The killer's art

46

The long, narrow hall of Bukowski’s Auction House had a thick, patterned carpet covering the oak parquet floor. Rows of chairs made of steel and black plastic had been arranged to fill the space all the way to the entrance, where the reception area and cloakroom were located. At the front, above the podium, hung a big white banner with a portrait of Henryk Bukowski, a serious-looking man with a high forehead, beard and moustache, wearing glasses. His eyes were looking upward, as if he were peering into an uncertain future. The exiled Polish nobleman had founded the auction house in 1870, and over the years it had become Scandinavia’s largest enterprise auctioning quality artworks.

He studied the podium, which was made of gleaming white wood with a gilded ‘B’ in the middle. His disguise was in place. No one would recognize him. He was on the lookout for a particular man, but he didn’t see him anywhere.

The scent of expensive perfume and exclusive aftershave wafted through the room. Everyone took off their coats and furs and hung them in the cloakroom. Programmes were sold, and auction paddles were handed out. There was an air of tense anticipation. A longing and a need to spend money.

It made him feel sick.

He was sitting in the last row on the left side of the room; from there he had a good view of the entrance. A woman in her forties came in and sat down next to him. She was wearing a brown fur coat and glasses with thin gold frames. Her skin was lightly tanned. Maybe from a Christmas holiday spent at some idyllic beach on the other side of the globe, he thought enviously. She reeked of money. Her brown hair was pulled back in a classic chignon. She wore a shawl, leather boots and black trousers; a heavy diamond ring glittered on one finger.

Otherwise the average age in the hall was over fifty. There were just as many women as men present, all well dressed, well groomed, and radiating the same calm and self-confidence. An innate sense of assurance and self-esteem that was largely based on money.

He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes left before the auction began. Again he looked for the man who was the reason why he was here. The hall was almost full now; a soft murmur passed through the crowd and a few phrases in English were heard. At the very back of the room groups of people had gathered, conversing in low voices; the whole scene had the air of a cocktail party. They all seemed to know each other, and scattered greetings of ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello’ and ‘Nice to see you’ could be heard.

Now the husband of the woman seated next to him also arrived. He was grey-haired and sun-tanned, wearing a made-to-measure jacket, a canary-yellow sweater and a bright-blue shirt. The colours of the Swedish flag. Give me a break. He looked like a typical big shot in the business world.

An acquaintance greeted the couple. ‘You’d better keep her under control. Ha, ha. Make sure she doesn’t spend a bundle. Watch out for that.’

He felt nausea come creeping over him. He had to force himself to stay seated on the uncomfortable chair.

Up at the front the auctioneer had taken his place on the podium. He was in his fifties, austere and elegant. A bit haughty-looking, tall and thin, with a crooked nose and his hair combed back. He pounded the gavel three times on the lectern to silence the murmuring in the room.

The first work was brought out by two rosy-cheeked boys who looked no older than sixteen or seventeen. They were well dressed in newly pressed dark trousers and crisp white shirts, with dark-blue ties under leather aprons wrapped around their boyishly slim figures. Their eyes followed the bids with interest as they kept a light grip on the work of art that rested on an easel as it was offered for sale.

With growing contempt mixed with the deepest envy, he watched what went on in the hall. The auctioneer efficiently guided the bidding; he seemed to enjoy the tension and energy. The bidding went back and forth like a ping-pong ball between those seated in the room and the invisible customers on the phones. He knew that on the balcony above, Bukowski’s experts had customers on the line. They couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see them. The price rose quickly as bidders either nodded or shook their heads, lifted their bidding paddles, blinked, or raised their hands. Energy and anticipation, hopes dashed or fulfilled. Binoculars were raised in order to better examine the smaller objects. The auctioneer stood in the spotlight the whole time, striking like a cobra at the various bids, and allowing himself a pleased little smile whenever the price went up. The auctioneer held all the bidders in a tight grip. ‘The lady in the third row… A bid from Goteborg… Going, going, gone.’ And then finally the little crack of the gavel.

A painting titled ‘Indolence’ by Robert Thegerstrom started off at 80,000 kronor. The final price was 295,000.

Close to the back of the hall sat an elderly couple. The man kept bidding for various works with an inscrutable expression on his face while his wife sat next to him, giving him admiring glances.

A woman in an ankle-length mink bid 100,000 kronor without batting an eye and without saying a word to her husband.

Up by the podium, a silver-haired woman carefully announced the name of the artist and motif of each painting. Only once did she hesitate. ‘It says “peregrines”, but we suspect that they’re really goshawks.’ An amused murmur spread through the rows.

This is a game for the rich, he thought as he sat there, watching the spectacle. As far removed from the daily life of ordinary people as possible.

Sometimes the crowd got too noisy, and the auctioneer had to hush them.

When the two handsome boys with the ruddy cheeks brought in a magnificent oil painting by Anders Zorn, a respectful silence settled over the room. The opening bid was 3 million kronor. There were fewer bidders as the price skyrocketed. Everyone was attentively following the bidding. An entirely new sense of focus came over the room when the bidding went over 10 million. Finally it stopped at 12,700,000 kronor. The auctioneer announced the amount with exaggerated drama, as if relishing every syllable. Before he let the gavel fall, he paused with his hand over the table for a few extra seconds, prolonging the moment and giving the interested competitors one last chance. When the gavel finally fell, everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

This is pure bullshit, he thought.

He got up and left; he couldn’t bear to wait any longer. The man he was looking for had never turned up. Something must have gone wrong.