on that point. So I took the opportunity to congratulate him on the sale of Versjagin’s icon. Explained that it had reached a good price in the current overheated market for Russian art. That it wasn’t every day that you got one and a half million kronor for a hundred-year-old icon that was originally intended as a blunt joke. A blasphemous one, at that, and one to which onlookers reacted very badly when the work was first exhibited publicly. If it had been a landscape by the same artist, then, naturally, it would have cost several million more.’
‘And how did Eriksson take that?’ Bäckström asked.
‘He did his best to hide it, but there was no question that it came as a complete shock to him. A very unpleasant one, at that. He looked as if there had been a zero missing from the statement of account he’d already been given.’
‘This expert he commissioned,’ Bäckström said. ‘Does he have a name?’
‘Yes,’ GeGurra said, nodding contentedly. ‘I already knew, in fact, but if I hadn’t it wouldn’t have been terribly hard to find out. Not for a man with my contacts in the business. My tiny contribution to your no doubt already considerable investigative effort … and if you’re wondering what his name is …’
‘Baron Hans Ulrik von Comer,’ Bäckström interrupted.
‘Cheers, Bäckström,’ GeGurra said, raising his glass. ‘I don’t mean to flatter you when I say that your incisive deduction comes as no surprise to me at all.’
‘Thank you kindly,’ Bäckström said, already on his third vodka and in one of his very best moods. ‘I should be thanking you for confirming a suspicion that I’ve had for some time,’ he went on as he carefully checked the length of his bulbous nose. No cause for concern, he thought.
‘And you’ve actually made two contributions, not one,’ he went on.
‘Two contributions? Now I really am curious,’ GeGurra said.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you what at the current time,’ Bäckström said. ‘For reasons relating to the investigation, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate,’ he added, as he now understood very well why Eriksson the lawyer had assaulted Baron von Comer in the car park outside Drottningholm Palace two days after he met GeGurra, and why he had used an auction catalogue as a weapon. He understood that as well as he understood what had been in the white boxes that Eriksson had carried into his house a couple of days before he was beaten to death and which his killers had taken with them when they left the scene of the crime.
‘What do you say to a little food, Superintendent?’ GeGurra asked, also in an extremely good mood. ‘A little something to line our stomachs before we carry on with the story. Something tells me, even if I might be repeating myself, that this is going to be a quite splendid evening, even though we haven’t yet said a word about the little business proposal I was planning to put to you towards the end of it.’
‘A bit of food would be good. Yes, definitely,’ Bäckström said. While you tell me who you think owned the art collection that Eriksson had been told to sell, he thought.
75
Herring and salmon and fresh Swedish potatoes, smoked eel and Skagen prawn salad, foie gras, cheese and bread and pilsner … and the vodkas with which Bäckström washed this divine feast down and which he had now stopped counting.
As on so many previous occasions when he had a bit to eat, he ended up in a calm, elevated and almost philosophical state, where thoughts came and went in his head, on all manner of subjects. Such as all those whining Frenchmen, for instance, constantly complaining about their hopeless economy. And they even had the gall to demand that honest, hard-working Swedes should help repay the debts they had brought upon themselves. What did those snail-eating, beret-wearing pricks have to complain about, when they could stuff themselves with as much of the foie gras that he all too seldom had the chance to taste as they wanted?
Or that mysterious Baron von Comer, who had clearly come to blows with Bäckström’s murder victim, even though Bäckström was willing to bet the bill for the evening’s dinner that a poof like him wouldn’t have the guts to kill Eriksson the way Bäckström’s perpetrator had. But he might well have sat on Eriksson’s sofa and shat himself when the lunatic lawyer, who thus far had only assaulted him with an auction catalogue, took a serious step along the broad path followed by all perpetrators by pulling out a revolver and starting to shoot at him.
That shouldn’t be too hard to find out, Bäckström thought, and who could be better to start with in that regard than his host for the evening, sitting opposite him on the other side of the table? About time for a bit of nice, simple police work. He finished his latest vodka, rinsed it down with a couple of gulps of beer, folded his hands over his stomach and leaned back to get a better view.
‘That von Comer,’ Bäckström said. ‘Tell me, what’s he like?’
Judging by GeGurra’s description, von Comer wasn’t one of his closest friends. Definitely not someone he would use as a middleman, even for lesser matters than those Eriksson had evidently been engaged in. As a connoisseur of art, he knew little more than an enthusiastic amateur, according to GeGurra. Even if he did have a degree of knowledge about Swedish painting of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as well as furniture and antiques of a somewhat older vintage. And he wasn’t particularly pleasant as a person. Arrogant, stupid and, sadly, also indiscreet. Poor as a church mouse, of course.
‘No money, no inheritance, no estate,’ GeGurra said in summary. ‘Just another penniless nobleman prancing about with his nose in the air, spouting a load of nonsense.’
‘A fraudster, then?’ Bäckström asked. ‘Could he have been trying to trick someone like Eriksson?’
‘I’m quite convinced he’d already done that,’ GeGurra said. ‘I could see it in Eriksson’s eyes when I told him how much Versjagin’s icon had sold for.’
‘How much money are we talking about?’ Bäckström said, nodding and taking a swig of beer.
‘One million,’ GeGurra said. ‘That’s how much he tricked him out of, I mean. More or less,’ he said, dabbing his thin lips with his linen napkin.
‘Why do you think that?’ Bäckström asked. For some reason, at that moment he found himself thinking of the envelope containing almost a million in cash that his colleague Niemi had found in Eriksson’s desk. Could it be the case that his old acquaintance GeGurra had just made a third contribution to his expanding investigation?
‘The three icons he’d already sold,’ GeGurra said. ‘I checked to see what he got for them. The first one was sold in Uppsala last autumn for almost one hundred thousand kronor. The second was sold at Bukowski’s in Stockholm just before Christmas for seventy thousand. The third was sold at the start of the year at a special auction of Russian art in Helsinki. I seem to reca
ll it went for around one hundred and fifty thousand Swedish kronor, which gives us an average price of about a hundred thousand each, after deduction of the auction houses’ fees. On items at that level, the standard rate is twenty per cent, in case you were wondering, excluding VAT.’
‘And Saint Theodore?’
‘That went for one hundred and forty-five thousand British pounds, which is equivalent to one point four million Swedish kronor at the current exchange rate. After the deduction of fees, VAT and other costs, we’re down to about eleven hundred thousand Swedish kronor. If we assume that von Comer managed to forget the little detail that the sale was in pounds, and chose instead to provide accounts to Eriksson showing a sale at one hundred and fifty thousand Swedish kronor, the difference is roughly a million,’ GeGurra concluded.
Straight from the horse’s mouth, Bäckström thought, satisfying himself with a nod.
‘No doubt, my friend, you’re wondering how the accounts could be dealt with in a simple, practical way?’ GeGurra said.
‘Yes, tell me,’ Bäckström said, making himself more comfortable on his chair. This is getting better and better, he thought.
‘If I were to contemplate doing anything of a similar nature, which of course I never would, I would get the English auctioneers to email the statement of account to me. It’s much easier to manipulate these things electronically, you see, and even for a man with my limited knowledge of modern computer technology, it would be a simple matter to change the pounds to kronor and print out a copy of the statement which I would then give to Eriksson. Although it would never occur to me to do anything like that,’ GeGurra declared with an expressive shrug of his immaculately tailored shoulders.
‘So that’s one way to earn a million,’ Bäckström said.
‘Yes, or nine hundred and sixty-two thousand kronor, if I remember rightly,’ GeGurra said. ‘Give or take the odd hundred kronor.’
‘How can you know that?’ Bäckström said. What the hell’s he saying? he thought.
‘Because I was the one who bought Versjagin’s icon, so I received the same statement of account as the seller,’ GeGurra said with a nod. ‘The rest was just simple arithmetic.’
‘You bought the painting of Saint Theodore. What for?’
‘I thought I might come to that while we enjoy our veal fillet,’ GeGurra said. ‘And with that in mind, I was wondering if I could tempt you with a glass or two of this establishment’s rather splendid house wine. It’s an excellent Italian red, made from the classic French blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Cabernet Franc. Except these grapes grow in Tuscany rather than Bordeaux,’ GeGurra said.
‘Beer and vodka’s fine,’ Bäckström said. This could be brilliant, he thought.
‘Perhaps that’s wise,’ GeGurra agreed. ‘One should always beware of mixing the grape with the grain. I think you have a point there, Bäckström.’
‘Eriksson’s client. Who’s the owner of that art collection?’ Bäckström prompted once more.
‘We’re coming to that,’ GeGurra said with a friendly nod. ‘We’re coming to that. If I might be so bold as to offer a piece of advice while you’re waiting, it might be as well for you to have another little vodka. So that you don’t fall off your chair when you hear what I think about that individual.’
76
Grilled veal fillet, baked root vegetables, red-wine sauce with ox marrow, and a very content Bäckström. He drank vodka and beer while he allowed himself to think pleasant thoughts about the big brown envelope he was convinced his acquaintance would soon be getting to. But Bäckström was in no hurry. He wasn’t going short of food and drink while he waited, and sometimes the business of money could take a little time.
Eventually, it looked as if his host had girded his loins. First, he cleared his throat discreetly, fortified himself with a cautious sip of his Italian red wine, before dabbing at his thin lips with his napkin and nodding, that yes, it was time.
‘Are you familiar with the concept of provenance, Bäckström?’ GeGurra asked, clearing his throat once more.
‘Well, sort of.’ Bäckström shrugged. ‘But I’d be happy to hear more,’ he added. Just to hedge his bets, if nothing else, seeing as he had no idea at all which province GeGurra was talking about.
‘In this context, when we’re talking about artistic artefacts, I mean, you could say that provenance concerns the history of the artwork. And the artist, of course, and different events connected to the origins of the work. Not least … especially when we consider the price a work of art might command … we’re also talking about the people who have owned the work. The original owner, as well as those who came later. It might seem irrelevant, but it can sometimes be the case that if the owner is very well known, that can mean far more to the value of the particular piece of art or object in question than the actual work itself.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Bäckström concurred, as he had already received numerous anonymous online offers to buy little Siggy at a price that wildly exceeded what his employers, the National Police Authority, had paid for his service revolver. Get to the point, you long-winded bastard, he thought, checking that Siggy was still snugly nestled against his left ankle. Don’t worry, lad, he thought, patting the holster reassuringly. There was no way he’d ever dream of selling his best friend.
‘The best Swedish example of this occurred a few years ago when it came to the sale of the estate of Ingmar Bergman, our world-famous Swedish director,’ GeGurra said, shuddering at the memory as he took another fortifying sip of red wine.
‘Wasn’t he the one who did that film about Fanny and Alexander?’ Bäckström asked, recalling that he had accidentally happened to watch half of it on television late one evening before realizing that it wasn’t a sequel to his old childhood favourite, Fanny Hill.
‘Exactly,’ GeGurra said with feeling. ‘That’s the chap I’m talking about, and when his estate was put up for auction, it was a very tragic business. Shabby old Dux sofas, all stained and threadbare, battered old flat-pack chests of drawers which that miserable old sod from Småland has forced on half of humanity, wonky bookcases, buckled copper pans, tatty sheepskin rugs, chipped coffee cups from Rörstrand. I could go on and on, and if you’d tried to give that lot to the Salvation Army they’d have shown you the door.’
‘Everyone knows that’s how people like that live,’ Bäckström agreed. ‘I once had to conduct a search of a famous actor’s house and, if it had been an ordinary junkie’s home, Social Services would have boarded it up.’ Even a gypsy would have refused to live there, he thought.
‘Not on this occasion, though,’ GeGurra sighed, apparently not listening to his guest. ‘Junk, scrap, plain old rubbish, but this time people paid millions for it. Have I ever told you about the pair of slippers he was given by Harriet Andersson – you know, the famous Swedish actress – when they were filming out on the archipelago back in the fifties?’
‘No,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head, as all the films he’d seen that had been made out on the archipelago certainly hadn’t been directed by Ingmar Bergman. Thank God, he thought, considering what little of Bergman’s work he had actually seen.
‘A terrible story. It’s supposed to have rained all the time they were filming, and there was a serious draught blowing across the floor of the house they were recording in, so she dashed over to the neighbour’s – some old fisherman who lived out there in the habitually miserable conditions, surrounded by coffee grounds and herring scales and tatty old copies of The Sower – and she bought the old boy’s shabby old sealskin slippers so Bergman’s feet wouldn’t get cold. Do you know how much they sold for? At Bukowski’s, of all places?’
‘No,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head. How the fuck would I know that?
‘Eighty thousand kronor,’ GeGurra groaned. ‘Eighty thousand kronor,’ he repeated. ‘For a couple of shabby scraps of leather held together by foot-sweat.’
‘Sounds a bit steep,’ Bäckström agreed.<
br />
‘Now, let’s imagine that Greta Garbo had given him those slippers instead. What do you think Bergman’s greedy little offspring might have got for them then?’
‘A lot more, no doubt,’ Bäckström suggested, even though he had only the vaguest of recollections of Garbo. Wasn’t she that brunette who went to Hollywood and turned into a dyke?
‘Probably a million.’ GeGurra sighed, shaking his head sadly.
‘Forgive the question,’ Bäckström said, ‘but why are you telling me this?’ What’s happened to that brown envelope? he thought.
‘So that you understand my point,’ GeGurra said with feeling. ‘What provenance can do to the price,’ he explained.
‘Okay, I get that,’ Bäckström said. ‘All I’m wondering about is who the previous owner that you’ve been talking about is. Who is it?’
‘I’m getting to that,’ GeGurra said. ‘What put me on the trail, in case you’re wondering, was one of the items that Eriksson had been instructed to sell.’
‘What was it?’ Bäckström asked. Presumably that portrait of the fat monk who had evidently been caught red-handed with his paw in the good Lord’s honeypot, he thought.
‘A hunting service for maritime use,’ GeGurra said with a nod.
‘A what?’ Bäckström said.
77
It was a hunting service for maritime use that had put GeGurra on the trail. A complete set of twelve covers, consisting of a total of 148 pieces, produced by the royal porcelain factory in St Petersburg during the winter of 1908. Finest bone china, hand-painted with pictures of seabirds found in the Baltic, birds that were also suitable for hunting. An adornment to a table laid for participants in a hunt after the first shoot, and in this instance a wedding present from the Grand Duchess of Russia, Maria Pavlovna, to her future spouse, Prince Wilhelm of Sweden. A highly appropriate gift for a married man who was not only a Swedish prince but also an officer in the Royal Swedish Navy, a keen huntsman, and an enthusiastic fly-fisherman.
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