The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (41 page)

From Jenny’s room she could look out over the backyard, which was lit. None of the neighbors had their outdoor lights on. The yard was small and well illuminated by lighting from the patio and the streetlights on the other side of the sidewalk.

Her pulse reverted to a normal rhythm. Had there really been a person watching her from the stand of trees? She had definitely heard a twig break, but a deer or some other animal might have caused it.

Irene had always depended on her intuition and it had never let her down. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but maybe a figment of her imagination had scared her this time. All of the talk about the murderer being close to her had naturally affected her. Isabell’s murder and the postcard that had come directly afterward had been directed at her, personally. The murderer must have thought that Irene was getting close to the truth of Marcus’s death far too quickly. He had killed Isabell as a warning, but maybe also to send up a smoke screen to complicate the investigation of the murders of Carmen Østergaard and Marcus Tosscander.

But why had he needed to kill Emil Bentsen? They were partners—principals and accessories in both crimes. Yet Basta had carried out the murder of Isabell on his own. Had Emil become frightened when Basta told him about the murder? They must have met soon afterward.

Emil’s mother had asked him if he knew Isabell or had heard of Scandinavian Models. Isabell was lured to the Hotel Aurora only an hour later. By whom? Not by Emil, who was in Tom’s store. Irene had seen him there with her own eyes. Bell was murdered by the person Emil had spoken with just after his conversation with Beate Bentsen. That person must have been Basta.

Maybe the picture over Emil’s bed had reminded Basta about the pictures Erik Bolin had taken the previous summer.
Manpower
was proof of the connection between Marcus and Basta. It had taken him some time to get Tom’s copy of the photo, but in the end he had succeeded. If Tom hadn’t happened to go into the bedroom he wouldn’t have been injured. The primary thing hadn’t been to kill Tom, but to get the picture.

But it had been his intention to kill Emil Bentsen and Erik Bolin. There were elements of mutilation and rituals. Wouldn’t it have been enough to break into Bolin’s and steal the pictures? Why had it been necessary to murder him?

The answer turned Irene’s blood to ice: because he liked killing. He wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Just the opposite: it was an instinct, an obsession. And he wouldn’t have any objections to the next victim being a certain female criminal Inspector. That would be killing two birds with one stone.

This thought made her pulse race again though there hadn’t been a single movement outside. Irene looked at the clock. Almost thirty minutes had passed since she’d locked herself in the house. Krister would soon be home. And almost at once, she heard Krister’s familiar steps coming up the cement walk to the front door.

Suddenly, she understood Basta’s strategy. She jumped up from the bed and rushed toward the stairs. The front door opened below and the light from the sconce outside spread into the dark hallway in an ever-growing fan shape. Krister stood out as a massive shadowy figure in the door opening. He stretched his hand to turn on the hall lamp.

With a primal scream Irene threw herself down the stairs. Krister jerked, which saved him from receiving a heavy baton blow on the head. It caught him on the side of his throat instead. He fell with a deep grunt.

Irene threw herself with all her weight against the strong black-clad man who had sneaked up behind Krister. With her head lowered, right shoulder first, she lunged at his chest. He was off balance from the blow he’d aimed at Krister and he tumbled backward out the door and fell into a half-sitting position. As he fell, he dropped the baton, which hit the pavement with a thud.

Irene stopped her movement forward by grabbing the door frame. The man quickly got to his feet, and his right hand darted under his jacket. Irene saw a knife blade glitter under the light. She did the only thing possible given the situation: she slammed the door shut. Then, with shaking fingers, she turned the lock.

“ 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.