The Torso

Chapter 17

“ HE HAD THE HOOD of his sweatshirt pulled down tightly. I didn’t see much of his face but I’m absolutely sure that I recognize him,” said Irene.

Andersson looked at her thoughtfully. Finally he nodded and said, “I’ve sat and looked at that damn porn picture several times and I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I also think that there’s something familiar about him.”

“Me, too,” Hannu agreed.

The others at Monday morning prayers shook their heads regretfully.

The attack at Irene’s home had happened late Friday night. Colleagues and technicians had searched through her house and its surroundings for evidence over the weekend. Rain had fallen during the night, which made the search difficult. The only positive find was the impression of a Nike athletic shoe, size eleven, in a flower bed on the short side of the toolshed that separated the Husses’ house from their neighbor’s. Basta must have hidden behind the shed, waiting for Krister to come home.

Krister had become dizzy after the blow but he hadn’t passed out. A police car drove him to Sahlgren Hospital to be checked. They confirmed that he had suffered trauma, with heavy bleeding and swelling. He would have to take a few days off work and go easy for a while.

Krister accepted his diagnosis with a grumble. Irene heard him say that to be attacked from behind by a crazy murderer was nothing compared to the experience of opening the door of one’s own cozy home and being met by a howling demon coming at him! He had never been so close to a heart attack in his life.

Irene was truly grateful that they had come away from their meeting with Basta as well as they had. By now she had seen far too many who hadn’t had the same luck.

“The baton he had with him wasn’t a normal policeman’s baton. It was dark brown or black. And it wasn’t made out of rubber. It sounded like he’d dropped a baseball bat when it fell against the concrete slabs of the walkway. And it seemed longer than our batons,” Irene said at morning prayers.

“Probably hickory or mahogany. The police in the USA and some Asian and African police corps use them,” said Hannu.

“Was the baton found in Emil’s closet a regular rubber baton?” Andersson asked.

“Yes,” said Irene.

“And there was blood on it from that tart,” the superintendent mentioned.

“Yes. Carmen Østergaard’s blood. That murder was committed two years ago. The conclusion has to be that the weapon used during the recent murders was this wooden baton,” said Irene.

And her husband had been knocked down with that baton. Fear chilled Irene. She hadn’t had any objections when the superintendent placed an officer at their house during the weekend and wouldn’t oppose keeping the guard there until Basta had been caught. As if he had read her thoughts, Andersson locked his gaze on Irene and said, “We’ll continue to post a guy at your house. It’s clear that that idiot is out to get you. And you aren’t going out on any investigations on your own! No personal projects for a while! He’s biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity.”

Irene was uneasy, not because the superintendent was talking about her private investigation in Copenhagen, but because she realized how right he was. Basta had been very clear about his intentions. He wasn’t afraid of attacking her family. Their daughters had carefully been instructed not to open the door for strangers, not to go out alone in the evenings or at night, and to take other necessary safety precautions.

“What a horrible job you have!” Jenny had sighed. For the first time in her life, Irene almost agreed with her.

“Are we getting closer to identifying this man?” Andersson asked.

Birgitta asked permission to speak.

“I’ve called everyone on the lists from Marcus’s computer. I’ve been able to cross off most of them right away. They’ve been business contacts. But there are several interesting people in his phone book. I haven’t been able to get a few of them. I think many of the ones I’ve already spoken with have had interesting reactions. Some have said, ‘Am I in his phone book? We’ve only seen each other once,’ and others, ‘Am I still in his phone book? We haven’t seen each other for years.’ I think this means that Marcus was very careful about keeping track of his partners and even one-night stands. That’s why I think it’s highly likely that Basta is on the list.”

Irene had avoided the boring lists of names on purpose but realized now that there was every reason to get to work on them. Birgitta was right. Basta was probably in there somewhere. Give the thing you fear a name and gain control over it, thought Irene. Loudly she said, “What can the nickname Basta stand for?”

“Basta. Bastu. Bastuklubb!” Jonny grinned. “Steamy! Like a bath-house.”

“Maybe he’s strict. Basta could refer to that,” Birgitta suggested.

“There could be something there. Marcus was evidently a masochist. Basta could mean a strict enforcer,” Irene agreed.

Hannu spoke up. “I’ve been thinking about the location where they dismembered Marcus. On the video you can see a window high up on the wall. Twice you can see blinking lights that are moving. It’s dark outside. The lights can clearly be seen. I’ve contacted a friend who is an air traffic controller and have shown it to him. He says that the first light you can see is that of a helicopter taking off and the other is an airplane that’s landing.

“That’s a clue. But which airfield can it be? Landvetter?” Andersson wondered.

“No. The plane is small. It must be Säve. That’s the only one with enough traffic for there to be two light aircraft in ten minutes. I’m thinking about checking to see if there are any interesting locations nearby,” said Hannu.

Irene thought this seemed soundly reasoned. They had to start looking for the location and this was a start. Everyone else had been completely focused on the macabre scene that had played on the television screen. As usual, Hannu had been thinking for himself.

“And we’ll return to our lists,” Irene pointed out and nodded at Birgitta.

“It’s probably safest that way. To have you here in the station,” the superintendent muttered.

IRENE PUTa red mark next to the names of people she couldn’t contact and those she thought would be interesting to meet face to face. She had gone through over twenty names and put a red mark next to five of them. If Basta wasn’t among these five, then she would have to go back to the list and go through more names. It was boring and time consuming. There wasn’t much police action, drama, or glamour in this kind of thing. But that was how you solved a crime: you didn’t set aside any project until it had been thoroughly checked and judged to be exhausted.

Just as she was stretching her hand out to make the twenty-fifth call, her phone rang.

“Inspector Irene Huss,” she answered.

“My name is Hen. . Henning Oppdal,” said a soft man’s voice.

Irene couldn’t decide if the man was stammering because of a speech impediment or just because he was nervous. She sensed a faint Norwegian accent. The name didn’t mean anything to her.

“What can I help you with?” she asked in a friendly manner.

“I know Pontus. He said that I should. . should call you.” Pontus? Irene needed to think before she recalled him.

“Ohh, you know Pontus Zander. Do you also work in the health field?”

“Yes. I’m an X-ray technician.”

This was followed by silence. Each was waiting for the other to continue.

“Why did Pontus think you should contact me?” Irene finally asked in order to move the conversation along.

“I told him about something. A terrible thing I experienced over the winter. Pontus had apparently spoken with you about the mur. . murder of Marcus Tosscander. And you had talked about some sick things. Like nec. . necrophilia and stuff like that.”

“That’s right. We know that Marcus’s murderer is involved with things like that. Did you know Marcus?”

“No, I’ve never met him.”

“But you’ve experienced something that may have a connection to necrophilia. Have I understood you correctly?”

“Yes. At the end of January I met a guy at a bar at the Central Station. We met and, well, we were attracted to each other. After a while he thought we should leave to. . together. We walked along Stampgatan. I thought we were going to go home to his place, but it wasn’t like that.”

“Sorry for interrupting, but what did he look like? Did he say his name?”

“He was tall and in good shape. Shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail. I don’t know his real name. He just said that his name was B …Basta.”

Irene felt her pulse rate increase but didn’t say anything. Henning continued. “At the cemetery that is right next to Sta. . Stampgatan, he said, ‘We’ll go in here. I have a really cozy place here.’ I thought it sounded strange and it was below freezing that night. But I went along anyway. It was dark and terrifying! But he walked straight to a large mausoleum with an iron door. Then he took out a key and unlocked it. I was scared to death. I turned and rushed toward the ga. . gates. As luck would have it, he had left them open.”

“Did he run after you?”

“I don’t know. I’m a long-distance runner. I run several mi. . miles a week. He wouldn’t have had a chance if he had tried to catch me.”

You should thank your lucky stars for that. You’ve probably never been that close to death before, thought Irene. She said aloud, “Where was the mausoleum located? In the cemetery itself, I mean.”

“Straight ahead. Maybe a hundred meters from the entrance.”

There was every reason to investigate the mausoleum. Stampen’s old burial ground was known for lavish graves and mausoleums. At the last moment, Irene remembered that she wasn’t allowed to go out alone. It would be best to ask a colleague to accompany her.

“Is it possible for you to come to the police station? I have a photo I would really like you to take a look at,” she said.

“I cou. . could probably do that. I’m off work tomorrow.”

“Can you come around nine o’clock?”

“That would be fine.”

Irene thanked him for calling and put down the receiver.

Wow! Basta had been cruising on his own in January, without Emil. Or hadn’t he planned to kill Henning? Was the cemetery just a morbid place to have sex that attracted Basta? Thank God they’d never know, since Henning got away. But maybe she could find evidence there, maybe someone hadn’t been so lucky?

Irene decided to check out the grave right after lunch.

BIRGITTA AND Irene had eaten a good lunch at the Central Station’s restaurant. The bustle of people outside contrasted with the turn-of-the-century atmosphere of the restaurant. The dark wood paneling on the walls made for a calm atmosphere even if the restaurant was completely full. The daily special, pasta marinara, was definitely approved. While they were eating, Irene described Henning’s phone call.

Birgitta listened without interrupting. When Irene was finished she said, “We need to take a look at the mausoleum, if we can find the right one. We’ll probably have to check out several of them.”

Irene nodded. “What do we do?” she asked. “How should we proceed?”

Birgitta took out her cell phone and said, “We’ll call Hannu. He’ll know.”

She speed-dialed a number. “Hi, sweetie. Where are you?”

It sounded strange to Irene to hear Birgitta call Hannu “sweetie.” But maybe one gets used to it, she thought.

Birgitta said, with a look at Irene, “Of course. But first you have to help us with something. We need to look in some mausoleums at Stampen’s old cemetery. No, not dig up. These are the kind of graves that have doors and walls. Like little houses. Irene got a tip today that has to do with Basta. Do you know who to talk to when you need to have those doors unlocked?”

She listened and nodded before she said, “OK. Call if it works out.” Birgitta handed the phone to Irene.

“Hi, Irene. I asked Birgitta to see if you can come along when I question Sara Bolin. But there won’t be enough time today. Can you come with me tomorrow morning?”

“No. I’m going to meet the witness who provided the tip about the graveyard. But after eleven will be OK,” said Irene.

“Then I’ll get in touch with Sara and make an appointment after eleven.”

Irene ended the call and gave the cell phone back to Birgitta, who put it in her bag again.

“Hannu knows someone who works in Cemetery Administration. He’s going to call there first. He’ll let us know as soon as he learns anything,” said Birgitta.

If there was anyone Irene knew who could open graves, it was Hannu; she was absolutely certain of that. That’s why it didn’t come as a surprise when Hannu phoned twenty minutes later and informed them that an administrator would meet them at the cemetery gates at three o’clock.

IT WAS still overcast but a mild breeze swept through the city and dried up the streets. Birgitta and Irene walked to the old cemetery.

“Henning Oppdal and Basta went exactly this way on a late January night. The X-ray technician thought that he was going to get a good fuck but instead Basta lured him into the cemetery and unlocked an old mausoleum. No wonder the guy was badly scared,” said Irene.

“Lucky for him,” Birgitta replied.

And it probably was. On a warm afternoon in June, the parklike old cemetery looked tranquil and inviting. Ideal for a contemplative walk. It was the last place one would think of as the site of macabre necrophilic rituals.

A corpulent older man stood outside the gates. He was wearing a worn brown tweed suit and sweating heavily even though it wasn’t particularly warm. He wiped his forehead and face with a large blue-checkered cotton handkerchief.

The female police officers walked up to him and showed their IDs as they introduced themselves. When he greeted them, he held out a surprisingly soft little hand that was completely soaked with perspiration.

“Gösta Olsson from Cemetery Administration. This isn’t really according to regulation but my boss didn’t think it was necessary to consider this a grave opening, because then we would need a judge’s permission. We’re only going to take a look and see what the miserable Satanists have been up to. Amazing that they’ve gotten a key! It must be a copy since we hold all of the keys to the old graves. Many of the families have died out but the graves are protected as historical monuments. They’re unique because. .”

The round man talked uninterrupted and gesticulated widely until they reached the larger grave sites that were clustered almost in the center of the cemetery. There were two mausoleums on one side of the gravel path and three across from them. They towered, like a Manhattan of the dead, over the other graves in the cemetery.

These mausoleums were impressive. They were somewhat larger than small cabins. Two were covered with white marble, one with black slate, and two with red granite. Their doors were either heavy iron or copper plated.

“Do you know which of the graves they had a key to?” Gösta Olsson asked.

“Unfortunately not. Our witness was scared and doesn’t remember,” Irene answered apologetically.

Apparently, Hannu had represented the case as one of suspected Satanism. Irene saw no reason to enlighten the administrator.

Olsson sighed heavily and passed the handkerchief over his face once more.

“It’s best if we go through all five. If you knew how much misery these Satan worshippers have caused! They turn over gravestones and cover them with wax and stearine. One time they even tried to dig up an old grave! It held the remains of a bishop who died at the end of the 1800s. But people who were living in the house on the other side of the street saw that there was some devilry going on so they called the police.”

Here he was forced to catch his breath, so Irene took the opportunity to suggest, “Maybe we should start with the closest one?”

She pointed at the copper door of one of the marble crypts. “Certainly, certainly,” the administrator said nervously.

He had to play with the lock for some time before it slowly gave way. The door was reluctant to open and complained loudly. It hasn’t been opened for many years, thought Irene.

It smelled like a damp, musty cellar. Irene switched on her powerful flashlight and let it swing over the coffins, which were piled on top of each other along the walls. She counted nineteen of them. It was so full they couldn’t have jammed in one more. The dust on the floor seemed to be untouched. She shook her head and turned toward the administrator. “No. No one has been here for years.”

“Suspected as much, because this family died out in the forties. But we’ve had two funerals in the last few years at the one next door. Very tragic. It was a father and son, but I think that the son’s wife was pregnant so there’s a survivor. But somehow the wife was involved in the father’s murder. . ”

Irene didn’t hear the rest of Olsson’s litany. She looked as if spellbound at the verdigris-encrusted copper plate on which two newly engraved names shone clearly: Richard von Knecht and Henrik von Knecht, who had died in November and December 1996, respectively.

That had been one of the most complicated cases Violent Crimes had ever been faced with. In the end they had solved it, but at the cost of many lives. The murders had had their origin in betrayal, hate, jealousy, and greed.

The motive for the murders they were investigating now was alien to the emotions of normal people.

Irene shivered despite the relative warmth of the day.

Gösta Olsson inserted the key and unlocked the door, which slid open on well-oiled hinges. A moss-covered marble angel, almost the size of an adult, kept vigil beside the iron-clad door. Irene looked into the cold stone eyes and wished that the sculpture could speak. It had probably witnessed a thing or two.

The administrator stepped to the side and let Irene enter the mausoleum first. She walked down the slippery steps, switched on her flashlight, and let the beam play around the room. Before she stepped down, she carefully shone the light across the floor. Footprints could be seen on the dust-covered stone floor.

“Fresh footprints. They could, of course, be from the funerals of two and half years ago, but I think they’re too distinct for that,” said Irene.

Ten wood and metal coffins stood in rows along the walls. The two closest to the door were shinier than the others, and Irene could read the names on the metal plates. Richard von Knecht was in the lower one; his son, Henrik, was on top. Irene inspected Henrik von Knecht’s coffin. She saw a groove in the metal. It was very recent and shone like a fresh scar right below the lid. When she looked closer she discovered several similar cuts. It wasn’t difficult to figure out how they’d been made. The lid was heavy and whoever had opened it needed to prop it up.

What should they tell the interested administrator? After a while she made up her mind, and walked back out into the sunlight.

“There are clear signs of Satanic activities in there. Entering might destroy evidence. Police technicians will arrive as soon as possible. Can we keep the key?” she asked.

Gösta Olsson became confused. He anxiously wiped his already shining head with his handkerchief. Hesitantly, he said, “Well. . I don’t know if I’m allowed to, but as you are police officers and want to investigate this problem we’ve had with Satan worshippers. . I guess there can’t be anything wrong with lending you the key, even though according to regulations we’re not allowed. .”

As calmly and professionally as possible Irene said, “We will borrow the key to let in the technicians. You can speak with your boss in the meantime. If he wants the key returned right away then call me on my cell phone. We’ll go straight to your office with the key. If there are any problems, the police will take full responsibility.”

Irene handed her card to Olsson, and patted him on his shoulder, then pointed him in the direction of the cemetery gates. Reluctantly, the administrator started moving.

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.

IRENE WAS on her fifth mug of coffee of the morning and she had almost finished writing the report on the questioning of Henning Oppdal when Hannu stuck his head in and asked if she was ready to tag along to the interview of Sara Bolin. She quickly hurried to finish and logged out.

Hannu drove as Irene leaned back against the headrest, trying to relax.

“Did the witness ask if we’d found anything in the mausoleum?” Hannu asked.

“No. He became completely absorbed by Manpower.”

Hannu laughed. “I can understand that. Did he recognize Basta?” “He said that it could very well be Basta. Hard to say for certain since the face is in shadow.”

Hannu said, “Exactly. Then why is Basta so anxious to get this picture? We haven’t found any of the other pictures Bolin took of him. Basta probably found them.”

“There is a connection between himself and Marcus through the pictures Bolin took. But I don’t think he functions like the rest of us. Could Manpower have become an obsession?”

“Maybe. But I put more stock in your first theory. He’s cold. Ice-cold.”

Irene felt that cold surround her.

SARA BOLIN must have been standing just inside the door waiting for them. Irene barely had time to take her finger off the doorbell when the door flew open. The woman in the photograph that Erik Bolin had proudly shown Irene less than a week ago opened the door. She was completely dressed in black and was even more beautiful in person. Her thick brownish black hair billowed like a shiny waterfall down her back and framed a finely chiseled face. Her eyes were large and slightly almond shaped; the nose, small and straight. Her mouth was generous with full, sensual lips. Her petite body didn’t bear the slightest evidence of two pregnancies. Irene noticed that the woman in the door opening barely reached her chest.

Irene and Hannu introduced themselves and Sara Bolin let them into the pink-painted shoeboxlike row house. She held her arms tightly wrapped around herself, as if she were freezing. She looked very thin and frail in a black long-sleeved cotton shirt and black pants.

“Kristian is sleeping and Johannes is with the neighbor’s kids, playing. He’s only three and doesn’t understand what’s happened. Sometimes he asks about Pappa but he’s used to his father working a lot and often being away.”

Sara’s voice broke and tears glimmered in her dark eyes. She turned her face away and said, “Please, come in.”

She gestured toward a pair of open glass doors. The police officers entered the small living room and sat on a comfortable leather couch. The couch was light brown and the rug under the glass coffee table was light beige. Everything was free of stains and dust. Irene had a feeling that the little boys weren’t allowed in this room.

“Maybe I should put on some coffee?” said Sara Bolin.

Before Irene had time to say yes, Hannu replied, “No, thank you. We won’t be here very long.”

Sara didn’t insist but sank down onto a couch across from Irene and Hannu. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Irene could see her knuckles turning white.

“Have you caught him?” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

Calmly, Hannu asked, “Who?”

She gave a start and gave Hannu a look of disapproval.

“The one that did. . that. . to Erik.”

“No. We’re following several leads. Personally, do you have any suspicions of someone?” Irene asked.

Sara aimed her beautiful eyes at Irene and shook her head sadly.

“No. I don’t understand who would want to. . Why?”

“Erik was never threatened, never said that he felt threatened?”

“No. Never! He was the nicest person in the world. Liked by everyone,” Sara said firmly.

Irene looked at her and nodded thoughtfully. “Right. Erik said that you were aware of his bisexuality when you got married. Is that true?”

The slender body collapsed. After a while, Sara sat up and said defiantly, “Yes. I knew about it. But I was the one he loved. No woman could want a better man than Erik. Why are you asking me this?”

“There are signs that point to sexual activity before the murder,” said Irene.

It was repulsive having to inform the widow about this particularly sensitive point, but the fact was that Professor Stridner had identified semen on Erik Bolin’s body. The strange thing was that it was in his hair. She hadn’t found any in the rectum or anywhere else. The analysis wasn’t complete so she couldn’t say who the seminal fluid had come from.

If it turned out to have been from someone other than Erik Bolin, the technicians would send the DNA analysis to Copenhagen to match against the semen stain found under Emil’s bed.

Sara’s voice was tense as she replied. “We loved each other tremendously from the first time we met. There was a lot of passion in the beginning; we felt we were right for each other. He told me about his bisexuality before we moved in together. I can’t say that he deceived me. He was completely open. But I didn’t have a choice since I loved him so much. Either I had to accept his orientation or I would have had to leave him. The latter never felt like an option.”

“Then you were prepared to share him with a man?” Irene wondered.

Sara started twisting a strand of her hair. It took a while before she answered, “No. Not to share him with anyone else. But I thought that his love for me was so strong that he had gotten over. . that.”

She fell silent and started absentmindedly making a knot in the strand of hair. To get her to continue, Irene said, “From what I understand he hadn’t gotten over it.”

Sara gave a start as if Irene had stuck her with a needle. With resignation she said, “No. When I was pregnant with Johannes I understood that he had been seeing someone else. It turned out to be Marcus Tosscander. We had a terrible fight. Then Erik said that he felt like half a person sometimes. He was missing something when he was together with me. It was. . terrible.”

“How did you react?”

“I left him. I moved out. But I couldn’t function without Erik. Before Johannes was born I moved back. Erik made a solemn vow to try and resist his. . other desire. I know that it didn’t always work. But his relationships never hurt us. He was an amazingly good father and husband.”

“Did you notice anything recently that could point to Erik’s having had a new man?”

“No. Sometimes-”

She stopped herself and bit her lip. With a defiant gesture she threw her hair back, lifted her chin, and looked Irene straight in the eye.

“Sometimes he would work late. And he often worked far from home. I couldn’t check what he was doing every second. I had to trust him.”

Irene thought about the old saying You see what you want to see. She decided to change tacks and put her hand in her jacket pocket. Her fingertips touched the envelope holding the photos of Tom Tanaka’s two pictures. She placed the pictures on top of the coffee table. Sara Bolin leaned forward and inspected both photographs. When she examined the picture of Marcus more closely, she recoiled. She realized that they had noticed her reaction and she said in a shaky voice, “The picture of Marcus didn’t look like that. The one that Erik had at the exhibition.”

“What do you mean? Is it the wrong picture?” Hannu asked innocently.

“No, not the wrong picture. . but it didn’t look like. . this!”

With a shaking index finger, Sara pointed at Marcus’s magnificent erection. In the exhibition picture, Marcus’s hanging hand had nonchalantly concealed his sex. But Irene understood Sara’s distress. The picture on the table radiated lust and desire: Marcus seen through his lover’s eye.

Sara stared as though entranced at the picture, and finally she whispered, “He swore that it was over. He swore!”

Irene saw how close she was to bursting into tears. In order to distract her, Irene threw the picture of Manpower on top of the photo of Marcus.

“Do you recognize this man?” she asked.

For a second, Sara Bolin looked confused. Hesitantly, she picked up the picture of Basta and examined it. Then she lowered it and looked at Irene again.

“Of course I recognize the picture itself. It was part of the exhibition and it looked like this. But I have no idea who the man is.”

“Erik never said anything about this man or mentioned his name?”

“No.”

Irene saw that several nice pictures were hanging on the walls. A thought struck her. She pointed at the photos on the table and said, “I see you are displaying many of Erik’s photographs on the walls. Is it possible that the enlargement of one of these two photos is hanging somewhere in the house?”

Sara’s voice was harsh when she replied, “No. I decide what is going to hang on the walls!”

She was interrupted by a child’s cry. She rose and said apologetically, “Kristian is awake. He’s crying for me to come and change his diaper. It’s always so wet when he’s been sleeping and. .”

The last part of the sentence faded away as she entered the hall. Irene turned to Hannu and said teasingly, “The parents of small children have such interesting conversational topics.”

Hannu raised his eyebrows a fraction of a millimeter and said, “Really.”

She was close to saying, “Just wait and see when it’s your turn,” but she stopped herself. Hannu would never sit and discuss his child’s diaper status with anyone.

They got up at the same time and started toward the glass doors. Sara Bolin came out of a door a little farther down the corridor. In her arms she was carrying a baby, still warm with sleep, who had thrown his chubby arms around her neck and burrowed his dark head under her chin.

“Thanks for letting us stop by,” said Irene.

Sara Bolin tried to smile bravely. “Naturally, I’m interested in seeing my husband’s murder solved. Of course, I’ll help any way I can.”

The little one in her arms became conscious of the strangers in the house. He turned and looked at Irene. Her throat tightened when she looked into Erik Bolin’s amber eyes.

HANNU CALLED Birgitta on the cell phone and they decided on a time to meet outside the station house. Fifteen minutes later, he and Irene picked her up in an unmarked police car. During the ride, Irene and Hannu had decided to eat lunch at the Göteborg City Museum. Birgitta had enthusiastically talked about the restaurant on the ground floor several times, but Irene had never been there despite repeated urgings. Now it would actually happen.

After circling for several minutes they managed to find a parking spot on Packhuskajen. It was a ways to walk but that was a bonus in the gorgeous weather.

Hannu held the door open for the ladies and invited them to step into the eighteenth century. Irene’s eyes had a hard time adjusting to the half darkness under the restaurant’s stone arches. The staff’s clothes-rough homespun skirts and stiff white aprons-were reminiscent of bygone centuries.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if today’s lunch is cold herring with dill and chives and mashed rutabaga,” Irene whispered to Birgitta.

They managed to get an empty table and ordered from the menu, which offered three lunch alternatives. Irene took a Creole brochette with potato wedges, and a light beer. Both Hannu and Birgitta chose the haddock in a white wine sauce with scalloped potatoes. Typical of newlyweds to choose the same thing, thought Irene.

The food was very good and Irene realized how hungry she was. Even if it wasn’t the cheapest lunch special she had ever had, it was worth the money.

During the meal they sat and chatted about everything but the current investigation. The big news that neither Irene nor anyone else in Violent Crimes had heard-was that Birgitta and Hannu were in the process of renovating an older house in Västra Bodarna. An explanation of the location established that the house was a few kilometers southwest of Alingsås and not in Dalsland, which Irene had originally thought.

“We’ll be moving at the beginning of August,” Birgitta chirped.

It wasn’t possible to overlook her happiness; it haloed her.

Had Irene felt that way when she and Krister moved into their row house twelve years earlier? Maybe something approaching it but not quite as strong. The twins had just turned four and were particularly active. Irene thought it was wonderful not to be squeezed into two rooms and a kitchen on Smörslottsgatan. Out in Fiskebäck they could let the girls run free on the lawn and in the playgrounds but, of course, under some parental supervision. The young Huss girls had been very adventurous and often ran off on their own adventures.

“And the property is three thousand square meters,” Birgitta bubbled enthusiastically.

Irene raised her eyebrows and turned to Hannu.

“Riding lawn mower?” she asked.

He smiled faintly and shrugged. That could mean anything from “probably” to “who cares?”

During coffee Birgitta changed the subject and said, “Svante Malm and some technician from Copenhagen inform each other of all their findings and clues. It’s saving double work. And Svante is sending some samples for testing directly to Copenhagen. The noose is tightening around Basta.”

“I wish it would. And that we could identify him at some point,” sighed Irene.

“He’s killed too many times and left too many clues. We’ll get him,” said Hannu.

WHEN IRENE opened the door to her home at nearly six o’clock, she couldn’t detect the slightest smell of food. Yet the whole family appeared to be at home, gathered in the kitchen. Laughter could be heard and something that sounded suspiciously like baby talk. Irene stood in the doorway but no one took any notice of her. Not even Sammie. Everyone’s attention was concentrated on the fuzzy little bundle who was chasing Sammie and trying to nip his leg hairs and dignified whiskers. The result of his romance with the poodle champion had arrived.

Pappa Sammie was very upset. A dignified middle-aged man shouldn’t have to put up with this sort of thing. He wasn’t fond of youngsters either! Hyper-irritated over his obtrusive son’s bad habits, he growled and laid the puppy out flat on the floor. The fur ball immediately turned up his almost hairless round stomach.

“Oooooh, he’s sooooo cuuuuute!” Katarina crooned.

“How long has he been here?” Irene asked.

Now the family discovered that she had arrived.

“The old bag brought him over as soon as Jenny and I came home from school. She must have been standing outside, lying in wait,” said Katarina.

“But she actually gave us a leash.” Jenny tried to smooth things over.

“And he has all the vaccinations he needs,” Krister added. He energetically waved a veterinary certificate to back up his statement.

“Uh-huh. And you think it’s going to work with Sammie. He’s used to being everyone’s darling and the center of attention. I think he’s too old to get used to living with a puppy,” Irene sighed.

Krister brushed off her protests with the paper he was holding in his hand and said, “Oh! Now you’re being pessimistic, kiddo. He’ll get used to it. It’ll be fun for him not to have to be alone when we aren’t home.”

“What do you think we should name him?” asked Katarina.

Irene looked at the little creature and then said acidly, “What about Tinkler? And do you see what he’s doing under the kitchen table right now?”