Rogue's Gallery by Robert Barnard Page B

understood?’
    They nodded the glum assent of wage slaves who can’twait to get away to Bergen, Hamburg or Soho. We went back to the hall where Fjørtoft was waiting for us uneasily. I guessed he never went into the servants’ quarters. He led the way through the front door and round the house to the windows of the Munch room. He said, tight-lipped:
    â€˜I mentioned on the phone the two pictures which had been misplaced.’ He spoke with contained fury, like a Spanish Inquisitor speaking of an arcane blasphemy. ‘Then there was this .’
    Svein examined the wood around the area where, inside, there was a latch. There were a series of random knife-cuts.
    â€˜Ah yes. There seems to have been an attempt at a break-in,’ he said, his voice now unmistakably his lying one. What we had there was not an attempt at a break-in but an attempt to suggest a break-in. ‘They would of course have set off the security alarms if they had succeeded.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Fjørtoft. ‘One can only enter the room through the door from the hall that we used earlier, and then one must turn off the security switch just inside the door within two seconds of entering.’
    â€˜How many keys are there to that door?’
    â€˜One, mine. Oh, and one in my strongbox at Bergens Privatbank. In case of an accident, or something happening when I am abroad.’
    â€˜That seems satisfactory. And now, if you will allow us, Loyd and I will walk around the grounds to see all possible means of access to the property.’
    â€˜Is that necessary? Fredshavn is extremely secure.’
    â€˜So was the National Gallery in Oslo,’ said Svein. Fjørtoft looked taken aback, but he departed bad-temperedly.
    â€˜Ha! Got him there, didn’t I, old boy? That was where the oil painting of The Scream was stolen from in the 1990s.’
    So it was The Scream, was it? I preferred my version. More canine, more desperate. As we walked around, Svein talked, as usual.
    â€˜Cold old house, isn’t it? Cold old household too. It’s like going for a stroll in the Antarctic. You hear the ice floes crack and the icebergs collide. Not much fun growing up in a place like that. Or being the wife either, come to that. It’s like Frau Fjørtoft had had a general anaesthetic or two, and not completely come out of them. Funny lot. Not really of this world. They think we accept that it’s an outside job, but we don’t, do we, old boy? Of course the obvious one to suspect is Hans-Egil himself. Staging a robbery to collect the insurance. Nobody goes by ship these days, do they, apart from cruises. Maybe the firm is on the rocks … Hello, what’s that?’
    I had seen him already and nudged Svein’s ankles. It was a young man, maybe twenty, who was cutting away ruthlessly at a young tree. Svein turned on his heels and walked back to the house. He poked his head through the windows of the large kitchen and beckoned to Mats the butler.
    â€˜Who’s that boy I saw working over towards the east corner?’
    Mats scratched his head.
    â€˜Boy? Oh, that will be Semyon. One of these asylum people. Come from Chechnya or some such place. Works in one of the Bergen parks, and as a part-timer with us. Sleeps in the old stables.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you mention him?’
    â€˜Didn’t cross my mind, to tell you the truth. He can’t speak Norwegian or English, so he doesn’t communicate with any of us. Just comes and collects whatever’s going to eat, and takes it back to the stables.’
    â€˜Right … Well, we’re off to find out what we can about recent art thefts.’
    Svein raised his hand and turned towards the car.
    â€˜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