Helene Tursten - The Torso

When he had disappeared through the gates Irene turned to Birgitta and said, “This is the one. Someone has been here, digging around in Henrik von Knecht’s coffin. We have to lift the lid and see what’s happened.”

Birgitta made a face without saying anything. She had seen worse things than a corpse that had been dead for two and a half years.

They went into the mausoleum together. Irene set the lit flashlight on top of the next coffin lid.

“Look at the grooves. They’re recent,” she pointed out.

Birgitta took a closer look and nodded. They positioned themselves on the long side of the coffin. Each took a firm hold of one edge of the lid.

“One, two, threeee,” Irene counted.

They pulled with all their strength and managed to shift the lid.

The shrouded corpse of Henrik von Knecht lay inside. But that wasn’t what made Irene and Birgitta recoil. There was also a head in a state of advanced decay next to the corpse.

“SO WE’VE found Marcus Tosscander’s head. But there weren’t any arms or legs in the crypt or whatever it’s called,” said Superintendent Andersson.

“Mausoleum,” corrected Irene.

Andersson pretended not to hear her. He continued, “Under no circumstances is this allowed to get out to the press. If it does, Basta will know we’re hot on his trail.”

“Are we going to watch the graveyard?” Fredrik Stridh wondered.

“I’ve already posted a guard,” Andersson replied.

The technicians had been working all evening to secure the scene. Svante Malm had shown up at morning prayers. Now it was his turn to speak. “Professor Stridner has promised to be in touch as soon as the identification of the head has been made with the help of dental records and X-rays. A medical odontologist will be present during the morning. But based on what remained, Irene and Birgitta have established that it is Marcus Tosscander’s head.”

The image of the decaying head quickly fluttered through Irene’s mind. Marcus’s beautiful features had vanished forever. A vague thought about the mortality of all beauty was forming in her head, but she had to let it go in order to concentrate on what Svante was saying.

“There’s no evidence to support the theory that a murder was committed inside the burial chamber. However, we’ve found footprints. When we sorted out the ones Irene and Birgitta made when they went in, two sets remained. A pair of heavy boots, size eleven, and a pair of athletic shoes, also size eleven. Right now we’re in the process of matching the prints to the one we secured over the weekend from the flower bed outside Irene’s house. We’ve also sent copies to Copenhagen in case they have footprints from any of their crime scenes.”

Where had there been a footprint? Irene strained to recall: there had been a print on the outer edge of the big pool of blood at the hotel room where Isabell was found. At the time, Irene had thought that it had been made by one of the police officers who had clumsily stepped in the blood. But what if she’d been wrong, what if it turned out to have been made by an athletic shoe, size eleven! That would be the first evidence incriminating Basta for the murder of Isabell.

“We’ve also found some long blond strands of hair, but they’re very light and don’t really match with the description of Basta,” said Svante.

A thought struck Irene. “That could be hair from the older Mrs. von Knecht. She’s very blonde.”

“Very possible. They were found in the coffin, where the head lay.”

Svante knelt and rummaged in his dark blue bag. Then he waved a paper in front of them.

“A fax from Copenhagen. They think that they’ve found the location where the first dismemberment took place. Apparently, the interior matches that on the video. It’s a small shipyard north of Copenhagen that has been abandoned a few years, and will be torn down this summer. Our colleagues in Denmark have requested the fingerprints. It’ll be interesting to see if the ones we believe belong to Basta are found at the Danish crime scenes,” he said.

Irene had her misgivings but, on the other hand, Basta had made some mistakes. Each one of them had been small but, put together, the accumulation of evidence made a serious case against him. Now it was just a matter of determining his identity and catching him.

Irene glanced at the clock. It was almost 9:00 a.m. Henning Oppdal should arrive any minute. She excused herself.

HE DIDN’T look anything like the man she had pictured. The owner of the soft voice turned out to be a rather large man, in good shape, definitely not corpulent. He was of average height and about twenty-five years old. His thick black hair stood straight up on his head. A friendly blue gaze was aimed at Irene through thick glasses enclosed by round, steel frames.

Irene had turned Manpower toward the wall. She didn’t want the picture to distract the witness.

“It was good of you to come, Henning. I have a picture I would like you to see a little later. But first, I’d like to ask some follow-up questions. Is that OK?”

“Of course,” said Henning.

“Have you ever seen Basta at a meeting of Gays in the Health-Care Services?”

“No. Never,” he answered firmly.

“Had you seen him earlier, before you met at the Central Station in January?”

“No.”

“You’ve never seen him at a gay club or anywhere else?”

“No.”

“Do you often go to gay clubs and other gay hangouts?”

“Yes. When I go out it’s oft. . often to those kinds of places.”

“And you’ve never seen Basta at any of them?” she repeated.

“No.”

“Do you have any idea who he is or where he can be found?”

Henning shook his head vigorously. “No. And I don’t intend to look ei. . either.”

“You haven’t heard anyone else talk about an event similar to the one you experienced?”

“No. But it’s unlikely that anyone would talk about something like that. I haven’t mentioned what happened to anyone except you and Pontus. And that was only because Pontus started talking about his conversation with you. About necro. . necrophilia and stuff like that. Then I wanted to speak about it.”

Irene nodded. She walked over to the picture, turned it around, and stepped to one side.

“Do you recognize this man?” she asked.

Henning stared at Manpower .

“It’s not possible to see the face but it very well co. . could be Basta,” he said finally.

He smiled mischievously, adding, “Where can I buy this poster?” “It can’t be bought. It’s an exhibition photo.”

“Is Basta a photo model?” Henning asked, interested.

Irene decided not to reveal the photographer’s identity. The papers had feasted on the murder of Erik Bolin. No one outside the police station was aware of the picture of Basta. Basta couldn’t know that the police had already connected the attack on Tom to the murder of the photographer. He also didn’t know where Manpower was right now, if Erik Bolin hadn’t had time to tell him before he was killed.

“We don’t know anything about Basta. Actually, we’re not even sure that it’s Basta in the picture. Right now it’s just a suspicion. One among all of the leads we’re looking into. I would be very grateful if you didn’t speak with your friends about this picture. It may be very important but it could be a false lead,” said Irene.

Henning managed to tear his eyes away from Manpower and looked at Irene. She started thinking about a friendly blue-eyed owl when he blinked at her from behind his thick lenses.

“OK. I won’t say anything. But what a pi. . picture!”

Irene understood his reaction but her own attitude was ambivalent. The dark silhouette in the sunlight felt more and more threatening and full of malice.