Rogue's Gallery by Robert Barnard

expect any explanation to be offered.
    â€˜I used to know police chiefs like this,’ whispered Svein to me as we waited in a little anteroom. ‘They’d give you an appointment for ten minutes before there was any chance of seeing you. Make sure you were sweating before the session even started.’
    It was in fact twenty minutes before the manservant came back and invited us into the dining room to take coffee with the family. He once more gave me an old-fashioned look, but I was beginning to get the idea that he was finding the situation rather humorous. When we got into the large, light, airy room Svein pointed to a position by the door, from which I could take in the whole situation.
    We were definitely mixing with our betters. The dining table was long and elegant, though only three people were eating at it. The three places had had removed all but the wine glasses and coffee cups, but those things and the central vase sparkled, sat elegantly, told the spectator how recherché and expensive everything was. Seated there, dressed formally, was a man in his early forties, a woman probably answering to mid-thirties, and a girl of about twelve.
    â€˜Ah, Herr … er … urm. Will you take coffee?’
    He made it very clear that inviting Svein to partake ofanything with the family, even so usual a thing as a cup of coffee, involved stooping. He introduced himself, his wife and his daughter, and they all sat down.
    So here we were, among the nearest thing the Norwegian nation has to an aristocracy: Hans-Egil Fjørtoft, ship-owner, his wife Anne-Marie, and his daughter Ingrid. All three made a gesture towards making us welcome by quick, tight smiles. The daughter probably knew no better, poor thing. She would never have known anything else.
    When Svein had been helped to coffee and had taken his suicidal amount of sugar in it, Herr Fjørtoft cleared his throat and began a clearly well-prepared introductory speech.
    â€˜You’ll be wondering why I called you. It is not without a great deal of thought that I’ve done so, but the truth is I need help of your particular kind.’ (He made it sound like drain clearance.) ‘You may not know that I – and before me my father – have built up a collection of Norwegian art over the years—’ He broke off to wave a hand in the direction of a picture on the wall.
    â€˜Harriet Backer,’ said Svein.
    Herr Fjørtoft was clearly impressed. He didn’t know Svein had seen it on the cover of a ‘Classics of the Hardangerfiddle’ CD.
    â€˜That’s my latest acquisition, bought last month. But, on my father’s initiative, we’ve specialised in Munch. In particular we have a very rich collection of the many variations he made of his most famous picture.’
    No doubt thinking to be amusing, Svein, who one can’ttake anywhere, opened his mouth, spread out his hands, and let out a peculiar noise. I gained the idea that the picture was called The Howl.
    â€˜Very comical,’ said Fjørtoft, tight-lipped. ‘Yes, that picture. The number of preliminary studies and later variations on the components of that picture go into three figures.’ (The man obviously thought in the number of figures any deal involved – pathetic.) ‘We have forty-seven studies. We regard our collection as something held in trust for the Norwegian people.’
    Oh yes? I thought. And how many sweaty, jeans-clad, haversack-carrying ordinary Norwegians have been asked into the house to view the collection that you are holding in trust for them? ‘When someone says they’re doing something for your benefit,’ said the revolutionary dog thinker Che (fl. Hammerfest 1960s), ‘go and curl up in a corner and get out your reproachful expression.’
    Before Svein had finished the syrupy coffee he so enjoyed, Herr Fjørtoft stood up.
    â€˜Perhaps we should go and see the collection,’ he said, in