Helene Tursten - The Torso

“Carmen Østergaard and Marcus Tosscander,” Irene said with an unsteady voice.

Andersson stepped up to the paintings and examined them attentively.

“Are you sure? I mean about the woman. I recognize Tosscander, of course,” he said.

“I’m absolutely sure. It’s Carmen.”

Carmen’s portrait background was violet-purple. Her wavy brown hair framed a pale gray face. Her wide-open eyes were weary and blank.

The background of Marcus’s portrait was golden ochre, beautiful against his dark hair. The warm color contrasted with the greenish gray pallor of his skin. His eyes were also wide open and dull.

“Oh my God! He’s painted their decapitated heads,” Irene exclaimed.

Andersson took a step back in order to get another angle on the pictures.

“You think so?” he said.

“I’m sure. Don’t you see?”

“It actually looks that way,” the superintendent agreed.

Hannu stood by the bookshelf and flipped through the sketch pads. “Come here and look,” he said.

The other three went over to him. Without a word, he held out a large pad and showed them the sketches on the first page. They were of Carmen’s head. Basta had drawn it from different angles. On some of them you could see the cut on the underside of the throat. There was no doubt about the fact that the head had been chopped off.

“Turn,” Hannu ordered.

Irene turned the page and they saw the sketch for the painting that was hanging on the wall.

The following five pages held sketches of internal organs. Irene could make out a heart and intestines in varying thicknesses. She had probably understood subconsciously what was coming, but when it suddenly popped up she still was very upset. First there was a detailed sketch of a severed female breast, then an interior study of a female vagina.

Irene started to feel ill. Her hands shook as she turned the pages.

The sketches of Marcus also started with a study of the head from different angles. On the next page the sketch for the painting appeared. But when Irene turned another page, she got a severe shock. There weren’t any still lifes of internal organs here. That would have been better. On the following pages there were portraits of Marcus in the exact same position and from the exact same angle. Yet each picture was different, since they represented the advancing decay of Marcus’s head.

“Damn, what a sick bastard!” Andersson exclaimed.

“That’s why he saved the head in the crypt,” said Birgitta.

Hannu came out from the kitchen alcove and said, “The fridge and the freezer are empty. Cleaned out. He’s not planning on coming home over the summer.”

He jingled a small key ring and added, “I found these. I’m going up to the attic.”

The next moment the front door closed behind him and they could hear him mounting the stairs.

“If Basta is abroad then it seems natural to guess he’s in Copenhagen,” said Irene.

“That’s not really abroad,” Birgitta objected.

“No, but he has some base there.”

“Why didn’t he tell his friend at work that he was going to Copenhagen?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know that he spends time there,” said Irene.

“Do you think that over a period of several years he’s gone to Copenhagen periodically without his friends at work knowing about it?”

“It’s not impossible if he doesn’t spend time with them outside work. He’s only an hourly employee at Pathology.”

“How long has he been working there?”

“Off and on for the last five years, according to Stridner.”

They were interrupted by Andersson’s voice. “Come and see this!”

He was looking into one of the two closets opposite the foot of the bed. Irene and Birgitta joined him. A sturdy leather jacket with a fur collar, a black suit, and a white shirt with a black tie hung in one closet. On the floor was a pair of smart black-laced shoes. In the other closet, a white doctor’s coat hung, along with a short-sleeved green smock and a pair of green cotton pants with loose cuffs at the bottom. On the floor there was a pair of green wooden clogs with “Op 1” written in black India ink on the side of the wooden sole. There was a package of operating masks and a package of examination gloves next to the shoes.

“I don’t believe it! ‘My personal physician’!” Irene exclaimed.

“What nonsense are you babbling about?” Andersson hissed, irritated.

“Marcus mentioned something about a man to his friends almost a year ago. He called him ‘my personal physician.’ And here we have a doctor’s outfit! Just like Emil was called ‘my policeman’ by Marcus, even though he was also only dressing up.”

The front door opened and Hannu returned. He was carrying a Domus bag in each hand. He had hung a black shoulder bag in shiny leather diagonally across his chest. Without a word, he walked over to them and set down the bags.

Irene saw that they were filled with clothes. She could see a pair of white jeans and a pair of red swim trunks.

“Why did he bring his clothes up to the attic?” Andersson asked.

Hannu put the shoulder bag down on the floor and stuck his hand inside.

“These aren’t his. They’re Marcus’s clothes. There’s more up there,” he said.

He took out a new EU passport with red covers and opened it. Marcus Tosscander’s beautiful smile beamed out at the three officers.

“There’s money here as well,” Hannu continued.

He hauled out a long, thin, blue plastic pouch. A thick stack of bills lay inside.

“Thai bats ,” Hannu announced.

Irene got a lump in her throat. Up to the last minute, Marcus thought that he was going to Thailand.

Suddenly, Andersson clapped his hands together and said with determination, “Now we’re going to catch him! We must try and locate relatives. Some relative should damn well know where he is! Check if he has forwarded his mail. . and all of that, which you are really good at, Hannu.”

Hannu nodded. If there was a relative, that person would be traced. And if Sebastian had left an address, Hannu would find that as well. But what would they do if he had managed to sweep away every clue as to his whereabouts? It would be a good idea to contact the police in Copenhagen, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was after five o’clock.

IT WAS almost eight o’clock when they met that night in the conference room to eat their ordered-in pizzas. Superintendent Andersson, Tommy, Irene, Birgitta, and Jonny sat around the table. Irene wondered how Andersson had reached Jonny. The last one to enter the room was Hannu.

The superintendent started with a recapitulation of the afternoon’s events. In conclusion, he turned toward Jonny and said, “Since you’re already initiated into the video film world, your assignment is to go through Sebastian Martinsson’s film collection.”

Despite Jonny’s loud protests, he was assigned to this job. Then Andersson turned to Hannu and asked, “Have you found anything?”

Hannu nodded and looked down at his papers.

“Sebastian Martinsson was born in Trollhättan twenty-nine years ago. His father was a teacher. The parents divorced shortly after the son was born. His father died of cancer when Sebastian was thirteen. The mother still lives in Trollhättan. She’s apparently an artist.”

“Have you gotten in touch with her?” Andersson asked.

“No. No one answers at that telephone number.”

Andersson looked displeased but cheered up after a little while. “We’ll have to contact our colleagues in Trollhättan so that they can go and get her. Or at least find out where she is.”

Trollhättan was located barely twenty kilometers from Vänersborg. Irene felt a pang when she thought about Vänersborg, and Monika Lind. She decided to call and see how Monika was doing. Maybe Irene could hint that they were hot on the murderer’s trail. It would, perhaps, be some comfort.