Sabine gave her an irritated look. “It’s a funeral home. A good job. Needs money . . . expensive studies in Copenhagen.”
Irene quickly jumped at the opportunity. “How long has he studied in Copenhagen?” she asked.
Sabine wrinkled her thin forehead. After a while her look brightened and she informed them triumphantly, “Several years!”
“What’s he studying in Copenhagen?” Irene took pains to maintain a soft tone of voice.
Sabine straightened up on the filthy sofa and jerked her thin neck. “Painting. Art. I’m an art . . . hist, of course.”
With the last word she threw herself forward and vomited a spot of yellow bile on the floor. Hannu pulled out a package of Kleenex from his pocket. He placed several on top of each other and wiped up the stain, then disappeared into the hall. Irene heard the toilet flush.
The thin woman on the sofa sat with her hands pressed tightly over her stomach. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.
Irene became really worried. “Do you need to go back to the hospital? We can drive you.”
Sabine said, terrified, “No! There’s no point! They’ll just send me home. My liver and pancreas are gone. My fault . . . they say.”
Irene could see how much it cost Sabine to answer their questions. Desperately, the woman struggled against the haze of alcohol and pain. She must care about her son.
“When was the last time you saw Basta?” Irene asked.
At first she couldn’t understand what had gone wrong but when she saw Sabine’s eyes glowing with hate she realized that she had blundered. “Don’t say Basta!” Sabine hissed with rage. “How can you know ... ? Not Basta! Sebbe! Sebbe!”
Hannu slid through the doorway. He gave Irene a wondering look but she could only shake her head in response. Carefully, she asked, “Do you not like it when people call him Basta?”
“No! No!” she said firmly.
“I’m sorry but that’s the nickname he has given to other people. And his friends at work call him Basta. Sebastian himself can’t have anything against it,” Irene continued.
Sabine looked at Irene mistrustfully.
“Does he call himself . . . that?”
“Yes. Basta.”
“His . . . shit heap of a father always called him . . . that,” Sabine whispered.
So Sebastian Martinsson had used the nickname his father had given him when he was alive. But he had died when Sebastian was thirteen. The psychologists could probably figure out what this meant when they examined him. Too bad that he hadn’t called himself Sebbe; then it would have been much easier to guess his full name.
Irene tried again. “When was the last time you spoke with Sebastian?”
Sabine leaned back, her hands still pressed hard against her stomach.
“I don’t know. Maybe at Christmas,” she mumbled.
Apparently mother and son were not in close contact, Irene concluded. She remembered something she had to ask. “Had Sebastian injured the tip of his left index finger?”
Sabine tried to focus her suspicious look on Irene. “Why . . . are you asking?”
“One of his friends at work said something about an injured fingertip. It may be good to mention it if we need to conduct a search for him,” Irene said innocently.
Sabine nodded and sighed. “He crushed it . . . in the main school door when he was living here . . . with me.”
Her chest heaved after the long sentence as she fought for breath.
“Do you know where he lives in Copenhagen?” Irene asked.
“No. He’s moved . . . different places.”
She closed her eyes. Irene worried that she would fall asleep. Quickly, Irene asked, “Do you know the name of the school he’s attending?”
Sabine opened her eyelids slightly. With difficulty she straightened up. Hesitantly, she said, “Not a school . . . Kreuger . . . Academy or something.”
Kreuger? Wasn’t he a Swede, the match king? Maybe he had founded an art school in Copenhagen? She would have to call her colleagues there as soon as possible.
For the first time Hannu broke into the questioning. He asked, “Sabine, is there a place out near Säve that Sebastian might have access to?”
“Säve? My little house . . . inherited from my parents. Can’t live there. Burned down. . . .”
“Do you still own the house?”
Sabine nodded in response. She sat with her head hanging. Now and then a low groan escaped her.
Since Sabine had just been released from the hospital there really wasn’t any sense in trying to have her admitted again. No one wanted to touch Sabine with a ten-foot pole. No one, except for her cavaliers in the kitchen.
When Irene got up to leave, Sabine’s clawlike hand shot up and gripped the lower part of Irene’s jacket hard.
“Find him . . . please,” she wheezed.
Irene reassured her with the greatest sincerity, while at the same time freeing the jacket fabric from her grasp. “We’ll do everything we can.”
They stepped over the man in the hall, who was still snoring peacefully.
“WHAT WAS she talking about when she said that he works at a funeral home? Basta works in Pathology!” said Irene
She was holding on to the steering wheel as they zoomed toward Göteborg again, just above the speed limit. Hannu sat for a while before he answered. “The suit.”
The man could be insanely irritating but Irene knew that he was often right and his conclusions correct. The irritating part was that he was the only one who understood what he meant but he thought it should be crystal clear to everyone. He went through several ideas mentally and then stated the last one, often monosyllabically. Everyone around him gaped and looked like an idiot. Right now only Irene was around him, but she was no exception.
“What damn suit?”
She hadn’t meant to hiss, but it turned out that way. As usual, Hannu was unaffected.
“The suit in the closet,” he said.
A sober black suit had hung in Basta’s closet, with a white shirt and a black tie. A pair of black-laced shoes stood on the floor. Altogether, the prevalent clothing for employees at a funeral home when they were going to assist in burials.
“You’re right. I had forgotten. The doctor’s outfit was more interesting to me. Police uniforms and operating clothing . . . God! They’re playing dress up.”
“Both Emil and Basta knew what they were doing. It was never a game. They were planning and preparing for the murders of Carmen and Marcus,” Hannu said.
Irene reminded herself of the scenes from the videotapes they had found at Emil’s. Emil and Basta had procured a video camera and a circular saw before they killed Carmen.
“I’ll find out where Sabine’s house is located,” Hannu said.
He took out his cell phone and called a number in his address book. Irene could hear someone answer and the start of a conversation in Finnish. The only part she recognized was something about “entry into the land register,” but she wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly.
Hannu turned off the cell phone and said shortly, “He’ll call.”
If Irene hadn’t known Hannu she definitely would have asked “Who?” But now she knew him, so she didn’t ask. She didn’t doubt for a second that his cell phone would ring soon and they would get the address of Sabine’s house in Säve.
“Have you ever heard of the Kreuger Academy?” she asked instead.
“No.”
“I’ll have to phone Copenhagen when we get to the station.”
IRENE WOULD have liked to have taken a shower after their visit to Sabine Martinsson. The smell of dirt, human degradation, poverty, and destitution had an uncomfortable ability to stick to you. But it wasn’t the first time she had wandered around in that environment and it would hardly be the last time, either. Like a wet dog, she shook off the worst of it and decided to start working.
Before she had had time to dial the number for Vesterbro her cell phone rang.
&n
bsp; “Irene Huss.”
“Tom speaking.”
Joy made Irene’s heart skip a beat.
“Tom! So nice of you to call! That means you’ve come home. How are you feeling?”
“That’s right, I’ve come home. All things considered, I feel good. I’ve felt better. I should probably be thankful that I’m alive. But I’m not calling to complain. I wanted to thank you for the flowers. Your friend Peter Møller brought them to me. Beautiful orchids, which are actually my favorite flowers. Thanks.”
A thought struck Irene: what if Basta was in Copenhagen and decided to take care of an unfinished job? Tom was the only one of his victims who had survived. Should she warn him? Hesitantly, she said, “Tom. We’ve gotten a lead. We probably know who the murderer is. Did Emil or Marcus ever mention the name Basta?”
The silence became loaded. Finally, Tom said shortly, “No.”
“Do you know of any art school called the Kreuger Academy?”
“Not Kreu . . . no.”
Irene heard him stop himself. When he didn’t continue, she asked, “Did Emil or Marcus ever talk about someone they knew who was studying art?”
“Yes. For a while Emil rented to a guy who was studying art. I think his name was Sebastian. Is he the one called Basta?”
“Yes.”
Again a fraught silence ensued.
“Is this Basta the murderer?” Tom asked finally.
“A lot of evidence points to him. He could be in Copenhagen right now. You must be on your guard. We don’t know how he thinks. Maybe you’re a failure he has to fix. You survived.”
“Such a klutz. But he wasn’t after me; he was after the picture on the wall. Why did he want it?”
“He’s the one in the picture.”
“Aha.”
Afterward, Irene felt a deep and sincere thankfulness that Tom had made it through alive.
After two mugs of coffee, she called her colleagues at Vesterbro. Jens Metz answered, just as Irene had expected.
“Hi, Jens. Irene Huss. We spoke with Sebastian Martinsson’s mother about an hour ago. We have good reason to believe that he is in Copenhagen now. She maintains that he’s studying art at the Kreuger Academy.”
“The Kreuger Academy? I’ve never heard of it but we’ll find out about it pretty quickly. Anything else?”
“We’re going to go out to an old house that is owned by Martinsson’s mother. My colleague thinks that that’s where Marcus Tosscander was dismembered.”
“Now we’re as good as certain that the old, abandoned shipyard is where Carmen was dismembered. We’re in the process of comparing the video film and most of it matches. Did you get an address where Sebastian could be found?”
“No. The mother is an alcoholic and was completely drunk when we questioned her. She didn’t have any idea about where he lives in Copenhagen.”
“We’ll have to start looking for that academy. But there won’t be anyone there now. It’s almost four o’clock on a Friday afternoon in June. The art school is probably closed for the summer.”
“Quite possible. Have a good weekend. Keep in touch.”
HANNU WAS leaning over a map when Irene entered his office. He put his index finger on a dot on the map and said, “Here.”
Irene leaned forward and saw that he was scrutinizing a detailed map of northern and western Hising Island. His index finger was located just by the coast.
“We’ll have to drive by Björlanda shooting range. Then it will be a matter of following a lot of small forest roads. We’ll take the map with us,” Irene determined.
Hannu nodded and put it inside his jacket.
IT WAS sunny and clear but the wind blew cold from the sea, if it still was the sea, since they were also close to the mouth of the river. Irene thought that the water had a browner tone, but it may have been her imagination.
For the last part of the trip, they had bumped along a barely visible gravel road. The only two houses along the road looked like old allotment garden sheds. They looked shabby and run-down. Sabine Martinsson’s house, or what remained of it, was located farthest out toward the water, just fifty meters from the cliffs. Apparently it had once been a small summer cottage but now there wasn’t much left of it. A half-collapsed brick column pointing accusingly up at the sky.
“It burned twenty years ago. No insurance,” said Hannu.
They parked in front of the ruins and stepped out of the car.
“There,” said Hannu.
He pointed at a decaying garage a bit farther back of the ruins. It was quite small but solidly built out of cement, with a roof made of corrugated steel. Rust had turned the roof a dull brown color. A little bird flew in and out of it through a hole in the roof.
The wooden entry looked dry to the point of cracking but it had a sturdy new lock. Hannu went back to the car and got a crowbar. He shoved it into the opening by the lock and broke it. With a dry crunch, the lock fell to the ground. The hinges whined stubbornly when he threw open the half doors.
Straight ahead there was a window situated relatively high up on the wall. Old junk was piled up beneath it. By the door Irene saw two trestles stacked up. A large piece of fiberboard leaned against the wall across from them.
Hannu was as motionless as Irene. He peered in without entering the garage. Then he pointed at the window.
“Look.”
The June sky was still bathed in daylight, but through the dirty glass Irene could see the blinking lights of a plane, which was descending for a landing.
Chapter 20
MONIKA LIND CALLED ONCE over the weekend and asked why the puppy didn’t want to lie in its brand-new basket in the evenings. He had wandered around and cried. Not until they had pulled him up onto the bed had he fallen asleep, completely exhausted. Irene recognized all of it. She calmed Monika by saying that Sammie had never used his basket either; they had sold it after a year. Monika thanked her for her reassurance and told Irene that they had named the puppy Frasse.
ON SUNDAY afternoon, Irene devoted some time to looking through the yellow pages. Under the heading Funeral Homes, she found Cyhrén’s Funeral Home. Had Sebastian really been a member of the staff of the funeral home? Or had he just been an hourly employee, working sporadically? She decided to contact the funeral home the first thing Monday morning.
Later that same night Jonny Blom called. It had never happened before, despite the fact that they had been working together in Violent Crimes for twelve years. Katarina took the call and when she yelled: “Mamma! It’s Jonny!” At first Irene hadn’t known who was calling.
“This is Irene Huss,” she said, waiting.
“Howdy. It’s Jonny. I’ve found the films. The damn psycho is slicing and dicing his corpses to his heart’s content. And he’s dressed like a doctor. One who is op . . . rating.”
He slurred the last word, but Irene had already sensed that he was drunk. Very drunk. She could understand that it might be an advantage to have a certain degree of blood alcohol concentration to make it through the films. But it also meant that his judgment was affected. There was a risk that he might damage one of the films. Cautiously, Irene asked, “Where are you watching the films?”
He immediately exploded. “What the hell! Do you think I’m sitting at home showing them to my wife and kids? Obviously, I’m at the station!”
“Good. Do you want me to come down?” asked Irene.
“For lack of anyone better. Hannu isn’t home. I just called.”
“OK. Are you in interrogation room number four?” The best video equipment was in that room.
“Yes.”
“Have a cup of coffee while you wait. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”
“Coffee and coffee. You and your coffee!” he snarled.
“I’ll be there soon. Good-bye.”
Irene rushed out to the car. She blessed the fact that they had eaten dinner several hours ago. She had a strong feeling that she wasn’t going to be hungry after the scenes she was about
to see.
INTERROGATION ROOM number four was empty. Two unmarked videos lay on the table next to a half-eaten cinnamon roll. In the light from the ceiling fixture Irene could make out several wet rings on the table, from bottles and glasses. She looked in the wastepaper basket, but it was empty. Jonny had cleaned up before she had arrived.
She heard steps in the corridor and the door was yanked open. Jonny had wet-combed his hair and he reeked of aftershave. The effect was a bit comical, since he plainly hadn’t shaved in two days.
“I’m going to the john. You can watch the films yourself. I’ve seen enough.”
Before Irene had time to reply, he shut the door. She could hear his steps disappearing down the corridor.
Irene felt ill at ease as she looked at the black plastic tapes. They felt threatening. She knew what they contained. A thought struck her: were these the original cassettes or had Jonny made copies? After a quick search of the room she assumed that these were the originals. Because the equipment was at hand she decided to make copies of the tapes herself. It was important not to cover them with even more fingerprints, so she put on a pair of cotton gloves. When the copying was finished she put the originals in plastic bags to send to Forensics.
The films were just as horrid as she had expected. Worse, they were painfully long, each of them more than an hour. On the film showing the gutting of Carmen Østergaard, Sebastian wasn’t wearing a mask or anything on his head, though he had worn a thick green mask and an operating cap during the dismemberment of Marcus. Otherwise he was dressed the same in both of the films—in a white buttoned-up doctor’s coat, a green smock, and green operating pants.
Irene thought about Sebastian’s clothing. On the doctor’s outfit that they had found in his closet there wasn’t the slightest trace of blood. In fact, it was just the opposite: the clothes had appeared to be newly washed. Based on that fact one could conclude that after his dissections Sebastian had deposited the soiled clothes with dirty laundry at work. The fact that there was a fresh set hanging in his closet could mean just one thing: he was preparing to cut up a new victim. A shortage of time combined with distance from a good dismemberment location had kept Sebastian from cleaning out Isabell Lind, Emil Bentsen, and Erik Bolin in the same way he had mutilated Marcus Tosscander and Carmen Østergaard.
The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 Page 37