The killer's art

17

The premises of the venerable Bukowski’s Auction House were sombrely elegant. The reception area faced Arsenalgatan, between Berzelii Park and Kungstradgarden Park in central Stockholm.

The art valuer Erik Mattson, clad in a grey suit and with his hair combed back, received the customer, whose attire was significantly simpler than his own and who seemed rather bewildered and ill at ease in the discreet and distinguished setting. The man had brought an oil painting, tucked under his arm and securely wrapped in newspaper and silver tape.

On the phone that morning the man had described the painting as an archipelago scene painted in various shades of grey, with an expanse of sky and sea and a little white house with a black roof. Even though the work of art was unsigned, Erik thought it sounded interesting, and he’d asked the customer to bring it in to be evaluated.

Now he was here, wearing a coat that had seen better days, and with a thin, old-fashioned scarf around his neck. His shoes could have used a good polishing; that was something that Erik Mattson always noticed. Well-cared-for shoes always indicated that a customer took good care of himself. This was not the case with the man who now stood in front of him, nervously fingering the large package. He had beads of sweat on his forehead. The collar of his shirt was wrinkled, his coat was threadbare, and the gloves that he’d placed on the table had worn through the lining. He spoke with the distinct accent of Soder, the old working-class district of the city. Not many people talked that way any more. It was almost charming.

Erik hoped that the painting wasn’t stolen. He studied the customer carefully — no, he didn’t look like a criminal. Besides, the painting probably wasn’t worth anything; that was the usual situation with unsigned works. But he always liked to have a look. Every once in a while they’d find a real gem, and nobody wanted to miss out on such a possibility. The worst-case scenario was that the valuable item would then end up with their fiercest competitor, Auction Works, instead. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Mattson showed the customer into the cramped but elegant valuation room. It was furnished with a Gustavian table with a chair on either side; a painting by Einar Jolin hung on the wall. There was also a bookcase filled with reference works. A laptop lay on the table, so that he could quickly check the history of a work or find out about its possible creator. If it was difficult to assess the value of a work, he might have to ask a colleague for help. Sometimes a painting would be kept for a few days if a more extensive examination was required. It was exciting work, and Erik Mattson loved it.

Together they placed the painting on the table, and Erik felt a familiar sense of anticipation fill his chest. This was one of the golden moments of his job: when he stood next to a customer he had never met before, with a painting that had been described to him, but that he hadn’t actually seen yet. He felt the excitement of wondering whether it might be an unknown, perhaps forgotten work by a great artist, worth millions of kronor, or a worthless copy by some art student.

Erik had worked as an assistant to the curator of modern painting and sculpture at Bukowski’s for fifteen years, and in that time he’d become an expert appraiser of the art they handled. Yet he hadn’t advanced to the position of curator, as most assistants did after a few years. But there was a reason for this.

The newspaper rustled; it was hard to get the tape off.

‘Where did you get the painting?’ he asked, to ease the customer’s obvious nervousness.

‘It hung in Pappa’s summerhouse in the archipelago for years, but when he sold the house, all of us children were allowed to take whatever we wanted. I’ve always liked the painting, but I didn’t think it was valuable.’ He glanced at Erik with an expression of both hope and concern. ‘A neighbour happened to see it on the wall, and he said that it was so expertly done that I ought to have it valued. I really don’t think that it’s worth anything, you know,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out.’

‘Of course. That’s what we’re here for.’

Erik gave the man an encouraging smile, and he seemed to relax a bit.

‘Where did your father get it?’

‘My father and mother bought it at an auction sometime in the forties. Since then it has always hung in the summerhouse. It’s on the island of Svartso. You know, one of those old merchant’s villas. They liked having a scene from the archipelago on the wall. So, that’s about the whole story.’

Now only the innermost paper was left.

Erik turned the painting over and was astounded by what he saw. He couldn’t hide his surprise, and the customer stared at him with delight as he eagerly took out a loupe to study the authenticity of the work. Neither of them said a word, but their excitement resonated through the room.

Erik immediately recognized the style of the artist. This particular motif had been used by the painter several times, even though his total oeuvre wasn’t extensive; there were less than a hundred known works. After an acrimonious divorce in 1892 and subsequent court proceedings in which he lost custody of his three children, the artist had devoted himself to painting. Stockholm’s archipelago became his refuge. The lighthouses and navigational buoys, the sparse vegetation and the defiant rocks exposed to the elements all became symbols for the artist himself, struggling against the tides of the time and defending his right to think freely.

He was meticulous in his observations of nature; in greyish-blue nuances he had depicted the capricious weather of the archipelago. Erik Mattson had seen him use this motif at Dalaro. In the solitary beacon on a desolate shore under a dramatic sky, he had found a motif that suited him during that period. The fact that the artist hadn’t signed the painting was not unusual. He had regarded painting as a sideline, something he turned to whenever he developed writer’s block.

Yet he was considered one of the greatest artists of his day. Erik Mattson did a quick mental calculation and placed the value of the painting at between four and six million kronor.

The artist was none other than August Strindberg.