Helene Tursten - The Torso

Irene ended the call and gave the cell phone back to Birgitta, who put it in her bag again.

“Hannu knows someone who works in Cemetery Administration. He’s going to call there first. He’ll let us know as soon as he learns anything,” said Birgitta.

If there was anyone Irene knew who could open graves, it was Hannu; she was absolutely certain of that. That’s why it didn’t come as a surprise when Hannu phoned twenty minutes later and informed them that an administrator would meet them at the cemetery gates at three o’clock.

IT WAS still overcast but a mild breeze swept through the city and dried up the streets. Birgitta and Irene walked to the old cemetery.

“Henning Oppdal and Basta went exactly this way on a late January night. The X-ray technician thought that he was going to get a good fuck but instead Basta lured him into the cemetery and unlocked an old mausoleum. No wonder the guy was badly scared,” said Irene.

“Lucky for him,” Birgitta replied.

And it probably was. On a warm afternoon in June, the parklike old cemetery looked tranquil and inviting. Ideal for a contemplative walk. It was the last place one would think of as the site of macabre necrophilic rituals.

A corpulent older man stood outside the gates. He was wearing a worn brown tweed suit and sweating heavily even though it wasn’t particularly warm. He wiped his forehead and face with a large blue-checkered cotton handkerchief.

The female police officers walked up to him and showed their IDs as they introduced themselves. When he greeted them, he held out a surprisingly soft little hand that was completely soaked with perspiration.

“Gösta Olsson from Cemetery Administration. This isn’t really according to regulation but my boss didn’t think it was necessary to consider this a grave opening, because then we would need a judge’s permission. We’re only going to take a look and see what the miserable Satanists have been up to. Amazing that they’ve gotten a key! It must be a copy since we hold all of the keys to the old graves. Many of the families have died out but the graves are protected as historical monuments. They’re unique because. .”

The round man talked uninterrupted and gesticulated widely until they reached the larger grave sites that were clustered almost in the center of the cemetery. There were two mausoleums on one side of the gravel path and three across from them. They towered, like a Manhattan of the dead, over the other graves in the cemetery.

These mausoleums were impressive. They were somewhat larger than small cabins. Two were covered with white marble, one with black slate, and two with red granite. Their doors were either heavy iron or copper plated.

“Do you know which of the graves they had a key to?” Gösta Olsson asked.

“Unfortunately not. Our witness was scared and doesn’t remember,” Irene answered apologetically.

Apparently, Hannu had represented the case as one of suspected Satanism. Irene saw no reason to enlighten the administrator.

Olsson sighed heavily and passed the handkerchief over his face once more.

“It’s best if we go through all five. If you knew how much misery these Satan worshippers have caused! They turn over gravestones and cover them with wax and stearine. One time they even tried to dig up an old grave! It held the remains of a bishop who died at the end of the 1800s. But people who were living in the house on the other side of the street saw that there was some devilry going on so they called the police.”

Here he was forced to catch his breath, so Irene took the opportunity to suggest, “Maybe we should start with the closest one?”

She pointed at the copper door of one of the marble crypts. “Certainly, certainly,” the administrator said nervously.

He had to play with the lock for some time before it slowly gave way. The door was reluctant to open and complained loudly. It hasn’t been opened for many years, thought Irene.

It smelled like a damp, musty cellar. Irene switched on her powerful flashlight and let it swing over the coffins, which were piled on top of each other along the walls. She counted nineteen of them. It was so full they couldn’t have jammed in one more. The dust on the floor seemed to be untouched. She shook her head and turned toward the administrator. “No. No one has been here for years.”

“Suspected as much, because this family died out in the forties. But we’ve had two funerals in the last few years at the one next door. Very tragic. It was a father and son, but I think that the son’s wife was pregnant so there’s a survivor. But somehow the wife was involved in the father’s murder. . ”

Irene didn’t hear the rest of Olsson’s litany. She looked as if spellbound at the verdigris-encrusted copper plate on which two newly engraved names shone clearly: Richard von Knecht and Henrik von Knecht, who had died in November and December 1996, respectively.

That had been one of the most complicated cases Violent Crimes had ever been faced with. In the end they had solved it, but at the cost of many lives. The murders had had their origin in betrayal, hate, jealousy, and greed.

The motive for the murders they were investigating now was alien to the emotions of normal people.

Irene shivered despite the relative warmth of the day.

Gösta Olsson inserted the key and unlocked the door, which slid open on well-oiled hinges. A moss-covered marble angel, almost the size of an adult, kept vigil beside the iron-clad door. Irene looked into the cold stone eyes and wished that the sculpture could speak. It had probably witnessed a thing or two.

The administrator stepped to the side and let Irene enter the mausoleum first. She walked down the slippery steps, switched on her flashlight, and let the beam play around the room. Before she stepped down, she carefully shone the light across the floor. Footprints could be seen on the dust-covered stone floor.

“Fresh footprints. They could, of course, be from the funerals of two and half years ago, but I think they’re too distinct for that,” said Irene.

Ten wood and metal coffins stood in rows along the walls. The two closest to the door were shinier than the others, and Irene could read the names on the metal plates. Richard von Knecht was in the lower one; his son, Henrik, was on top. Irene inspected Henrik von Knecht’s coffin. She saw a groove in the metal. It was very recent and shone like a fresh scar right below the lid. When she looked closer she discovered several similar cuts. It wasn’t difficult to figure out how they’d been made. The lid was heavy and whoever had opened it needed to prop it up.

What should they tell the interested administrator? After a while she made up her mind, and walked back out into the sunlight.

“There are clear signs of Satanic activities in there. Entering might destroy evidence. Police technicians will arrive as soon as possible. Can we keep the key?” she asked.

Gösta Olsson became confused. He anxiously wiped his already shining head with his handkerchief. Hesitantly, he said, “Well. . I don’t know if I’m allowed to, but as you are police officers and want to investigate this problem we’ve had with Satan worshippers. . I guess there can’t be anything wrong with lending you the key, even though according to regulations we’re not allowed. .”

As calmly and professionally as possible Irene said, “We will borrow the key to let in the technicians. You can speak with your boss in the meantime. If he wants the key returned right away then call me on my cell phone. We’ll go straight to your office with the key. If there are any problems, the police will take full responsibility.”

Irene handed her card to Olsson, and patted him on his shoulder, then pointed him in the direction of the cemetery gates. Reluctantly, the administrator started moving.