Helene Tursten - The Torso

Two autopsies were in progress. Britt Nilsson was at one of the tables, in the middle of picking out the organs from the chest. A belching sound from gases being pressed out of the windpipe could be heard as she picked up the heart and lung package.

Autopsies could seem disgusting, but no one was more aware than Irene of how important they could be. Only a dead body could tell the truth about what had really happened. The mute testimony of the corpse had to be taken down by keen and skilled medical examiners. They had to interpret what the body was really saying in order to be able to make reparations and do justice to the dead.

A young autopsy technician was in the process of sawing open the skull bone of a dead man at the other table. Irene concentrated intently on the technician. He looked up when he became aware of her presence, turned off the saw, and stared at her.

“Who are you?” he asked in a rude tone.

“Inspector Irene Huss. I’m looking for Sebastian Martinsson.”

“Now I recognize you. Sebastian is on vacation all summer. He’s studying abroad. What do you want with him?”

He sounded friendlier after having recognized her and made no attempt to conceal his curiosity. Irene pretended not to notice.

“Thanks a lot. I’ll call him at home and see if he’s still in town.”

She gave him a friendly smile and left the room at an even pace. Even if she was in a hurry she didn’t want it to be too noticeable.

“ IRAN into Superintendent Andersson in the corridor and we went together to the prosecutor. Inez Collin is handling this case,” Birgitta began.

Andersson snorted but Irene was pleased. Inez Collin was sharp and always knew what she was doing.

“That’s why Superintendent Andersson is already informed. We’ve saved a lot of time,” Birgitta continued.

Hannu, Birgitta, Superintendent Andersson, and Irene were seated in Andersson’s office. Steaming coffee mugs were placed in front of them as well as a bag of mazarin buns.

“Collin is working on a search warrant,” Andersson added.

“Good. Then it’s just a matter of driving out to Björlanda and picking him up,” said Birgitta.

“If he’s still in town. The guy in Pathology said something about Basta being off all summer to study abroad,” Irene said.

“Abroad? He’s sure as hell not supposed to leave Sweden when we’re finally close to bringing him in!” the superintendent exclaimed, displeased.

“Hopefully not. But the risk is there. I suggest that we take a locksmith with us to save some time.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Hannu.

“I’m going with you,” Andersson muttered.

Irene sensed that his nerves wouldn’t allow him to remain at the station to await their return, with or without Basta.

THE GRAY three-story concrete house dated from the earliest “million houses project,” a program to provide affordable shelter for the poor. In an attempt at softening its gloomy facade, all the balconies had been painted a bright red during the eighties. Over the years, exhaust fumes from the heavily trafficked Björlandavägen had toned down the color to a brownish red. Colorful graffiti on the walls did a better job of livening up the environment, but since it was of varying artistic quality, the impression was mixed.

The lock on the door to the building was broken so it was just a matter of stepping inside the dirty stairwell. The walls inside were also covered in graffiti, even though it was mostly edifying invectives in the form of different sexual slurs and only a few pictures.

The name plate on the second floor read S. MARTINSSON. The four police officers positioned themselves outside the door and Irene rang the bell. She felt her heart rate increase. She was finally about to see Basta, eye to eye.

After five rings, she realized that he wasn’t home. Or, if he was, he wasn’t planning on answering the doorbell. Irene opened the lid of the mail slot and peered in. She could see an advertisement on the floor and the corner of a yellow rag rug. The apartment seemed quiet and empty. Irene could hear Hannu’s voice behind her saying, “OK. You can come now.”

When she turned around, she saw him turn off his cell phone and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. In five minutes the locksmith arrived. He was a big cheerful Finn who spoke a singsong Finnish-Swedish as he opened the door. If he noticed the superintendent stomping with impatience, he didn’t comment.

When the lock clicked, he opened the door wide and threw out his hand in an inviting gesture. “There you go!”

Andersson stepped over the threshold first. Before they took a closer look at the apartment, they split up in order to check and make sure that Basta hadn’t hidden himself somewhere. The little studio apartment was quickly searched. The hallway was small and cramped. There were two closets. One of them contained wire storage bins and the other held cleaning implements. The bins were as good as empty aside from a pair of ski gloves, two thick shirts, and a long light blue scarf knitted with thick yarn. A pair of well-polished light brown boots in size eleven stood on the floor.

There was an old vacuum cleaner, a green plastic carpet beater, and an ironing board in the cleaning closet.

The door on the opposite wall led into a small bathroom. It was so small that the toilet was placed as close as possible to the bathtub. The washbasin was squeezed under the window on the short wall. The walls were painted a shade of pale green like linden tree blossoms. The floor was covered in gray tiles, several of which were cracked. Irene opened the medicine chest and determined that it was empty except for a hairbrush and a squeezed-out tube of toothpaste. The entire space was meticulously clean and fresh.

On the hall floor there was a small sun-yellow rag rug. The hall lamp was broken but light flooded in from the open door as well as through a high picture window. Irene normally wasn’t very sensitive to how people cleaned their homes, but even she had to admit that she had rarely seen such well-polished windows. White curtains woven in a pattern of flying seagulls hung on either side of the window. When Irene looked closer, she discovered that the curtains had been carefully starched.

Just to the left of the main door was a kitchen alcove a few square meters in size. A minimal stove, a fridge and freezer, and a few beige-colored kitchen cabinets shared the limited space. The small sink shone like a commercial for some miraculous cleanser.

The bedroom appeared to be sizable because it held almost no furniture. The walls were sponge-painted in a pale apricot color. In the middle of the floor was an old but faultlessly clean hooked rug in green and yellow. A bed with a simple green-and-white striped cotton bedspread stood along one of the shorter walls. By the window, there was a small pine kitchen table and two odd kitchen chairs. A cheap shelf unit from IKEA covered the entirety of the opposite wall. A small TV with a VCR stood on the middle shelf. There were no books but there were lots of videos and sketch pads in different sizes, organized in neat rows. On the bottom shelf were some stretchers for canvases.

“Wow, this guy really cleans and keeps things tidy!” Birgitta said, impressed.

Two pictures hung over the bed, the only wall decorations in the room. When Irene saw them she was speechless. She could only grab Birgitta’s arm and point.

“You’re pinching!” Birgitta cried.

When she looked in the direction indicated by Irene’s index finger, she grew quiet.

The paintings were two portraits, one of a man, the other of a woman. Their heads seemed to be floating freely in the air, since the necks were not attached to any upper body.