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.
The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 Page 32
