The Torso

Chapter 18

THE MORNING AFTER THE first night, it was clear to the Huss family that it was going to take a while for Tinkler to become house-trained and acclimated to his new environment. Sammie had openly shown his distaste toward the ill-mannered rascal. Tinkler adored his father even if it was doubtful that the dogs had a clear idea of the relationship. The result was that Sammie had desperately tried to crawl under the beds and hide in the recliner while Tinkler thought that it was a very funny game and stubbornly followed him. When Sammie became really annoyed and barked at Tinkler, the little one had been scared out of his wits and become sad. He had sat whining and crying in the darkness, abandoned. No one in the Huss family had slept many hours that night.

“Summer vacation starts tomorrow. Then we can keep an eye on him,” said Jenny.

“Weren’t you going to work at Domus over the summer?” Irene asked, tired.

“I don’t start until Monday.”

Irene turned to Katarina. “When does swim school start?”

“The fifteenth. And it’s arranged-I’ll be able to work both sessions,” Katarina answered.

“How long will that be?”

“Six weeks.”

“That means that we have supervision for Tinkler until the fifteenth of June. Pappa and I have our vacations three and half weeks later. What do we do with him between June 15 and July 8?” Irene wondered challengingly.

“Dog sitter-,” Katarina started.

“That won’t work at all! She can’t take care of a little puppy. We have to be grateful she has the energy to look after Sammie. And she’s on vacation after midsummer and won’t start again until August 1.”

The little problem in question came bounding in, wanting attention. Katarina picked him up and burrowed her nose into his soft coat. Tinkler struggled wildly, wanting to taste some of her liver pâté sandwich. One of his eagerly jabbing back legs kicked over a full tea mug and spilled the contents over the entire table.

“My graduation clothes!” Katarina cried.

She jumped up and brusquely set the puppy on the floor. Maybe he was hurt or just very scared, but he began to cry pitifully. Katarina had tears in her eyes as she looked at her white trousers and white sleeveless top. Large tea stains decorated both pieces.

“Stupid dog!” she screamed.

The tumult woke Krister, who came down to the kitchen, heavy with sleep. When the situation was clarified, he oiled the insubordinate waves by offering monetary compensation for overtime, to be in effect the rest of the day. The twins were mollified.

“HOW’S ITgoing with the puppy?” asked Irene.

She looked at Tommy through the steam from her coffee mug.

“Just fine. She’s actually very cute. Agneta has been home with her since we got her on Sunday. But now the kids are out of school, so they’ll have to take care of her,” he said.

“What’s her name?”

“Nelly.”

Irene finished the last of the coffee in her mug.

Strange, she hadn’t noticed the slightest stimulating effect from the coffee. Maybe it had been mixed up with decaf?

“We searched Zorro Karlsson’s house yesterday. And now we have him! He kept trophies. Three pairs of underwear and a shoe were in a box in his closet. The items have been identified by the victims.”

Tommy sounded very pleased and he had every reason to be. He had wagered on a faint lead, the smell of food. But it had led to the perpetrator.

Irene got a bitter taste in her mouth when she thought about the things Basta had taken as trophies. Where did he store. . Irene didn’t have the energy to complete that line of thought.

Svante Malm looked in through the doorway and said, “Howdy. I’m going to provide a briefing at morning prayers. Isn’t it about time for that now?”

His happy, smiling, freckled horse-like face and the red, gray-streaked hair standing on end made Irene think of healthy carrot juice. Get your eight hours of sleep and get into shape with carrot juice, she thought in her sour morning mood. She regretted it the next moment because she knew how Svante had slaved during the investigations of the murders, putting in lots of overtime. Basta might be tied to the various crime scenes by means of the tedious work of technicians.

“STRANGELY ENOUGH, the seminal fluid in Erik Bolin’s hair appears to have been rubbed in. One theory is that when the murderer cut off the head and carried it out to the hat rack he forgot that he had semen on his hands. He probably carried the head by the hair and under the chin because we’ve also found quite a bit there. And the semen is not Bolin’s. We ran a DNA profile and sent it to Copenhagen. It’s an exact match with the semen found at one of their crime scenes. Under the bed of the guy whose name was. .”

Svante looked down at his papers. To save time, Irene filled in, “Emil Bentsen.”

“Exactly. Thanks. And incidentally, Irene, the shoe print in your flower bed matches the print in the blood at the hotel room where Isabell Lind was found. It’s identical. In addition, in all likelihood the prints match the ones we found in the mausoleum at Stampen. That’s a little less certain because the prints were in dust. No fingerprint matches were found. We can conclude that Basta hasn’t been in trouble with the law.”

Svante stopped and looked at Irene.

“Have you identified the guy?” he asked.

“No. We know what he looks like and that he’s called Basta. He’s been located in both Göteborg and Copenhagen. And he could be a doctor or an artist according to our witness statements,” said Irene.

“Why don’t you put out a warrant for his arrest?” wondered Malm.

“It’s hard to decide. On the one hand we want to identify him as quickly as possible. And on the other hand we don’t want him to know how close we are to him. We hope he thinks he’s smarter than we are and that his overconfidence will be his downfall. But I don’t know. . maybe we need to put out an APB on him in both Denmark and Sweden at the same time and very soon. The difficulty is knowing when the right time is. If we do it too soon, he may go into hiding and if we do it too late, he may have time to commit a new murder,” said Irene.

Svante nodded to show that he understood the dilemma. He looked down at his papers and continued, “We’ve enlarged the index fingertip that can be seen in the video of the dismemberment of Marcus Tosscander. It’s the index finger of a left hand and the nail is severely deformed. Here you go. There are five enlargements.”

He pulled out the photographs from a brown envelope and passed them around the table. The superintendent, Irene, Hannu, and Jonny each took one. The tip of the finger wasn’t round; it was flat and looked as if it had been chopped off. The nail covered just the nail bed, and its surface seemed to be dented. While the officers were examining the enlargements, Svante continued, “On the floor of the burial crypt we’ve found some stains that could very well be seminal fluid. But unfortunately they’ve started decaying and are too dried out to be useful. But we found more stains on the shroud inside the coffin where Tosscander’s head was lying, which are in better condition. We’re working on them right now.”

What if the semen turned out to have come from the same man who had left semen behind on the floor at Emil’s and in Bolin’s hair?

“What the hell is the sick bastard actually up to?” Superintendent Andersson exclaimed.

You don’t want to know, Irene nearly said, but she managed to stop herself in time.

IRENE SAT staring listlessly at Manpower. She felt intensifying anger and hate directed at the black silhouette in the picture. At the same time she considered what might turn a person into a necrophile.

With a bang, the door hit the wall. Professor Stridner rushed in on clicking heels, dressed in a thin, light green dress of some shiny material, enveloped in the strong scent of Joy. Despite the fact that she was neither slender nor tall, she wore the dress with a superb confidence. Irene became uncomfortably aware of her own worn jeans and short-sleeved denim shirt. At least my sandals are new, she comforted herself.

Stridner came to a dead stop in front of Irene’s desk.

“Where is everyone? Are you the only one who’s on duty?” she asked.

“The superintendent went to a meeting and the others-,” Irene began.

“I came here myself since I was in the neighborhood. I’m flying to New York but before that I want to hand over the preliminary autopsy report on Erik Bolin. The medical odontologists have also confirmed that the head in the burial chamber belonged to Marcus Tosscander.”

While she was talking, she pulled out some papers from her elegant leather briefcase.

“Erik Bolin’s,” she said curtly, and threw them on the desk in front of Irene.

Without looking at them, Irene asked, “Is the mutilation the same type as with the previous victims?”

“Yes. The chest muscles, one buttock, and the penis. None of Bolin’s internal organs were removed; however, the head was. It was cut off with an extremely sturdy, sharp knife. I would guess a knife similar to our autopsy knives.”

“Why do necrophiles do this sort of thing?” Irene asked.

Stridner’s forehead wrinkled. “The question is not phrased correctly. Necrophiles don’t do this sort of thing. Necrophiles literally love dead people, but they don’t kill them. Necrophiles who devote themselves to necrosadism are, thankfully, an exceedingly small fraction. As I’ve already told you, the type of murderer we’re chasing right now is very rare. But sometimes they pop up and we become overwhelmed in the presence of what we regard as an inhumane atrocity. But actually a necrosadist isn’t any more gruesome than any other kind of murderer. The result is the same: a murdered person, a life that has been snuffed out forever. What terrifies us is the abuse of the dead body after the murder. We see it as something sick.”

While she was delivering her little lecture, Stridner clip-clopped around the room on her high-heeled pumps. She stopped in front of Manpower. Even after she had finished speaking, she remained, examining the picture.

“For a split second I had the feeling that I recognized this man. But I don’t know. No one I know poses for porn pictures,” she said finally.

Irene walked over to Stridner. “Interesting. Both Hannu Rauhala and I also think we recognize the man. None of the others are sure.”

The professor leaned forward so that she could study the photo more closely. Suddenly, she straightened up and exclaimed, “Now I know! He works with us.”

Irene realized that she had been holding her breath. She exhaled and asked, “Does he work in Pathology?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t have a permanent position because he’s a student.”

A medical student? It was quite common for medical students to find extra work as autopsy technicians.

Her voice shook when Irene asked, “What’s his name and what does he study?”

Stridner continued her examination of Manpower.

“I don’t remember his name. But he’s an art student. He was the one who made the copy of Marcus Tosscander’s tattoo.”

Basta had spent several hours sitting next to the mutilated upper body of his victim, making an exact copy of the dragon tattoo. The thought was nauseating.

“Erik Bolin took the picture. The man in the picture is called Basta, and he’s probably Bolin and Marcus Tosscander’s murderer. In addition, he’s been linked to three murders in Copenhagen,” said Irene.

Stridner did not move. “I have a hard time believing that anyone at Pathology would be capable of this. But we’ll go up right away and try and find out his name. If for no other reason than so he can be exonerated and dismissed from the investigation,” she said finally.

YVONNESTRIDNER rushed into the employee lounge with Irene in tow, like a skiff in her wake. There were only two people sitting there. The man had very dark skin and hair. Irene guessed that he was Indian. She recognized the woman as Britt Nilsson, a young, newly hired pathologist. It wasn’t her name that had struck a cord when Svante Malm spoke about her, but the fact that he had referred to her as Stridner’s assistant. The link to Stridner and Pathology had made Irene react.

Another person worked with Stridner, but not as her assistant; rather, just as an attendant. He was called Basta, and Irene had seen him in Pathology. Now she remembered the last time she had seen Basta. It was when she had asked for Stridner and he had pointed at the autopsy room, where the professor was in the process of performing a postmortem examination on pieces of Marcus. When he stretched out his arm and pointed at the autopsy room she recalled his well-trained arm muscles playing under his gleaming brown skin.

Basta had been helpful. He’d made a very skillful copy of Marcus’s tattoo. Had he thought they would never be able to trace the origin of the tattoo? Or had he seen no way to say no when Stridner gave him the assignment? These were just some of the questions Irene wanted to ask when they caught him.

Stridner described Basta to the two employees in the lounge. Before she was finished, the dark man nodded. “I know his name. . hmmm. . could be Sebastian. But he’s also called Basta, hmmm. . called Basta. Not his last name.”

He threw up his light-colored palms with an apologetic smile.

Britt Nilsson looked uncertain. “An attendant works here sometimes who matches the description. But I don’t know his name,” she said.

Stridner turned on her heel and said, “I have the employee records in my office. We have his first name to work with.”

Irene could feel a draft when the professor swished past.

YVONNE STRIDNER pounced on her yellow-spined cloth binders. She studied “Employees 1998–1999.” Her index finger wandered down the list. She stopped at a name and cried out, “Here! Sebastian Martinsson. Born March 7, 1970. Lives on Gamla Björlandavägen. His telephone number is also here.”

Yvonne Stridner handed the binder to Irene so that she would also be able to read the entry. Irene wrote down the information on her notepad and thanked Stridner for her help.

She waved it off. “Don’t mention it. Just make sure you catch him as quickly as possible. He isn’t going to stop killing. Sooner or later he’ll do it again. He’s simply biding his time,” she said.

She looked at her elegant watch. Something told Irene that the Rolex hadn’t been purchased on some shady backstreet in Bangkok. Because it was sitting on Yvonne’s wrist, it was one hundred percent certain that the glittering diamonds around the face were real.

“Now I have to get going! The plane to New York won’t wait, even for me!”

IRENE CONTACTED Hannu and Birgitta on their cell phones. Jonny didn’t answer his. A mechanical voice asked her to leave a message since the subscriber wasn’t available, which meant that he had turned off his phone. Typical, but maybe it was just as well. Hannu, Birgitta, and she would be able to undertake the search and any possible arrest. She and Hannu had been in agreement that the prosecutor should be brought in immediately. Since Hannu was in Säve, looking for the location of the dismemberment, it would be fastest if Birgitta, who was in the station, spoke with the prosecutor.

They agreed to meet in Superintendent Andersson’s office at three o’clock. He needed to have all the information before they proceeded.

Irene decided to check whether Basta happened to be in the Department of Pathology right that moment. His time sheet hadn’t been filled out after June 4. Was he going to be off work for the rest of the summer? Irene checked the list. Basta had worked from March 4 to 12. He had been in Göteborg right after they believed Marcus had been dismembered. He had also been at work on May 31 through June 4. He had been in Göteborg when Erik Bolin was killed, as well. There were relatively large gaps in Basta’s work schedule, anywhere from two to three weeks. Had he been in Copenhagen? She checked the dates of the murders of Isabell Lind and Emil Bentsen. An empty hole gaped then, as well as during the time Tom Tanaka was attacked.

Irene went into the empty corridor. She didn’t see a living soul to ask about Basta. She walked down the stairs with heavy steps. Hesitantly, she stopped outside the door to the autopsy room. Sharp howling from a bone saw could be heard from within. She straightened up and opened the door.

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.

“I RAN 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.

“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.

MONIKA LIND sounded a bit surprised at first when she heard Irene’s voice on the telephone. She was pleased when she understood that Irene was worried about how the family was doing.

“It feels like I’m living in a black hole. Thank God, the semester is over now, but maybe it isn’t good to have time to think. I blame myself for what happened to Bell. Why did I let her go to Copenhagen? But I could hardly stop her. I never understood that she. . How could I be so naive!” she said.

“How’s it going with the rest of the family?” Irene asked.

“Janne has taken it with composure. I think too much composure, at times. But he has been an amazing support for me and Elin. She’s young enough that she doesn’t mourn her big sister very deeply. But she has started asking for a dog. Janne would also really like to have one. Maybe it would distract us from the thoughts. . what do you think? You’ve always had a dog. Is Elin too little?”

“Not if you and Janne realize that all the responsibility for the dog is yours. But a dog would certainly distract them, and the family would have a common interest. A little puppy demands a lot of care and it needs to be looked after and go to obedience school and. .”

Irene stopped herself and thought. Then she said, “The fact is that Sammie has become a father. We have one of his puppies at our home. He’s almost ten weeks old and terribly cute. But we’ve realized that having a puppy right now isn’t going to work. Sammie is too old and doesn’t accept having a competitor. The dog sitter is almost seventy and we don’t know how much longer she’ll have the energy to keep going. As a whole, our family is hardly at home. We’re working and going to school and have a lot of extracurricular activities, you know how it is. He’s a mixed breed of black poodle and an Irish soft-coated wheaten terrier. If you want, you can have him. He’s very cute and sweet.”

Monika considered before she said, “Yes, it would work out well with respect to the fact that I’m off work all summer. How much would he cost?”

“Elin can have him as a gift. You’ll be doing us a big favor, just knowing that he’ll be getting a good home.”

“But it’s far too much! What’s his name?”

Irene was close to telling the truth, but she managed to stop herself. “Tinkler” didn’t inspire much confidence. That’s why she just said, “We haven’t been able to decide yet. For the most part, we just say Little Guy.”

“I’ll talk it over with Janne. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

Irene thought that Monika Lind’s voice sounded happier when she hung up. She hoped that the Lind family would take Tinkler.

Now the worst part remained-convincing her own family of the truth behind her actions.