by Bragelonne
‘There is another significant date where Ebner is concerned: 1987,’ she continued, as if the conversation between the Kommissionar and the detective had not even taken place. ‘From 1987 onwards, the enucleation and excision of the trachea become systematic.’
‘Could this be where his associate comes into play?’ Alexis suggested.
‘Exactly. Enucleation and the excision of the trachea are important changes in the ritual. A subject who has been killing for forty years does not modify his procedure out of nowhere or change his modus operandi overnight. So, the emergence on the scene of an associate could well explain these post-mortem mutilations. Ebner commits his first solo crimes in 1948; in 1970, something happens that leads to a change in the type of victim. He is joined by and trains a partner, who begins to obey his own personal fantasies in 1987, when the enucleations and excisions of the trachea appear. Ebner dies in 2013. His associate is now emancipated and eliminates from the modus operandi all the elements that displease him, ie, the transformation that had been at the heart of the ritual for his Pygmalion.’
Emily helped herself to coffee and continued, as if speaking to herself.
‘So we are left with Erich Ebner as the dominant half, for whom killing is just a means – the grim act necessary to accomplish his medical or artistic experiment, whichever way he sees it. A man who disliked any form of publicity and succeeded in remaining anonymous for over sixty years despite his killing spree. Then, onto the scene emerges a dominated party, who perpetuates the crimes alone following Ebner’s death. His hunting pattern, during which he observes and tracks his victims until he knows all there is to know about them, as well as his dual hunting territory, in London and Sweden, inform us of the fact he is particularly meticulous, patient and organised. He’s also intelligent and cultured, as we’ve learned from our analysis of his little game with the resemblance between the Y and the letter gamma.’
‘Doesn’t sound at all like he’s the junior partner, this guy,’ Olofsson commented, still rocking on the two back feet of his chair.
‘He was only the dominated half when it came to the relationship with his Pygmalion. In his social and professional existence, he’s a man with an unhealthy desire to control those who surround him and impose his authority. That’s how he compensates for all the frustration he subconsciously experiences for having been held back and directed earlier. He must have lived under the yoke of his mentor since 1987, at least – the date when the enucleation and excision of the trachea processes come into play – and had to submit to someone else’s twisted fantasies. Since the death of his partner, though, he has flowered, become his own man, and is now free to explore his own fantasies. He continues the work of his Pygmalion, because he is conditioned to do so, but he gradually begins to modify the previously established rules of the game: he kills in London, no longer transforms the victims, replaces the capital gamma with a lower case gamma, buries his victims, kills a woman, then, led by his no doubt narcissistic personality, begins to leave the bodies above ground so he can admire them at leisure. Each new transgression is experienced as a victory and an act of liberation. Little by little, he is moving out of the shadow of his mentor. He gets used to this new leading role and begins to forget the rigour and care his erstwhile partner had taught him: every new deviation from the norm is a mistake that sets us on his trail.’
Olofsson rose, sweeping away the dust of crumbs hanging from his pullover. ‘So, what about Svensson, is he our second guy, part of our terrible duo, or not? Svensson could have become friendly with Ebner, as he lived close to his grandparents’ home, and maybe he was the one who convinced his father to purchase the house so he would have no need to move the whole, morbid collection of bodies away. Once Ebner had died, he sealed off the underground section, as he’s not into the whole Doctor Frankenstein scene, but he didn’t want to get rid of all the souvenirs of the good old days with Ebner. We also have to bear in mind that he’s Linnéa Blix’s ex-husband.’
Alexis observed Emily. She was gazing at the cork board, miles away from the conversation, lost in her own thoughts, her mind wandering on some inscrutable journey. Maybe she too was thinking of the families of the sixty-two victims found in Ebner’s cellar. How the trauma of their disappearance, transmitted from generation to generation, must weigh on their family history like a lead curtain. They were finally about to get some answers, albeit atrocious and barbaric.
Falkenberg police station
Friday, 24 January 2014, 08.00
BERGSTRÖM HUNG UP THE PHONE and turned towards Emily.
‘Björn has just confirmed they found no fingerprints in Svensson’s cellar. Which means that, while he was dissecting and handling stuff, he must have been wearing gloves. As to DNA traces, with the amount of bodies to be checked, it’s going to take a hell of a long time before we can start any comparison.’
Emily leaned her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together and pressed her lips against her hands. It was no surprise to her that the cellar was devoid of fingerprints: Erich Ebner had managed to kill over sixty-five years without raising suspicion, which was a testimony to the care he had taken.
At that moment, Olofsson rushed breathlessly into the conference room. He stood himself in front of his colleagues, legs apart and chest thrust forward, posing like a cowboy.
‘Do you want the bad news or … the bad news?’
He stared at Bergström and Emily in turn, a look of disgust curling his lips.
‘Ok, so I’ll begin with the bad news, then. Jacobsson’s been through the list of Markus Stormare’s tenants – he’s the owner of the house next to Svensson’s. No one ever mentioned Ebner. Not a single memory of even having seen him, in fact.’
‘And the contact Stormare provided? The Danish couple?’
‘Martha Knudsen is calling me back around 1 p.m.’
‘And what’s the other piece of bad news?’ Bergström asked, sighing deeply.
Olofsson looked at his notepad.
‘I checked on Svensson’s alibis for each murder and they’re solid. He was in Stockholm when Andy Meadowbanks died; he stayed there the whole week. As for Cole Halliwell’s dates, he was seen with his agent and potential buyers in Gothenburg; there was no way he could have travelled to London. And in Logan Mansfield’s case, he was at home for three days in a row, accepting deliveries of glass from the same supplier, and the delivery driver remembers him well, as they had something of an argument. He has no alibi when it comes to Tomas Nilsson, but he was in Berlin when the child was kidnapped.’
Bergström rubbed his eyes. ‘And Linnéa Blix?’
‘Oh, yes! Svensson was busy having fun in bed with his agent’s daughter, who’s only fifteen. He was at her place when Linnéa disappeared. Which is why he asked his young friend, a great piece of ass by the way, to provide his alibi.’
‘The girl’s confirmed all this?’
‘Confirmed by the girl and the pizza delivery guy Svensson opened the door to. And I was about to forget the third piece of bad news: no trace of blood has been found in Svensson’s workshop or on his tools. It appears to be true that he’s just messing around with glass in his barn, and nothing else.’
Inside his jeans pocket, Olofsson’s phone vibrated.
‘It’s Martha Knudsen,’ the detective said as he took the call. He switched the speaker on and set the phone down on the table. ‘Hej, Martha, this is Detective Olofsson.’
‘I hope I’m not calling you too early. I have to go fetch my grandson Anton at the train station. So best have our chat now, because then I have to take him to play on his sledge with our neighbour’s children. So, you said you wanted to hear about those summers we spent in Falkenberg, is that it?’
‘That’s right, Martha.’
‘Well, we liked the area so much we decided to settle there when we retired. We’re in Varberg, now. And as our youngest daughter lives in Kungsbacka, it’s convenient. Our eldest is in Philadelphia…’
‘You
rented Markus Stormare’s house towards the end of the 1970s, is that correct?’
‘From 1977 to 1986. Before, we stayed at the camping grounds by the beach, but when my husband got promoted, we were able to afford a rental. And it was such a lovely house, I can tell you! You can’t imagine how happy the girls were!’
‘Markus Stormare mentioned a disagreement with a neighbour…’
‘Oh dear, yes – in 1986, our last summer spent there … What an awful story, so awful…’
‘What happened?’
‘Linda, my youngest daughter, would follow her older sister everywhere, just like a cute little dog … And, as Linda was twelve years old that year, we let her take her bike to join her sister at the beach, as it was barely five minutes away. One day, it was towards the end of the afternoon, we saw her return in tears … well, more than that, in a state of shock, she was even violently sick over the porch, and then came rushing into our arms. She sobbed frantically the whole evening; there was no way we could console her! I can’t tell you how worried I was! It was only the next day she was able to tell us what had happened and then only because my eldest daughter put pressure on her. Linda adored her sister, you understand…’
‘So what happened, Martha?’ Olofsson was growing impatient, but Martha Knudsen seemed completely unaware of it.
‘The son of one of the neighbours – well, I’m not even sure if he was his actual son – had killed a rabbit in front of Linda. First he had broken its legs, one at a time, asking my daughter to listen to the noise it made … I still have goose-pimples just thinking about it. Then he had snapped the animal’s neck and burned it in front of her. Awful, just awful.’
Martha Knudsen paused briefly. She inhaled and exhaled loudly, then continued her story.
‘My husband was furious. He called the police, but they didn’t want to get involved, so we took it on ourselves to pay the neighbour a visit.’
‘Was he called Erich Ebner?’
‘I don’t know what his name was, but he greeted us on the doorstep and assured us that, the boy – I don’t know what he was called – would never have done such a thing.’
‘The boy who scared your daughter, how old was he?’
‘I don’t know. We never saw him. Our daughter told us he was tall; that’s all we knew.’
‘And before this happened, had your daughter been seeing much of him?’
‘No, apparently not. We generally did everything together, but our elder daughter had begun to spend some time with a group of youngsters from the area … She was fifteen, you know, so she went to the beach with her friends, boys and girls, and no longer with us, her parents. We were old folk, you understand…’
‘Might you have any photographs from that time – pictures this boy might appear in?’
‘I only have photos of the four of us, but I’m sure my daughters have kept some photos of the friends they made. Maybe he’s in some of them…’
Olofsson wrote down the phone numbers of Martha Knudsen’s daughters, thanked his loquacious interlocutor and hung up.
While he left a message on the Knudsen daughters’ respective answerphones, Bergström translated the substance of the conversation for Emily.
‘A triad,’ Emily murmured after listening to the tale.
‘What?’
‘According to Martha Knudsen, the boy who was staying with Ebner, whether he was his son or not, tortured animals. And I now believe this is the man who discovered Ebner after he died. He took the time to move some of the bodies to his own place, as a souvenir, then sealed the cellar under a layer of concrete, and in all likelihood started a fire close by and called the fire brigade. With respect for his mentor, he arranged for Ebner’s body to be discovered while he still resembled the man he had once been. But, doing this, he was careful not to take any risk of being associated with the dead man, and managed to preserve his own anonymity so he could continue his mentor’s work in peace. He was used to setting fires, he’d been doing it since he was a child, as well as killing animals. We are confronted by two of the three components of the Macdonald triad: at least two of the three behavioural characteristics signifying the presence of criminal potential in a child long before he has become an adult. The third traditionally sees him wet his bed beyond the normal age and I have no doubt our boy also was prone to that.’
‘You think that…’
‘…We have found the second half of the killing duo. All we now have to do is identify him.’
Falkenberg
October 2013
ADAM WATCHED FATHER SIP his evening soup. His hand, wrinkled like an old apple, trembled when he filled the spoon. The journey from plate to mouth seemed a perilous one.
Just like a tree bent by the intensity of the wind, Father’s body had weakened under the weight of the passing years. Erich Ebner had finally contracted the grey plague. Normality had caught up with him. But even as he suffered from it, he knew it was inevitable. His body was a shipwreck, but his brain remained clear of the water. Since his sixtieth birthday, he had kept his memory sharp through daily exercises and one had to admit his faculties were still tip-top.
That morning, Adam brought up once again a subject matter that Father had been carefully avoiding for six years.
‘Father, you must listen to me. It’s time to move the workshop to my place.’
Erich placed the spoon on the plate, as if it now weighed too much. ‘I’ve already told you, it’s out of the question.’
Adam ran an impatient hand across his forehead. Father just wouldn’t listen. Maybe he should ignore him and move the bodies? Were Father to die suddenly, he was the one who would find himself obliged to resolve all the problems. Urgently, at that.
‘You know what will happen when you die, Father. This house will no longer be yours, nor mine.’
‘I had to sell it. At the time, I had no other choice.’
‘I know, Father. I don’t blame you for what you did. But, right now, you have a choice. I have a job, I can help you … We have to get organised if we don’t want to be forced to act hastily. I can take care of it.’
Erich finished his soup and wiped his withered lips. ‘My body might be slowing down, but it doesn’t mean I’m ready to meet the Grim Reaper, Adam. I’ll know when the time approaches, and only then will we begin to plan matters. Not before. Don’t rush me into my grave, son.’
Adam gave an exasperated sigh, then nervously shook his head. ‘All I’m asking you to do is to make some arrangements for your exit, as all parents do for their children. You aren’t immortal, Father, despite what you think.’
‘My departure is fully planned. You won’t have to deal with anything, Adam.’
‘I’m not referring to your cremation, I’m concerned about your legacy. Everything we’ve built together. Why are you so obstinate? Why won’t you listen to me? Have I not provided you with enough evidence that I can take over your work? Do you think I’m not capable of carrying the torch?’
Erich’s gaze moved from his plate to the clock on the wall. He was indicating to his son that he should leave.
Adam rose so sharply his chair toppled over. He left without picking it up from the floor, simmering with anger. He got into his car and slammed the door again and again, until he was overcome by tears of frustration. Once he had managed to calm himself, he realised he was sitting in the passenger seat and he was overcome with rage once again; the tears began flowing once more.
Father no longer hunted at night. He couldn’t stay awake long enough. Before, he had never shown signs of tiredness. But, one night, Father had declared Adam should go out alone, from now onwards, to do the recces and the extractions. Adam had agreed, as he always did. Erich Ebner informed and ordered. He never consulted. Which is why Father had never started a new life for himself. Even his wife, who was the most submissive woman Adam had ever known, had abandoned Erich to his fate. At the end of the day, Adam was the only one who had the grit to buckle under and remain with this ma
n.
Adam shifted into the driver’s seat and drove off. For the last five years, he had been the one to stay up at night. During the daytime, Father would join him sometimes to check on addresses and plan the operations in minute detail, but, at night, Adam had to manage without him. Carrying out a kidnapping alone had not proven easy. He’d had to double his precautions and become hypervigilant.
Tonight, he was planning to observe Tomas Nilsson, their next victim. This particular broken family didn’t seem to adhere to any fixed pattern, which complicated matters somewhat.
He returned, starving, to Father’s place at 6 a.m. the following morning. Normally he would take a couple of sandwiches along, but his precipitous departure the previous evening had prevented him from doing so.
He took a shower, then walked downstairs to join Father in the workroom. He would wait for lunchtime before raising the subject of the move again. He was confident he would eventually end up convincing him.
Adam slipped into the protective suit, put on the gloves, the shoe covers and the hair net, and stepped into the workroom. His father wasn’t there. He quickly glanced in every corner but couldn’t find him. He took off his protective clothing and ran up to Father’s room on the first floor.
He was still in bed. Adam approached, already guessing his hand would be touching a cold body. He ran his fingers through the thin, white hair and kissed the high, intelligent forehead, the resolute chin and the calloused hands. He asked to be forgiven for their latest row, for his own anger, but he knew that his father had left with his heart full of respect and pride for his son. Their close connection transcended any sort of petty family argument. Even in death, Father would reign over his life.
Adam spent nine hours at his side, at times mourning in silence and at others serenely laying his face against his father’s chest; a form of closeness he was sorry he hadn’t practised more when he’d been alive. He told Father about the joy he’d experienced living by his side, the honour he had felt, all through his life, to have been Erich Ebner’s son. He then kissed him on the cheek and bade him farewell.
