Rogue's Gallery (9 page)

‘Right … Well, we're off to find out what we can about recent art thefts.'

Svein raised his hand and turned towards the car.

‘Poor young Semyon,' he muttered. ‘Oliver Twistsky. And even Oliver had a few mates to talk to.'

We'd seen the TV version. I thought Bill Sykes's dog was a bit of a prat. Fancy throwing yourself off a roof for a man! We got into the car and drove to the gates, which opened for us. Svein drove about a quarter of a mile on the road towards Bergen, then drove the car into the shelter of a coppice and we trudged back towards the gates of Fredshavn, and a collection of hillocks and minor plateaus on the other side of the road. Svein selected one nicely shielded with trees, and we settled down with a pair of binoculars and kept our attention fixed on the distant white wooden house – not cosy and welcoming, as most of them are, but cold and antiseptic.

‘One room lit up at one end of the first floor, another room lit up at the other end of the same floor. Bedrooms? I rather fancy they could be suites – plenty of space for
two
rooms each side … Ah, there's Hans-Egil, if he'll allow the familiarity … Damn. Can't see him, but I'd be willing to bet I know what he's doing … Yes, see how he's holding his arm. Crooked with the hand a bit below nipple level … Yes, that's definitely a glass he's holding. And it is now precisely seven forty-five.'

Svein was enjoying himself. Ten minutes later the fragrant but near-silent Anne-Marie was similarly to be seen at the other end of the first floor, fetching herself liquid refreshment. We watched for two hours, and she renewed her glass three times, her husband four. We both left for home, well satisfied with our night's work.

Over the next few days we reported back regularly to Fredshavn. We seldom saw Anne-Marie Fjørtoft, but if the master of the house was about his shipping business we left messages (but not about things of any importance) with Mats, Ingrid or the governess. Around Bergen we made enquiries, Svein using his old police connections, about art thieves, the fallout from the Oslo Munch theft, and, very discreetly, about the Fjørtoft fortune, which, disappointingly, seemed to be doing very nicely thanks all the same. From time to time we saw Semyon, the asylum seeker from Chechnya, working in one or other of the parks.

‘Time to keep an eye on him,' said Svein, when a fortnight had gone by and we felt things were returning to normal at Fredshavn, after the disruption of our appearance there.

Keeping an eye on him was very easy. He did his work, talked to no one except his supervisor, ate from a packet presumably prepared at Fredshavn, and, after four-thirty, caught the bus back there. We were disappointed, and bored, after the first two days of watching him. The third day, Wednesday, however, was obviously his half day. After work he walked to a photocopying shop in Kong Oscarsgate, went in, and stayed there for over an hour. He was carrying a small bag, such as he had with him every
day, and when he came out we couldn't detect by his walk that it was significantly lighter or heavier. He went to the bus station and caught an early-afternoon bus back to Fredshavn.

‘It's odd, the whole situation,' said Svein. ‘I wouldn't have thought the Fjørtofts were the sort of charitable people with a soft spot for asylum seekers. Cheap labour is why they employ him, I would have thought. Always unwise for rich people to do that.'

Every day, at different times, we made sure we were seen around Fredshavn, but not too conspicuously. We went to the Munch room, with Hans-Egil's key, inspected the security, noticed no change in the prized contents. I still thought she was howling (‘Bitches howl before you've even got a good bite in' – the masculinist dog Hemingway, Stavanger 1960s). We swapped words with all the servants, indoor and out, with Ingrid and her governess-companion. That last, with the discretion of her kind, told us the Fjørtofts had been ‘very kind' to her. We didn't seek interviews with the ridiculously buttoned-up Hans-Egil, but we left him a report every couple of days. Anne-Marie seldom appeared. Either she was participating in a social round, or she was ‘indisposed'. In bed with a bottle that meant, most likely. I must admit I don't really
get
alcohol. Svein says it has the same effect as catnip on felines, but I never notice them totally insensible and gone to the world for hours at a time. More's the pity!

Svein was just forming an action plan, which would probably have failed dismally, when we were suddenly handed a missing piece in the jigsaw – though Svein,
inevitably, was too slow on the uptake to take advantage of it. We were driving through Lille Lundegårdsvann, slowly following Semyon on his way to the bus station, when emerging from the art gallery called the Rasmus I saw Meyer Samling, a leggy blonde with hair stretching down to her shoulders in gorgeous profusion, wearing a sleeveless, above-the-knee frock that showed off her fashionable slimline figure. I blinked … I knew … surely I knew … I blinked again.

I was in the back seat at the time. I put out my right paw and scratched, scratched, scratched Svein's back.

‘What's up, boy? Not feeding time yet.'

Of course it's not bloody feeding time yet! I went to extreme measures, brought both paws into play and bang bang banged them both into his back and gazed intently through the window.

‘What is it, Loyd? Yes, she is a smasher.' (Svein's slang is very dated). ‘Bit out of my league. You know I'm past all that.'

Oh, I knew it. And so did his ex-wife, and her bus-driver lover. I gazed through the window, whined, and let out a tremendous howl.

‘Yes, you like her too.' She was now only a few yards away from the car. ‘Wait a minute … That face rings a bell … But it can't be!' I barked applause. ‘That's Ingrid Fjørtoft!'

She turned off into a one-way street, and it wasn't our one way. We drove round in a square to pick up her traces, and coasted round the area for over twenty minutes. Well done, Svein! You really are quick on the uptake!

So we'd established that things in the Fjørtoft household were not quite what they seemed. I did rather fear that Svein was going to misunderstand seriously the matter of young Ingrid, but I had to admit that he made a sensible decision: to clear up the subsidiary matter of the monkey before going seriously all-out to catch the organ grinder. He rang the central office of the Fjørtoft shipping line, asked for a meeting with Hans-Egil the next day, and was told that he was always in Oslo throughout Wednesday, sometimes into Thursday morning. So Semyon's half-day coincided with Fjørtoft's day in the Oslo office, freezing the computers into meltdown and the firm's secretaries into chastity. Maybe a coincidence, but maybe organised by Semyon in whatever language (sign, perhaps) he used to communicate to his bosses in Bergen.

The next day was Wednesday, and it was a doddle. Everything went as in the previous week, except that after Semyon, again clutching a small bag, had been in the premises in Kong Oscarsgate for ten minutes, Svein and I followed him. He was not in the outer office, but Svein marched straight through to the inner one (Bergen people are not used to crime or its detection, so he did it with only a minor squawk of protest from the girl on the desk), and there all the elements were: Semyon, a drably-dressed Russian-speaking operative, a large but impressively businesslike machine, and – still in its frame – an ink and colour version of several of the faces from Munch's pictures: top-hatted men and bonnetted women from his picture of Karl Johansgate, within the swirling landscape of
The Scream.

Semyon immediately and at enormous speed started explaining in Russian, Chechnyan or something. The operative held up her hand to him and immediately turned to us and started to explain in prim, textbook English.

‘I will explain. What you are seeing here is the most up-to-date process of reproduction, developed in Moscow, which can make a copy of a picture or a document which is undistinguishable, except to experts, from the original. I will not explicate further for reasons of commercial confidentialness. In Russia, misfortunately, is much thievery from museums and galleries, and today we are using very much this process to provide visitors with perfect copies to keep safe the precious originals.'

‘I see,' said Svein. ‘But this picture—'

‘Does not come from a museum, no. We are expanding our operation into Europe and America to provide service to museums and private collectors. I receive phone call from Mr – is difficult.'

‘Fjørtoft?' suggested Svein.

‘Exactly. It was from this Mr Something's secretary. He want our perfect copies of his entire collection of Munch lithographs, watercolours, oils and cetera. One will be brought each week until the collection of copies is complete. I ask for signed authorisation and some payment in advance, and she send it. This one is the seventh I undertake.'

‘The seventh. I see. And the secretary's name?'

‘Is Miss Olsen.'

‘I see. A common name. However not the name of anyone in Hr Fjørtoft's employment.'

She looked, or perhaps pretended to look, surprised. She
offered no resistance when Svein, having pointed out that she'd been duped and should have checked the authorisation and signature, removed Semyon and his framed Munch to the car. He phoned the University Russian Department, asking them if they could provide a student interpreter. We picked him up in the car, and then began the drive out to Fredshavn.

I have to say that Svein was doing rather well so far. The boy was learning, obviously from working all the time with me. With time he could make a perfectly competent assistant. However his conversation in the car – not greatly helped by the Bolshie interpreter, who was obviously convinced that Svein was setting the boy up in order to get him expelled from the country – got nowhere very interesting. It was only when we arrived at Fredshavn and went through the ridiculous business with the gates that he really got to the nub of the matter.

‘So this was simply a matter of getting paid to do the job,' he asked him. ‘Who paid you?'

‘The teacher,' said the interpreter after consultation.

‘And did she act as the go-between with the pictures?'

Again there was an incomprehensible discussion.

‘No – it was the younger one.'

‘Ah, the young one,' said Svein.

‘The younger one.'

We were coasting through the nail-scissored lawns towards the facade of the house when I saw some way away, under a cherry tree I itched to water, Anne-Marie. She was talking to Vidar the main gardener. Body language did not suggest they were talking about topsoil or slug
control. Good for her, I thought. She's found a way out of the icebox.

We were met again by Mats the major-domo at the front door, and Svein asked if the whole household could be assembled in the dining room.

‘You mean the servants?' Mats asked, frowning. ‘I'm not sure that Herr Fjørtoft—'

‘I mean the whole house, family and servants. I believe Herr Fjørtoft is in Oslo, so what he doesn't know—'

Mats looked as if what he didn't know usually didn't remain unknown for long, but he nodded. I was rather surprised when he went out on to the steps and with a gesture summoned Anne-Marie and Vidar to the house. No prizes for guessing who was the freezer of the household, and why everyone was so much more relaxed when he was not there. Svein dallied for a moment, let Anne-Marie pass into the house first – quite the gentleman – and then he went in himself with the gardener. We and he both qualified as ‘outside help', I suppose.

They all sat around the table, looking at us. Svein fetched a couple of chairs and set them by the door for Semyon and his interpreter. We stood there for a moment by the door, looking at the household: all female, apart from Mats and Vidar. Chris Farraday the governess was smiling a secretive, confident smile. Ingrid was less sure of herself, on the surface, but she gave encouraging smiles to Chris. I flopped down on the floor with a truly canine sense of drama. Now, after I've done all the hard work, I seemed to be saying, it's all up to Svein.

‘I've brought you all here today,' said Svein, ‘because
there's been an important development in the matter of the Munch pictures, and I think you all ought to hear about it. I have discovered that your assistant gardener from Chechnya' – he gestured towards the door – ‘has been taking pictures from the Munch room in to Bergen, to a firm which offers an unusual service: a new and revolutionary process developed in Russia to provide near-perfect copies of pictures and documents – copies that only prolonged and intensive inspection can distinguish from the real thing.' There was a buzz of conversation, and much looking at Semyon. Only Anne-Marie looked bored: the body language said that she'd had it up to
here
with Munch. ‘I may say that I have no evidence of Semyon – I won't attempt the surname – of Semyon's involvement other than as carrier. He was paid a small sum to take the pictures backwards and forwards. Paid by Miss Farraday here.'

‘So he says,' said Chris Farraday, apparently unperturbed.

‘Exactly. But I think it would be much easier for you, Miss Farraday, to gain admittance to the collection. I have not heard of Semyon going anywhere in the house other than the kitchen. Mostly he's kept out in the stables.'

‘We used to say the attics were for mice and the north Norwegians,' said Anne-Marie, suddenly waking up. ‘Dear Hans-Egil goes one step further for asylum seekers.'

‘Ah!' said Svein, quite eloquently. ‘Now Semyon also says that the pictures to be copied were conveyed to him by young Ingrid here. If he's telling the truth, that is very serious: the governess using her under-age pupil as part of a plan to gradually rob the family of its very important and valuable collection.'

I stirred uneasily. Anne-Marie started to say something, but her eye was caught by her daughter, standing up at her place around the table.