“Have they been able to give a more detailed description?”
“Tall, muscular, about twenty-five years old, shoulder-length dark blond hair in a ponytail. The man who had been with him in the elevator said that he thought the man was an artist because he had paint on his hands and a large sketch pad under his arm.”
Artist? Then if this was the killer, all Marcus’s references to “my personal physician” were meaningless. No matter how much he would have liked to, Marcus couldn’t possibly have transformed an artist into a personal physician.
Jens Metz asked about the new murder in Göteborg. Irene told him the little she knew. When they hung up they agreed to allocate every resource to stopping the murder-crazed beast. There couldn’t be any more killings.
“Right now it’s quiet here because he’s wreaking havoc in Göteborg. But something tells me that he’ll be here again soon,” Jens concluded ominously.
When they had hung up, Irene thought about his last sentence. Why Göteborg and Copenhagen? Was it possible to figure out some sort of connection between these two cities and one of the names on the list? That name might only be on Marcus’s missing computer, but all they could do was check the names they had and hope for a little luck.
Birgitta Moberg stood in the doorway like a God-sent angel and said, “Hi! Did you find any names that seem familiar? No? Then I can help to make some calls. We’ll divide the pile.”
“You’re a pal! Just let me know if you need a favor in return.”
“Well . . . you can babysit in a few years.”
HER DAUGHTERS were in the kitchen, well under way with dinner, when Irene came home. Krister was working late and wouldn’t be home until past midnight.
Jenny was pouring steaming vegetable broth over thin-sliced vegetables. Irene could make out tomatoes, carrots, squash, and onion. A faint smell of garlic whirled up into the air, betokening the perfect amount of seasoning in the casserole.
Katarina was spicing large ground-beef patties with generous dashes of black, white, and green pepper. When they had turned a delicious golden brown color in the frying pan, they would simmer in some cream and a little bit of soy sauce. Those who had iron stomachs could add even more pepper at their discretion. Irene usually added a bit extra.
Jenny opened the oven door and scooted the pan with the potato wedges over in order to make room for her vegetable casserole. Irene knew what was expected of her. She got out the ingredients for the salad. It was boring to make salad but it was the family’s collective opinion that that was what she was best at when it came to the cooking arts.
“We aren’t going to be in Borås until eleven. Mattias and Tobbe are leaving earlier to set up the stuff so that everything will be ready when we get there,” said Jenny.
“Are you going to Borås?” asked Irene.
Jenny sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.
“You’re more scatterbrained than Grandma! If someone tells you something, like, in the beginning of the week, you’ve forgotten it by the end.”
Irene faintly started remembering a short conversation with Jenny a few days earlier. Then she had talked about the band having gotten a gig in Borås. But was it really so soon as this weekend?
“We’ve been allowed to jump in at the last minute for the Wawa boys. They’re huge. This is an awesome opportunity. We’re getting paid really well.”
The blush on her cheeks wasn’t because she had a fever. Her eyes were lit up from excitement and happiness. This was what Jenny had dreamed about for the last couple of years. Irene felt affection mixed with sorrow rise within her. Sorrow over the fact that time went by so quickly. Soon the girls would be all grown up. She quickly landed in reality again with Jenny’s next comment; she was far from being able to accept her daughter as an adult.
“And everything is sorted out with the hotel. It’s going to be so cool!”
“The hotel? Are you going to stay at a hotel?”
“Naturally. We won’t be done until after one o’clock. And by the time we’ve packed all of our things, half the night will have gone. We were able to take over the Wawa boys’ room reservation.”
Irene stared at her daughter. She would soon be turning seventeen but she was far from being of age. And now she was going to stay at a hotel in Borås with a strange group of guys. Irene didn’t have any idea what they were like. With an effort, she tried to conceal the anxiety in her voice as she asked, “Will you get your own room?”
Jenny shrugged and said, “Don’t know. Think so.”
Contradictory thoughts were darting here and there in Irene’s brain, but before she had time to reach a decision, Katarina said, “Polo is in the process of becoming superpopular. You have to understand, Mamma. Jenny might be the next Nina in the Cardigans!”
Jenny blushed with delight at her sister’s praise. Irene hadn’t seen her this happy for a long time.
Now she realized: she had to let Jenny go to Borås.
Katarina continued enthusiastically, “Micke and I are driving there to listen to them. Then we’re going home to Micke’s to sleep there. It’s nearby.”
Irene could have informed Katarina that the distance from Micke’s parents’ house in Önnered to her own was barely a kilometer as the crow flies and only slightly longer if one used the asphalt roads. But she didn’t have the energy for that discussion. She had the feeling that she had lost something. And she knew what it was. Her daughters’ childhoods would never come back.
Mostly in order to have something to say, she asked, “Is Micke well now? And how does your neck feel?”
“Both of us are feeling much better. I’m allowed to start training lightly after midsummer. Real training and stuff. Not this stupid physical therapy I’m doing now. Just watch how I’m going to catch up! That Ida Bäck better not think she can keep her gold medal in the National Championships next year!”
Irene felt very proud of her daughters now. Each of them, in her own way, was a goal-oriented fighter.
Heavenly smells started emanating from the oven. Katarina was browning the beef patties. Irene felt hungry. She quickly set the table and put out a pitcher of ice water.
A calm whimper at knee height reminded her that it was high time for Sammie’s dinner. Two mugs of dry food mixed with the leftovers from yesterday’s beef sausage was a culinary treat, according to him. Irene stared at the dry brown pebbles, which looked suspiciously like rabbit droppings. Even though she loathed preparing food, she would never be tempted to eat dry dog food. Not even if it had been soaked in hot water.
THE POLICE movie was over just after midnight. Irene turned off the TV, stretched, and yawned. Goodness, how confused and messy it seemed to be at police stations in the USA. Large open office spaces where the desks stood close together, and every attempt at creating a close relationship was doomed to fail. Collared whores, drug dealers, and murderers walked past each other between the desks. In the middle of it all, cops stood and quarreled and fussed about their work problems. And everyone went around indoors armed. It would seem to be too easy for a suspect to pull a gun out of a holster amidst the general confusion.
Was it really like this? If that was the case, Irene felt sincerely sorry for her colleagues on the other side of the Atlantic.
She cleared away her coffee cup. Just as she had expected, Sammie came padding after her into the kitchen. It was high time for the last rounds of the night.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The air was fresh but still mild. Steam rising from the warm earth smelled good. The early summer foliage was at its most beautiful and everything breathed hope in the face of the oncoming summer. Judging from appearances, a student party was being held at a nearby house. Two skinny birches decorated with balloons stood on either side of the front door as a sign. A young man in a white shirt and dark pants stumbled through the open door. Heaving sounds could be heard by Irene and Sammie. The young man clung to the nearest birch for support and both he and the propped-up birch fell straight in
to the pool of vomit.
The future is ours, Irene thought.
Sammie became uneasy and whimpered when he saw the boy struggling with the birch tree. It didn’t get any better when, with loud curses, the boy swayed upright, grabbed the birch, and threw it down the steps. Sammie started barking heatedly. Of all strange behaviors, this took the cake! Personally, he loved trees and never fought them! He used them for their proper purpose. He demonstrated by lifting his leg toward a lilac bush.
Irene had to drag her furiously barking dog away by his leash. A lap around the soccer field would have to do. A wet dog wasn’t the nicest thing to have in bed and Irene knew that he would jump up as soon as she had fallen asleep. They should have dealt with that when he was a puppy, but it had been so charming when the chubby little dog, struggling, crawled into their bed.
Irene suddenly felt as though she was being watched. They were on the far side of the soccer field that bordered on woods. She looked around but couldn’t see anyone. The feeling wouldn’t go away.
Sammie didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary; he sniffed the ground as usual. The energetic wagging of his tail revealed that an unusually attractive female dog had passed by a little while ago.
Irene’s nervousness increased. Going home, the dog hesitated; someone was standing behind the trees, watching her. Sweat broke out over her entire body under the tight nylon rain jacket. Fear made her yell at Sammie, “Come on, you stupid dog!”
He was so perplexed that he followed without protest. She hadn’t been imagining things. When they began walking briskly, she heard a twig break. Someone had stepped on a dry branch. The young birches stood tightly together. It was impossible to see anything in the deep darkness between the trees. In a flash, she made up her mind. In a fake, hearty voice, she said to Sammie, “Now we’re going to run home to master!”
Bewildered by his mistress’s quick mood swing, he hesitantly started trotting, but pretty soon he got into the swing of things. He increased his speed and ran with the leash taut as a cable behind him.
While she ran, Irene fumbled with her house key. She held it, ready, in a tight grip inside her jacket pocket. As luck would have it, she had switched on the outside lighting when she went out. Even though her hand was shaking, she managed to get the key in the lock. She quickly pulled the dog inside, shut the door behind her, and locked it.
Without taking off her shoes she went straight through the house, checked that the patio door was locked, and switched on the outdoor lights facing the yard. Then she switched off all the lamps on the ground floor and checked the windows just in case, even though she knew that they were closed. Quietly, she crouched beneath a window, so that she couldn’t be seen from the outside. She peered out but didn’t see a single living creature. Only the light rain and the wind, setting the trees’ leaves in motion.
A thought struck her: the second floor. What if the girls had left a window ajar? With a pounding heart, she ran up the stairs. But she had worried for no reason; all of the windows were closed, including the ceiling window in the combined hall and TV room.
From Jenny’s room she could look out over the backyard, which was lit. None of the neighbors had their outdoor lights on. The yard was small and well illuminated by lighting from the patio and the streetlights on the other side of the sidewalk.
Her pulse reverted to a normal rhythm. Had there really been a person watching her from the stand of trees? She had definitely heard a twig break, but a deer or some other animal might have caused it.
Irene had always depended on her intuition and it had never let her down. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but maybe a figment of her imagination had scared her this time. All of the talk about the murderer being close to her had naturally affected her. Isabell’s murder and the postcard that had come directly afterward had been directed at her, personally. The murderer must have thought that Irene was getting close to the truth of Marcus’s death far too quickly. He had killed Isabell as a warning, but maybe also to send up a smoke screen to complicate the investigation of the murders of Carmen Østergaard and Marcus Tosscander.
But why had he needed to kill Emil Bentsen? They were partners—principals and accessories in both crimes. Yet Basta had carried out the murder of Isabell on his own. Had Emil become frightened when Basta told him about the murder? They must have met soon afterward.
Emil’s mother had asked him if he knew Isabell or had heard of Scandinavian Models. Isabell was lured to the Hotel Aurora only an hour later. By whom? Not by Emil, who was in Tom’s store. Irene had seen him there with her own eyes. Bell was murdered by the person Emil had spoken with just after his conversation with Beate Bentsen. That person must have been Basta.
Maybe the picture over Emil’s bed had reminded Basta about the pictures Erik Bolin had taken the previous summer. Manpower was proof of the connection between Marcus and Basta. It had taken him some time to get Tom’s copy of the photo, but in the end he had succeeded. If Tom hadn’t happened to go into the bedroom he wouldn’t have been injured. The primary thing hadn’t been to kill Tom, but to get the picture.
But it had been his intention to kill Emil Bentsen and Erik Bolin. There were elements of mutilation and rituals. Wouldn’t it have been enough to break into Bolin’s and steal the pictures? Why had it been necessary to murder him?
The answer turned Irene’s blood to ice: because he liked killing. He wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Just the opposite: it was an instinct, an obsession. And he wouldn’t have any objections to the next victim being a certain female criminal Inspector. That would be killing two birds with one stone.
This thought made her pulse race again though there hadn’t been a single movement outside. Irene looked at the clock. Almost thirty minutes had passed since she’d locked herself in the house. Krister would soon be home. And almost at once, she heard Krister’s familiar steps coming up the cement walk to the front door.
Suddenly, she understood Basta’s strategy. She jumped up from the bed and rushed toward the stairs. The front door opened below and the light from the sconce outside spread into the dark hallway in an ever-growing fan shape. Krister stood out as a massive shadowy figure in the door opening. He stretched his hand to turn on the hall lamp.
With a primal scream Irene threw herself down the stairs. Krister jerked, which saved him from receiving a heavy baton blow on the head. It caught him on the side of his throat instead. He fell with a deep grunt.
Irene threw herself with all her weight against the strong black-clad man who had sneaked up behind Krister. With her head lowered, right shoulder first, she lunged at his chest. He was off balance from the blow he’d aimed at Krister and he tumbled backward out the door and fell into a half-sitting position. As he fell, he dropped the baton, which hit the pavement with a thud.
Irene stopped her movement forward by grabbing the door frame. The man quickly got to his feet, and his right hand darted under his jacket. Irene saw a knife blade glitter under the light. She did the only thing possible given the situation: she slammed the door shut. Then, with shaking fingers, she turned the lock.
Chapter 17
“ HE HAD THE HOOD of his sweatshirt pulled down tightly. I didn’t see much of his face but I’m absolutely sure that I recognize him,” said Irene.
Andersson looked at her thoughtfully. Finally he nodded and said, “I’ve sat and looked at that damn porn picture several times and I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I also think that there’s something familiar about him.”
“Me, too,” Hannu agreed.
The others at Monday morning prayers shook their heads regretfully.
The attack at Irene’s home had happened late Friday night. Colleagues and technicians had searched through her house and its surroundings for evidence over the weekend. Rain had fallen during the night, which made the search difficult. The only positive find was the impression of a Nike athletic shoe, size eleven, in a flower bed on the short side of the toolshed that separated the
Husses’ house from their neighbor’s. Basta must have hidden behind the shed, waiting for Krister to come home.
Krister had become dizzy after the blow but he hadn’t passed out. A police car drove him to Sahlgren Hospital to be checked. They confirmed that he had suffered trauma, with heavy bleeding and swelling. He would have to take a few days off work and go easy for a while.
Krister accepted his diagnosis with a grumble. Irene heard him say that to be attacked from behind by a crazy murderer was nothing compared to the experience of opening the door of one’s own cozy home and being met by a howling demon coming at him! He had never been so close to a heart attack in his life.
Irene was truly grateful that they had come away from their meeting with Basta as well as they had. By now she had seen far too many who hadn’t had the same luck.
“The baton he had with him wasn’t a normal policeman’s baton. It was dark brown or black. And it wasn’t made out of rubber. It sounded like he’d dropped a baseball bat when it fell against the concrete slabs of the walkway. And it seemed longer than our batons,” Irene said at morning prayers.
“Probably hickory or mahogany. The police in the USA and some Asian and African police corps use them,” said Hannu.
“Was the baton found in Emil’s closet a regular rubber baton?” Andersson asked.
“Yes,” said Irene.
“And there was blood on it from that tart,” the superintendent mentioned.
“Yes. Carmen Østergaard’s blood. That murder was committed two years ago. The conclusion has to be that the weapon used during the recent murders was this wooden baton,” said Irene.
And her husband had been knocked down with that baton. Fear chilled Irene. She hadn’t had any objections when the superintendent placed an officer at their house during the weekend and wouldn’t oppose keeping the guard there until Basta had been caught. As if he had read her thoughts, Andersson locked his gaze on Irene and said, “We’ll continue to post a guy at your house. It’s clear that that idiot is out to get you. And you aren’t going out on any investigations on your own! No personal projects for a while! He’s biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity.”
The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 Page 31