Helene Tursten - The Torso

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.

“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.