Helene Tursten: The Torso

“We’ve sent out an All Points Bulletin via Interpol. We don’t know where Sebastian Martinsson is. Hannu has located his car in the vehicle register. A Volkswagen Jetta, 1989 model. The license-plate number is included in the APB. Hannu checked on Saturday and Martinsson’s parking spot was empty. It’s very likely that he’s taken the car with him. A lot of things point to Copenhagen, but we don’t know if that bastard is starting to sense that we’re hot on his trail. He could have kept going and may be farther south in Europe.”

A Jetta. The witnesses who had seen the assailant after the attack on Tom Tanaka had said that he had thrown the picture into a car, which was probably a Jetta, and driven away.

Right after the morning meeting Irene went to her office and called up Cyhrén’s Funeral Home. A soft female voice answered almost immediately, “Cyhrén’s Funeral Home.”

“Good morning. My name is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. I’m looking for one Sebastian Martinsson and have been given the information that he works for you sometimes.”

“One moment and you can speak with Mr. Danielsson,” the woman replied.

After a few cracks and beeps as the call was transferred, an energetic voice could be heard. “Bo Danielsson, Director. What can I do for you?”

A quick thought flew through Irene’s head: wasn’t a funeral director supposed to sound sober and compassionate and not like a sports commentator on TV? But maybe it made the mourners and the shocked relatives get their acts together and quickly decide on their wishes for the funeral. She introduced herself and told him why she was calling.

“Sebastian Martinsson? Of course I recognize the name. One second!”

He put the receiver down on what might have been a desktop and Irene could hear him pull out some drawers. His powerful voice was soon heard. “Of course! Here he is! He has helped sometimes to carry the coffins. Strong guy!”

“Does he help out often?” Irene asked.

“No. Just sometimes when we need extra help.”

“When did he start working for you?”

“Let’s see. . ’94. He worked more often then than in the last two years, because he’s started studying in Copenhagen. Before that, he studied here in Göteborg and then, of course, it was easier for him to help out at the last minute.”

Irene could hear the surprise in her own voice when she asked, “Did he say that he was studying in Göteborg?”

“Yes. To be a doctor. Now he’s doing his specialization training in Copenhagen. I always write down this kind of personal information about extra employees. So that you know what kind of a person you’re dealing with.”

Someone studying medicine inspires trust. So much trust that he probably got to take care of the keys to very special burial chambers. Is that why he said that he was studying medicine? Or was it his secret dream? It was interesting and certainly something that the headshrinkers were going to delve deeper into during the psychiatric examination. Irene decided not to comment on Sebastian’s studies.

“May I ask a completely different question?”

“Sure! Of course!”

“Does Cyhrén’s take care of the keys to the mausoleums at Stampen’s old cemetery?”

“No. Cemetery Administration has those. We contact them when it becomes necessary to open one of the graves.”

“Did you take care of the last two funerals for the von Knecht family?”

“Yes. Why are you asking about that?”

“Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say right now.”

“Of course! I understand!”

Naturally, he didn’t understand anything but nothing made people more willing to talk than the idea that they had the trust of the police.

“So the keys are only lent out when a new family member is going to be placed in the grave?”

“Exactly!”

“Does that mean that one of the pallbearers is trusted to take care of the key?”

For the first time during their conversation he sounded hesitant when he answered. “Yes. That probably happens.”

“Can you look in your papers and see if Sebastian Martinsson was a pallbearer at the funerals of Richard von Knecht and Henrik von Knecht in November and December of 1996.”

“Of course!”

The receiver bounced down onto the desk again. This time it wasn’t enough that Danielsson pulled out the drawers in his desk. Irene heard him stomp about and after a little while she heard the sound of heavy boxes being pulled out. Vigorous steps moved toward the telephone and she had the funeral director’s keen voice in her ear again.

“He’s noted as a pallbearer at both funerals. They were buried in metal-fitted oak caskets that are very heavy. You have need of a strong man!”

Irene thought about how she was going to formulate her next question, but realized that it could only be asked straight out.

“Is there any way that Sebastian Martinsson could have had the key to the mausoleum in his possession?”

There was a decided pause. “The possibility is there. But only for a short period of time. We always ask for the key back from the one who’s in charge of it. And we always check to make sure that the key is returned. It’s a matter of the customer’s trust!” Danielsson emphasized.

“How long could he have had the key?”

“At the most one day! We need to have it back the next day to give to Cemetery Administration. We’re a big office with many employees and many projects. It gets very busy here sometimes. Usually, my right-hand man or I take care of the opening of old graves. They are rarely used. But if it has been a crazy day with many funerals, one of the pallbearers may be trusted to take care of the opening and locking of the crypt.”

A day was more than enough time to get a copy of the key made.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to answer my questions,” Irene concluded.

“No problem. Don’t hesitate to contact us again if there’s anything else,” Danielsson said.

IRENE DEVOTED several hours to writing a report of Friday’s questioning of Sabine Martinsson and the discovery of the possible dismemberment location out in Säve. At the end she also described her conversation with the funeral director while it was still fresh in her mind. Nowadays, police investigators had to waste time sitting at a keyboard for hours in order to produce a report. Formerly, civilian office workers had done that job. And the officers had been able to devote themselves to investigating crime.

Office work always put her in a bad mood. Now that mood improved slightly when Hannu stuck his head in and informed her that the technicians had found traces of human tissue in the old garage drain in Säve. The samples were being sent to Copenhagen and would be matched against Marcus Tosscander’s DNA profile. The risk was that the material had decayed so much over time that no DNA could be extracted.

“It’s amazing that the Danes can do DNA tests and other analyses in just a few days. While in Sweden the same tests take several weeks!” Irene exclaimed.

“The forwarding address for Martinsson’s mail is a post office box in Copenhagen. Have you heard anything from our colleagues there?” Hannu asked.

“No. They were going to locate the Kreuger Academy today and try and track down Sebastian’s address.”

“It’s supposedly difficult to find housing in Copenhagen.”

“For sure. That’s probably why he rented from Emil Bentsen in the beginning. My theory is that he couldn’t put up with Emil’s messiness. It was almost as dirty in his apartment as it was at Sabine Martins son’s.”

“I’ve spoken with Social Services in Trollhättan. Sabine has been an alcoholic since Sebastian was little.”

Since Social Services maintained absolute secrecy of its records, even in a police investigation, if no prosecution had started-and they only released information if the prosecution was of a very severe crime in which the penalty was more than two years in prison-Hannu must have had a contact inside the Trollhättan agency. Irene wasn’t a bit surprised. “It couldn’t have been fun growing up in a home with an alcoholic mother. Maybe his obsessive cleanliness is a reaction against the mother’s slovenly habits. I’m thinking of his obsessively clean apartment.”