The Torso dih-2

by Helene Tursten

  A Jetta. The witnesses who had seen the assailant after the attack on Tom Tanaka had said that he had thrown the picture into a car, which was probably a Jetta, and driven away.

  Right after the morning meeting Irene went to her office and called up Cyhrén’s Funeral Home. A soft female voice answered almost immediately, “Cyhrén’s Funeral Home.”

  “Good morning. My name is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. I’m looking for one Sebastian Martinsson and have been given the information that he works for you sometimes.”

  “One moment and you can speak with Mr. Danielsson,” the woman replied.

  After a few cracks and beeps as the call was transferred, an energetic voice could be heard. “Bo Danielsson, Director. What can I do for you?”

  A quick thought flew through Irene’s head: wasn’t a funeral director supposed to sound sober and compassionate and not like a sports commentator on TV? But maybe it made the mourners and the shocked relatives get their acts together and quickly decide on their wishes for the funeral. She introduced herself and told him why she was calling.

  “Sebastian Martinsson? Of course I recognize the name. One second!”

  He put the receiver down on what might have been a desktop and Irene could hear him pull out some drawers. His powerful voice was soon heard. “Of course! Here he is! He has helped sometimes to carry the coffins. Strong guy!”

  “Does he help out often?” Irene asked.

  “No. Just sometimes when we need extra help.”

  “When did he start working for you?”

  “Let’s see. . ’94. He worked more often then than in the last two years, because he’s started studying in Copenhagen. Before that, he studied here in Göteborg and then, of course, it was easier for him to help out at the last minute.”

  Irene could hear the surprise in her own voice when she asked, “Did he say that he was studying in Göteborg?”

  “Yes. To be a doctor. Now he’s doing his specialization training in Copenhagen. I always write down this kind of personal information about extra employees. So that you know what kind of a person you’re dealing with.”

  Someone studying medicine inspires trust. So much trust that he probably got to take care of the keys to very special burial chambers. Is that why he said that he was studying medicine? Or was it his secret dream? It was interesting and certainly something that the headshrinkers were going to delve deeper into during the psychiatric examination. Irene decided not to comment on Sebastian’s studies.

  “May I ask a completely different question?”

  “Sure! Of course!”

  “Does Cyhrén’s take care of the keys to the mausoleums at Stampen’s old cemetery?”

  “No. Cemetery Administration has those. We contact them when it becomes necessary to open one of the graves.”

  “Did you take care of the last two funerals for the von Knecht family?”

  “Yes. Why are you asking about that?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say right now.”

  “Of course! I understand!”

  Naturally, he didn’t understand anything but nothing made people more willing to talk than the idea that they had the trust of the police.

  “So the keys are only lent out when a new family member is going to be placed in the grave?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Does that mean that one of the pallbearers is trusted to take care of the key?”

  For the first time during their conversation he sounded hesitant when he answered. “Yes. That probably happens.”

  “Can you look in your papers and see if Sebastian Martinsson was a pallbearer at the funerals of Richard von Knecht and Henrik von Knecht in November and December of 1996.”

  “Of course!”

  The receiver bounced down onto the desk again. This time it wasn’t enough that Danielsson pulled out the drawers in his desk. Irene heard him stomp about and after a little while she heard the sound of heavy boxes being pulled out. Vigorous steps moved toward the telephone and she had the funeral director’s keen voice in her ear again.

  “He’s noted as a pallbearer at both funerals. They were buried in metal-fitted oak caskets that are very heavy. You have need of a strong man!”

  Irene thought about how she was going to formulate her next question, but realized that it could only be asked straight out.

  “Is there any way that Sebastian Martinsson could have had the key to the mausoleum in his possession?”

  There was a decided pause. “The possibility is there. But only for a short period of time. We always ask for the key back from the one who’s in charge of it. And we always check to make sure that the key is returned. It’s a matter of the customer’s trust!” Danielsson emphasized.

  “How long could he have had the key?”

  “At the most one day! We need to have it back the next day to give to Cemetery Administration. We’re a big office with many employees and many projects. It gets very busy here sometimes. Usually, my right-hand man or I take care of the opening of old graves. They are rarely used. But if it has been a crazy day with many funerals, one of the pallbearers may be trusted to take care of the opening and locking of the crypt.”

  A day was more than enough time to get a copy of the key made.

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to answer my questions,” Irene concluded.

  “No problem. Don’t hesitate to contact us again if there’s anything else,” Danielsson said.

  IRENE DEVOTED several hours to writing a report of Friday’s questioning of Sabine Martinsson and the discovery of the possible dismemberment location out in Säve. At the end she also described her conversation with the funeral director while it was still fresh in her mind. Nowadays, police investigators had to waste time sitting at a keyboard for hours in order to produce a report. Formerly, civilian office workers had done that job. And the officers had been able to devote themselves to investigating crime.

  Office work always put her in a bad mood. Now that mood improved slightly when Hannu stuck his head in and informed her that the technicians had found traces of human tissue in the old garage drain in Säve. The samples were being sent to Copenhagen and would be matched against Marcus Tosscander’s DNA profile. The risk was that the material had decayed so much over time that no DNA could be extracted.

  “It’s amazing that the Danes can do DNA tests and other analyses in just a few days. While in Sweden the same tests take several weeks!” Irene exclaimed.

  “The forwarding address for Martinsson’s mail is a post office box in Copenhagen. Have you heard anything from our colleagues there?” Hannu asked.

  “No. They were going to locate the Kreuger Academy today and try and track down Sebastian’s address.”

  “It’s supposedly difficult to find housing in Copenhagen.”

  “For sure. That’s probably why he rented from Emil Bentsen in the beginning. My theory is that he couldn’t put up with Emil’s messiness. It was almost as dirty in his apartment as it was at Sabine Martins son’s.”

  “I’ve spoken with Social Services in Trollhättan. Sabine has been an alcoholic since Sebastian was little.”

  Since Social Services maintained absolute secrecy of its records, even in a police investigation, if no prosecution had started-and they only released information if the prosecution was of a very severe crime in which the penalty was more than two years in prison-Hannu must have had a contact inside the Trollhättan agency. Irene wasn’t a bit surprised. “It couldn’t have been fun growing up in a home with an alcoholic mother. Maybe his obsessive cleanliness is a reaction against the mother’s slovenly habits. I’m thinking of his obsessively clean apartment.”

  Hannu nodded.

  They went to get Birgitta and trooped across the street. The insurance office building’s restaurant was serving pan-fried breaded fish with cucumber mayonnaise and potatoes, which was usually very good.

  “A witness has appeared who says that he saw a tall, well-built man
enter Bolin’s Commercial Photography Company at around six o’clock on the evening that Erik Bolin was murdered. The witness is an older man who lives a few blocks farther down. He was out with his dog when he saw the man open the door. He noticed the ponytail in particular. Apparently he really dislikes ponytails on men,” said Birgitta.

  “Does he remember how the man was dressed?” asked Irene.

  They spoke quietly, since not everyone in the lunchroom was a police officer.

  “Black jacket, black jeans, and a small shoulder bag. I asked specifically about the size of the bag. We agreed that it was about nine by fourteen, or somewhat larger,” said Birgitta.

  “Big enough to hold a good-sized knife and some sliced-off muscle tissue. Too small for a head,” Hannu said dryly.

  “You think that’s why he left the head on the hat rack,” Irene clarified.

  “Yes.”

  Irene tried to suppress the image of Bolin’s dull eyes behind half-closed lids.

  “Did the witness see a car that the black-clad man might have gotten out of?” Irene continued.

  “No. I tried several times to refresh his recollection but he doesn’t remember a car. Just a man walking into the building at the time in question. His description matches that of Sebastian Martinsson,” said Birgitta.

  “He probably arrived by car and left a few hours later without anyone noticing,” said Irene.

  “We’ve connected him to all of the murders. Now it’s just Basta himself who’s missing,” Birgitta concluded.

  “Sometimes I think that he’s hidden himself here in the city and is laughing at us. And sometimes I think he has no idea that we are so close to him and he’s walking around carefree on the streets of Copenhagen or somewhere else,” Irene sighed.

  “Just as long as we get him before he commits another murder,” said Birgitta.

  JEN SMETZ had been trying to reach her while she was out to lunch. Irene felt hopeful when she caught sight of the message to phone him. Had they found Sebastian? She quickly dialed Jens’s direct number.

  “Inspector Metz.”

  “Irene Huss here. You called me.”

  “Yes. We’ve gotten hold of Martinsson’s address. Unfortunately, we haven’t gotten hold of Martinsson himself, but we’ve put his apartment under surveillance.”

  “Great! Do you know if he’s in Copenhagen?”

  “Probably. The art school is called Krøyer Academy, not Kreuger Academy. It had closed but we managed to reach the director’s secretary. She found his address in her records. She also said that the school is about to reopen and he is listed as an instructor for a summer course that starts today and lasts for three weeks.”

  “Then you can pick him up at the school?”

  “That’s what is really strange. He didn’t show up for the beginning of the class. All the instructors were supposed to meet their students at the first morning lesson. But Martinsson never came. The secretary was very irritated but also confused. According to her, Martinsson had been so happy when he got the job. And then to screw up on the first day!”

  “Then maybe he’s left town. Maybe he suspected something and cleared out.”

  “The risk is there. We’ve sent inspectors to his address. His apartment is located here, on Istedgade. I have a hunch that he’s here in the neighborhood. If he is, we’ll get him.”

  “Have you been inside his apartment?”

  “Not yet. It’s better if he walks into the trap without suspecting anything. But if he hasn’t shown by the evening, we’ll go in.”

  “That sounds good. I hope you get him.”

  “If he’s here, we will. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  Irene felt her pulse pounding in her temples. Finally they were closing in on Sebastian!

  Chapter 21

  IRENE DIDN’T SLEEPWELL that night. In a dream, she ran after a fleeing shadow, through dark alleys and deserted streets. She kept growing closer, certain she would catch the black silhouette. But when she rounded the corner of a house she ran into a soft, formless mass. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a sturdy knife blade glimmer and realized that she was going to die. Her arms were leaden and she didn’t have the strength to raise them to protect herself. The knife flew right in front of her face and, suddenly, in a lightning-quick arc, it dove down toward her heart.

  Krister woke her and asked why she was screaming. When the question was repeated for the third time, she gave up and went down to the kitchen. A mug of milk warmed in the microwave and a piece of hard bread with cheese put her in a better mood. The clock read 4:10 a.m. when she crawled back under the covers, but it was impossible for her to fall asleep again.

  “IRENE! COPENHAGEN on the line for you!” Tommy yelled.

  Irene was on her way out to fill her coffee mug but she ran back to her chair. Expectantly, she pulled the receiver toward her.

  “This is Irene. Have you found him?”

  “Yes. But I need to ask a few questions first.”

  Jens Metz sounded very official and proper. Irene realized immediately that something wasn’t right. Oh no! Not Tom! Not Tom! echoed inside her. Like an answer to her thoughts, Metz asked, “Have you had any contact with Tom Tanaka recently?”

  Something in his tone of voice and the way he asked the question made Irene sense danger. She knew she must be careful about what she said.

  “Tom called me a few days ago and thanked me for the flowers I had sent by Peter Møller,” she said.

  Irene was well aware of how easy it was to trace a cell phone call.

  Metz’s voice revealed real surprise when he exclaimed, “Did Peter take flowers to that. .?” He stopped himself before he had finished his sentence but Irene already knew how he felt about Tom.

  “Yes. I asked him to,” she said.

  “Did he only thank you for the flowers?”

  Why was Metz asking this? Now she was on full alert. With feigned ease, she answered, “Yes. Apparently he loves orchids. He also said that he had just come home and wasn’t fully recovered.”

  Irene sensed Jens’s silent misgivings flood toward her through the receiver. Finally, he asked, “You never mentioned Sebastian Martinsson’s name to Tom, or that he was in Copenhagen?”

  “No.”

  Irene’s heart was beating fast. Tommy seemed not to notice anything as he was deeply engrossed in a text on his computer screen.

  “Are you absolutely sure? You never said anything about Sebastian Martinsson?”

  With a struggle, Irene controlled her voice as she answered, “No. I never spoke with Tom about Sebastian Martinsson.”

  She knew that if they ever pressured Tom on this point he wouldn’t give a truthful answer. She was good at lying but he was a master at keeping quiet.

  “We’ve found Sebastian Martinsson. Dead,” Metz told her.

  “Dead?” Irene repeated, surprised.

  “Yes. We entered his apartment at around nine o’clock last night. He was lying on his bed dead, wearing a muzzle, his hands and feet bound. His stomach was cut open and his intestines were lying on top of his chest. According to the pathologist, Martinsson had been lying there, looking at his own intestines, for several minutes before he died.”

  Irene’s head was spinning. She felt ready to faint. Her mouth was bone dry and she only managed to croak, “Oh my God!”

  “It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen,” Metz said.

  In an exaggerated, pedagogic tone of voice he continued, “But now you’re going to hear something really strange. The pathologist has pin-pointed the time of death as sometime early Sunday morning, between two and four. A witness who staggered home around three o’clock on Sunday morning from a drinking party stopped and peed in the doorway next to Martinsson’s. Suddenly, a black Mercedes stopped outside the door where Martinsson was living. A huge and amazingly fat Chinese man got out of the car, according to the witness, who wasn’t completely sober. But he describes the Chinese man’s
strange haircut as small, hard buns on his head. And he maintains that the Chinese man had horrible scars on his face!”

  Metz fell silent. For lack of a better comment Irene repeated, “Oh my God!” She couldn’t come up with anything else.

  “That’s what we said. But Tanaka has six witnesses who swear that he held a party for them in his apartment. None of them left before five o’clock. We can’t get them to budge. Every one of them is standing by this story. It’ll be difficult to prove that it was him. Tanaka himself maintains that the witness might have been in his shop and seen his scarred face. Then, later, in his intoxicated condition, he imagined he had seen Tanaka again outside Martinsson’s door but in reality it was another large man.”

  “Martinsson lived just a few hundred meters from Tanaka,” Metz added. He paused dramatically. “The question then is how could Tanaka know Sebastian Martinsson’s identity and address?”

  Tom had a network of friends and contacts. Irene had mentioned the name Basta and said that he was studying at an art school called Kreuger Academy. ‘Not Kreu. . no,’ Tom had answered, before he stopped himself. So he knew of the Krøyer Academy. And Tom most likely was acquainted with someone who could find out if someone at the academy was named Sebastian, but was called Basta, and where this Basta lived. Tom had made it very clear to her that Sebastian deserved the death penalty.

  Trying to sound convincing, Irene said, “I haven’t given Tom any information about Martinsson nor did I tell him we suspected the killer was in Copenhagen. Tanaka is a man with many contacts.”

  “We know. Also within the police,” Metz replied in a poisonous tone of voice.

  Thank God Tommy had left the room on an errand. She was alone in the office. In her hand she held her bright yellow Nokia. She slowly flipped through her address book. When she came to Tom’s name and number, she started erasing them.