Chapter 16
SVANTE MALM KNOCKED ON the doorjamb before he stepped through the open door. Irene looked up from the pile of printouts from Marcus’s computer. She set down her coffee mug in order to avoid getting stains on the papers. It was the fourth mug of the morning and she was actually starting to wake up.
“Thought I would drop by and bring you up to speed. I missed morning prayers. You need to know about some developments.”
Svante sat in Irene’s visitor’s chair. He declined the offer of coffee. Irene pulled out pen and paper and got ready to take notes.
“My colleague in Copenhagen and I have been exchanging information the last couple of weeks. They have better resources than we do and they can get results a lot faster. Now we think we have enough evidence from the murderer that we can run a DNA profile. And we’ve also found fingerprints.”
“Fantastic! But what kind of evidence? And where were the fingerprints? He used gloves, it seemed.”
“For the most part. But he made a mistake here and there.”
Svante put his right hand up in the air and started counting the mistakes, at the same time he let his fingers point toward the ceiling, one after another.
“One: the semen stain found in Copenhagen under that murdered guy’s bed. Two: saliva from the stamp on the postcard you received. We also got an extra bonus there. Three: there’s a clear thumbprint in the middle of the stamp! You often push with your thumb when you attach a stamp. For some reason he wasn’t wearing gloves then. There’s always the risk that it could belong to the mailman but we’ve just found a new trump card. . . . .”
He paused for effect. Irene discovered that she had scooted forward in her seat and was leaning over the desk, as if she were hard of hearing.
“The videocassette that Hannu brought us yesterday. We could eliminate Jonny’s and Hannu’s fingerprints right away. We found Marcus’s and Emil’s prints on the cover. But there were only two prints on the video itself, Emil’s and that of an unknown. We’ve secured the unknown thumbprint. And it matches perfectly with the thumb on the stamp!”
Irene stared at Svante and exclaimed, “I’ll be damned! He’s been smart, and had incredible luck, but he hasn’t realized how dangerous a series of small mistakes are, when put together!”
“He has become too arrogant and self-confident. A bit sloppy. If you catch him, we’ll definitely be able to nail him. Even if he denies it.” Svante sounded very pleased.
“You haven’t gotten anything in on Erik Bolin yet?”
“No. Several samples will come from the autopsy today. Stridner’s assistant called. That young girl, what’s her name? Britt! Britt Nilsson called from Pathology and said that they had found a skin scraping under Bolin’s nails. Apparently the body also has injuries that are indicative of a serious struggle.”
Something clicked, but when Irene couldn’t grasp it, she tossed it off as her imagination, and asked instead, “So Erik Bolin fought with his killer?”
“The evidence points to it. But you’ll get a preliminary report today.”
“Probably.”
“The bloodstains on the police uniform in Copenhagen are from Marcus Tosscander but those on the baton turned out to be significantly older. They came from a prostitute who was killed two years ago.”
“Carmen Østergaard! You mean that her blood was still on the baton after two years?”
“Apparently. There were traces of blood in the hole for the leather strap and on the leather itself. Most of the blood had been wiped or rinsed off, but there was still enough for a positive test. According to our colleagues in Copenhagen, it can’t have been used after the murder.”
“Wasn’t there a baton with the other uniform?”
“No.”
“And no signs of bloodstains on that uniform?”
“No.”
“Were the bloodstains on the real uniform or on the one Emil bought in the gay shop?”
“On the one he bought in the shop.”
So Emil hadn’t dared to use his mother’s uniform during the dismemberment itself, maybe out of fear that she might sometime ask to have it back. A thought struck Irene.
“Wasn’t there any of Carmen’s blood on the uniform?”
“No. Though it had never been washed.”
Irene thought. “On the video, Emil was wearing a uniform when he dismembered Carmen. That must mean that he had still another uniform at that time,” she said.
“Very possible.”
Svante was already on his way into the corridor when Irene heard his farewell. “Good-bye. We’ll be in touch when we know more about Bolin.”
Irene brooded for a long time about the mystery of the absence of Carmen’s blood from the uniform worn during her dismemberment. That must mean Emil had had a third uniform. Where was it now? Maybe he had burned it afterward if it was very bloody? And bought a new one for the dismembering of Marcus?
Irene trembled. That meant that Marcus’s murder had been planned long in advance. Which must mean that Carmen’s murder had also been planned. Were the strange assaults on the two prostitutes in Copenhagen shortly before Carmen was murdered the first clumsy attempts at trying to secure a mutilation victim? Third time was the charm, in that case.
The description the police had of “the policeman” matched Emil, and the description of “the doctor” matched Basta. And what was it that had clicked when Svante Malm started talking about Stridner? Something that Stridner had said? Something that her assistant had said? Irene had only met Britt Nilsson a few times and that had been a while ago. No, it was useless. To her irritation, she was forced to give up. But something had definitely registered.
She went through every name on the lists from Marcus’s computer. Even names that only popped up in connection with job requests were noted. All of them would be checked. It would be a huge job but Irene felt convinced that Basta was hiding behind one of those names. He could be a link between the victims and the murderer. But another certainty had grown ever stronger inside her: he was the murderer they were looking for.
“ITHINK we have him!”
Tommy stormed into the office they shared. He seemed elated. Normally, Tommy was calmness personified.
“I’ve come directly from the prosecutor. We’re going to get him immediately. He’s at work right now.”
“Who?” Irene asked, confused.
Tommy stared at her. Then he exploded, “Jack the Ripper, of course!”
“The New York Ripper and Jack the Ripper. . . . It’s a bit much now,” Irene said, trying to make a joke of her blunder.
Tommy gave her a sharp look before he continued. “I went through the employee lists of all the bars in Vasastan and its surroundings. I checked all males between the ages of twenty and forty. What a job! But it paid off. Yesterday I found Rickard ‘Zorro’ Karlsson. Thirty-two years old and works as a dishwasher at a pizzeria on Molinsgatan.”
Irene formed a silent whistle with her mouth. A dishwasher at a pizzeria, just a stone’s throw away from the pub where her husband worked as master chef.
“He got the nickname Zorro from his fellow inmates in prison. He raped a waitress who was working at the same bar that he was. After the rape, he carved two deep Z marks on her thighs with a meat knife. Afterward he couldn’t explain why. He was convicted of aggravated sexual assault and he got seven years.”
“Dare I guess that this was max four years ago?” Irene said ironically.
“Almost right. Four and a half. The crime happened in Gävle. After his time in prison he moved to Göteborg. His brother works as a cook at another restaurant here in the city but Rickard didn’t get a job there as a dishwasher. He works at the pizzeria instead.”
“When did he start?”
“In February.”
“And at the end of March, Jack the Ripper started to wreak havoc,” Irene determined.
“Yup. And now I’ve checked his time sheets against the times of the rapes. All of them have occurred when Zorro was working a late-night shift!”
“And the prosecutor has given the OK to pull him in right away?”
“Yup. Fredrik is tagging along. See you!”
His good-bye echoed from the corridor. Strange how everyone seemed to be in a hurry to leave her office today.
Personally, she was stuck with all of the names on Marcus’s computer lists. Her intuition hadn’t given her the verdict when she went through them but she felt certain the murderer’s name was there.
Two names connected with Marcus weren’t on the lists: Pontus Zander and Tom Tanaka. Irene knew of them so she noticed they were missing. That meant there were probably other people close to Marcus who were not listed in the computer. The absence of Pontus’s name wasn’t as remarkable as the fact that Tom’s name was missing. According to Pontus, he and Marcus had never been well acquainted. But Tom and Marcus had been.
Irene sighed. It felt hopeless but she had to start the phone calls. Just as she reached out for the phone it rang. She grabbed the receiver.
At first it was quiet on the line but she could hear quick, nervous breathing.
“This is Angelica Hendersen,” said a thin female voice.
The name didn’t mean anything to Irene. Cautious, but in a friendly tone of voice, she said, “OK. And what can I help you with?”
“Marcus . . . I knew Marcus Tosscander. Have you caught the killer?”
“No. Not yet.”
“It’s so terrifying. I can’t understand it . . . Marcus!”
To Irene’s dismay, the woman started sobbing. There was no point in trying to comfort her. Irene patiently held the phone and waited for the crying fit to ease. It took a long time but the woman finally calmed down. Sniffling, she said, “Forgive me. But this is a shock for me.”
Irene heard her blow her nose. Her voice sounded steadier when she started speaking again. “I live in Los Angeles. I came home yesterday to visit my parents. They told me what had happened to Marcus. It’s . . . horrendous! They didn’t want to tell me anything before I came home because they knew how sad I would be.”
“How did you know Marcus?”
“We grew up together.”
“In Hovås?”
“Yes. I was named Sandberg at that time.”
The lightbulb came on. This was the girlfriend Marcus’s father had desperately tried to drag out as proof of his son’s heterosexuality. Irene had actually thought about contacting her, but since no more women’s names had come up in connection with Marcus, she had forgotten about Angelica.
“I visited Emanuel Tosscander today but he didn’t want to talk to me about the murder. He said that I should contact an Inspector Huss at the police station if I wanted to know anything. Please, tell me what you know,” Angelica Hendersen pleaded.
“Yes, I will, if I can ask you a few questions afterward.”
“That’s fine.”
“Even if the questions might be a little sensitive?”
“Yes. I promise to answer them,” Angelica replied in a firm voice.
Irene told her about the investigation from the very beginning but without going into great detail. She outlined the connections between the murders of Carmen Østergaard, Marcus, Isabell Lind, Emil Bentsen, and Erik Bolin.
Angelica didn’t interrupt her account. Her response, when it finally came, took Irene aback.
“Despite everything, I’m not completely surprised about what happened to Marcus. The connection to violence and to the other victims, that also adds up.”
Irene collected herself after her initial reaction. “Why aren’t you surprised?” she asked.
“He needed excitement and danger. Together with sex. If you understand.”
Several people had said the same thing in similar words. Irene understood but still said, “Explain a bit more. Or why not tell me about your relationship with Marcus from the beginning?”
“Maybe that would be best. We’ve known each other all our lives. He was a year older than I. Our parents were neighbors and spent a lot of time together. We were best friends, played with each other all the time, and were always together, too. When we were teenagers, there was a bit more . . . making out between us. In hindsight, I’ve realized that I was always the one who took the initiative. But I didn’t have any experience with other boys, and I thought that Marcus and I were very much in love with each other. Because I really loved him. During my entire childhood and youth there wasn’t anyone else. He went along with cuddling and making out, but never sex. I was naive and romantic and thought that it would sort itself out on our wedding night. That he was saving himself for that.”
Angelica stopped herself.
“You never sensed that Marcus was gay?” Irene asked.
“No. Never. As I said, I was very naive and I’d had a protected childhood. That’s why the realization was so traumatic.”
She blew her nose discreetly before continuing. “The summer I turned eighteen, Marcus asked if I wanted to go with him to Crete. I was overjoyed. Somewhere inside me, hope started growing. The Greek sun and warmth would get Marcus’s hormones to wake up, and we would finally have sex. Because I really felt I was mature enough for it. We landed at the airport in Chania late in the afternoon, so by the time we had checked in and gotten things sorted out with the hotel room, it was time for dinner. The hotel we were staying at was located in Platania. It was right by the beach and couldn’t have been more romantic. I still remember that night. We were sitting at a beachside tavern watching the sun disappear into the Mediterranean. The food was fantastic and we had shared a bottle of wine. We had also had some whiskey in the hotel room. I wasn’t used to it and became a bit tipsy. Marcus suddenly got up from the table, mumbling an apology. I thought that he was just going to go to the bathroom. But he never came back. I sat and waited for him for more than an hour. When the staff started looking at me strangely, I paid and went up to the hotel room. He didn’t show up during the night.”
“Didn’t you report him missing to the hotel staff? Or the police?” Irene asked.
“That came later. I fell into an uneasy sleep in the early morning hours and slept until nine o’clock. When I woke up, a very clear memory came back to me. Just as Marcus had gotten up and hurried away, a man dressed in military clothes did the same, and I got the impression that they had nodded at each other faintly. As if they knew each other. But it was impossible. Marcus had never been to Crete before. I managed to convince myself that I was mistaken and that I had to do something. But I didn’t know what. Maybe something bad had happened to Marcus. I went out on the streets and wandered around aimlessly a while without knowing what I was going to do next. Then I saw the jeep.”
Angelica took a deep breath. “A military jeep came driving at a high speed down the main street of Platania. It was forced to slow down because of a car that was turning just a few meters away from me. A military man was sitting in front, driving. Marcus was in the backseat with the man I had seen at the restaurant the night before. He was still wearing a uniform. The jeep disappeared from my line of sight. I totally panicked. I rushed into the telegraph office, which was located a few hundred meters farther down the same street, and requested a phone call home to my parents. When Pappa answered, I started screaming that Marcus had been arrested by the military and was probably being taken away to some Greek prison. Because my father is a man with good international contacts, he promised to find out what had happened to Marcus right away. He called the consulate in Athens, which in turn contacted Heraklion in Crete. Pappa had told me to be in the hotel room two hours later. He called me like he had promised but he hadn’t gotten any information yet. I remember that he told me to go and eat and swim and he would be in touch around four o’clock. I didn’t have the energy to eat or sunbathe. I sat glued to the phone instead. Pappa called at four o’clock and I could tell by the sound of his voice that it was hard for him to tell me what had happened. In the end, I understood what he was saying. Marcus had been found. He was with a high-ranking military officer at the military base in Maleme. They weren’t on the base but in the personal home of the officer, and Marcus was there of his own free will. I still remember Pappa’s sympathetic voice when he asked if I wanted to come home right away or stay the whole week as planned. You aren’t going to believe me, but I chose to stay the whole week. I hadn’t really accepted what Pappa told me. I thought that I had to be there when Marcus came back. Surely everything would turn out to be a misunderstanding. Not even then did I realize Marcus was gay. Not even then . . . I didn’t want to see the truth.”
She stopped herself again.
“When did you realize that Marcus was gay?” Irene asked.
“When he showed up after three days. Just as bright and cheerful as usual. I was at the point of collapse. Actually, I was just as pale as I had been when I arrived in Crete. It wasn’t fun to lie by yourself on the beach, and I didn’t have enough peace of mind to do it. But Marcus was tan over his whole body. He certainly didn’t have any tan lines from a bathing suit! When I asked what the marks around his wrists and neck were, he only laughed and hugged me. But the marks were terrible; his skin was chafed and covered with sores. Even I could see that he had been tied up. He was sweet with me and was in his usual cuddly mood during the afternoon. In the evening he got dressed up and invited me out to dinner. After dinner we went to a disco. Not fifteen minutes had passed before he disappeared again. But this time I understood what had happened. He had met a man again.”
“When did he come back?”
“Late the next morning, but by then I had had enough. There were two sweet Norwegian guys living in the same corridor as we were and I basically moved in with them.”
At the last sentence she laughed. Apparently not all her memories from the trip to Crete were unpleasant.
“Did you speak with Marcus afterward about what had happened?”
“No. That’s what was so weird. When we went back home on the plane we didn’t say a word about his disappearing. Anyone who saw us must have believed we were a young couple in love traveling home from a very nice vacation. And we never talked about it later either. But our relationship changed. The making out and the cuddling ended, but, strangely enough, we continued to be the best of friends. We’ve continued to stay in touch through the years. I write to him a few times a year and he calls me. In recent years it has mostly been e-mails back and forth.”
“Haven’t you wondered why he hasn’t been in touch during the last few months?”
“Yes. At Easter. He always sends a greeting or gets in touch. But he didn’t this year. I was a bit upset but that’s the way it was with Marcus. I could go a long time without hearing from him, but when he did get in touch it was always as though no time had passed since the last time.”
“When was the last time you had contact with Marcus?”
Angelica thought a moment before replying. “He sent an e-mail on Stan’s fortieth birthday. Stan is my husband. His birthday was February 3. I had reminded Marcus when we spoke on the phone New Year’s Eve. I never thought that he would remember, but he did.”
Irene was struck by a thought. She looked down at the pile of lists lying in front of her on the desk and asked, “Do you know if Marcus had access to a computer when he was in Copenhagen?”
“Of course! He couldn’t work without his computer. Before he moved to Copenhagen he bought a laptop. I don’t remember what brand it was but he was completely satisfied with it.”
Obviously, that was why Tom Tanaka wasn’t on any of the address lists. All of the new names and design projects after the move were on the new computer. It had disappeared without a trace, like all of Marcus’s other belongings in Copenhagen.
Irene gave Angelica her direct number and got Angelica’s parents’ telephone number. She would be staying in Sweden two weeks.
Dark rain clouds towered over the city, warning of a serious afternoon rainstorm. Irene pondered, not paying attention to the weather.
Marcus’s clothes, computer, cell phone, pens and papers, toiletry items—everything was gone. Except for the car and the three framed photographs Erik Bolin had taken.
One victim had taken pictures of another victim. One of the pictures had hung over the bed—and, moreover, the murder scene—of a third victim. Who demonstrably had participated in mutilating the victim in the picture! It was all connected in some sick and curious way.
The pictures. Because Bolin had been murdered and Tanaka seriously wounded in the murderer’s hunt for Manpower, one could reasonably assume that the picture was important. Because the man in the photograph was the murderer? Irene couldn’t come up with any other reason.
The car. Why hadn’t they gotten rid of Marcus’s conspicuous car? And what kind of car did Emil have?
Irene decided to ask Peter Møller. Her heartbeat sped up when she dialed his number.
To her disappointment, Jens Metz answered. He sounded less irate than he had the last time they’d spoken. Irene presented her questions. Jens answered, “The investigation of Tosscander’s car hasn’t revealed anything. It appears to have been standing untouched in the garage since the owner disappeared.”
“What kind of car did Emil have?”
“The make? A Range Rover.”
A Range Rover. A jeep. Erik Bolin had said Basta had arrived in a jeep the time his picture was taken. Had Basta borrowed Emil’s jeep?
“Where is it now?”
“It was parked out in the yard. We’ve taken it in for a forensic examination. The investigation into the attack on your friend Tanaka has come to a halt. A witness saw a tall dark-clothed man jump into a white parked car that was standing just outside the entrance to the backyard. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. Before he started the car, he threw a large picture into the backseat. According to the witness, he was alone. He wasn’t sure about the make of the car. Probably an old Jetta or something similar. But we’ve gotten some interesting tips from Emil’s neighbors. According to them, a tall man with a ponytail has occasionally lived at Emil’s. And, according to a neighbor lady who lives under Emil, he’s Swedish. She’s heard them talk with each other. The other neighbor has only run into the guy a few times in the elevator.”
“Have they been able to give a more detailed description?”
“Tall, muscular, about twenty-five years old, shoulder-length dark blond hair in a ponytail. The man who had been with him in the elevator said that he thought the man was an artist because he had paint on his hands and a large sketch pad under his arm.”
Artist? Then if this was the killer, all Marcus’s references to “my personal physician” were meaningless. No matter how much he would have liked to, Marcus couldn’t possibly have transformed an artist into a personal physician.
Jens Metz asked about the new murder in Göteborg. Irene told him the little she knew. When they hung up they agreed to allocate every resource to stopping the murder-crazed beast. There couldn’t be any more killings.
“Right now it’s quiet here because he’s wreaking havoc in Göteborg. But something tells me that he’ll be here again soon,” Jens concluded ominously.
When they had hung up, Irene thought about his last sentence. Why Göteborg and Copenhagen? Was it possible to figure out some sort of connection between these two cities and one of the names on the list? That name might only be on Marcus’s missing computer, but all they could do was check the names they had and hope for a little luck.
Birgitta Moberg stood in the doorway like a God-sent angel and said, “Hi! Did you find any names that seem familiar? No? Then I can help to make some calls. We’ll divide the pile.”
“You’re a pal! Just let me know if you need a favor in return.”
“Well . . . you can babysit in a few years.”
HER DAUGHTERS were in the kitchen, well under way with dinner, when Irene came home. Krister was working late and wouldn’t be home until past midnight.
Jenny was pouring steaming vegetable broth over thin-sliced vegetables. Irene could make out tomatoes, carrots, squash, and onion. A faint smell of garlic whirled up into the air, betokening the perfect amount of seasoning in the casserole.
Katarina was spicing large ground-beef patties with generous dashes of black, white, and green pepper. When they had turned a delicious golden brown color in the frying pan, they would simmer in some cream and a little bit of soy sauce. Those who had iron stomachs could add even more pepper at their discretion. Irene usually added a bit extra.
Jenny opened the oven door and scooted the pan with the potato wedges over in order to make room for her vegetable casserole. Irene knew what was expected of her. She got out the ingredients for the salad. It was boring to make salad but it was the family’s collective opinion that that was what she was best at when it came to the cooking arts.
“We aren’t going to be in Borås until eleven. Mattias and Tobbe are leaving earlier to set up the stuff so that everything will be ready when we get there,” said Jenny.
“Are you going to Borås?” asked Irene.
Jenny sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.
“You’re more scatterbrained than Grandma! If someone tells you something, like, in the beginning of the week, you’ve forgotten it by the end.”
Irene faintly started remembering a short conversation with Jenny a few days earlier. Then she had talked about the band having gotten a gig in Borås. But was it really so soon as this weekend?
“We’ve been allowed to jump in at the last minute for the Wawa boys. They’re huge. This is an awesome opportunity. We’re getting paid really well.”
The blush on her cheeks wasn’t because she had a fever. Her eyes were lit up from excitement and happiness. This was what Jenny had dreamed about for the last couple of years. Irene felt affection mixed with sorrow rise within her. Sorrow over the fact that time went by so quickly. Soon the girls would be all grown up. She quickly landed in reality again with Jenny’s next comment; she was far from being able to accept her daughter as an adult.
“And everything is sorted out with the hotel. It’s going to be so cool!”
“The hotel? Are you going to stay at a hotel?”
“Naturally. We won’t be done until after one o’clock. And by the time we’ve packed all of our things, half the night will have gone. We were able to take over the Wawa boys’ room reservation.”
Irene stared at her daughter. She would soon be turning seventeen but she was far from being of age. And now she was going to stay at a hotel in Borås with a strange group of guys. Irene didn’t have any idea what they were like. With an effort, she tried to conceal the anxiety in her voice as she asked, “Will you get your own room?”
Jenny shrugged and said, “Don’t know. Think so.”
Contradictory thoughts were darting here and there in Irene’s brain, but before she had time to reach a decision, Katarina said, “Polo is in the process of becoming superpopular. You have to understand, Mamma. Jenny might be the next Nina in the Cardigans!”
Jenny blushed with delight at her sister’s praise. Irene hadn’t seen her this happy for a long time.
Now she realized: she had to let Jenny go to Borås.
Katarina continued enthusiastically, “Micke and I are driving there to listen to them. Then we’re going home to Micke’s to sleep there. It’s nearby.”
Irene could have informed Katarina that the distance from Micke’s parents’ house in Önnered to her own was barely a kilometer as the crow flies and only slightly longer if one used the asphalt roads. But she didn’t have the energy for that discussion. She had the feeling that she had lost something. And she knew what it was. Her daughters’ childhoods would never come back.
Mostly in order to have something to say, she asked, “Is Micke well now? And how does your neck feel?”
“Both of us are feeling much better. I’m allowed to start training lightly after midsummer. Real training and stuff. Not this stupid physical therapy I’m doing now. Just watch how I’m going to catch up! That Ida Bäck better not think she can keep her gold medal in the National Championships next year!”
Irene felt very proud of her daughters now. Each of them, in her own way, was a goal-oriented fighter.
Heavenly smells started emanating from the oven. Katarina was browning the beef patties. Irene felt hungry. She quickly set the table and put out a pitcher of ice water.
A calm whimper at knee height reminded her that it was high time for Sammie’s dinner. Two mugs of dry food mixed with the leftovers from yesterday’s beef sausage was a culinary treat, according to him. Irene stared at the dry brown pebbles, which looked suspiciously like rabbit droppings. Even though she loathed preparing food, she would never be tempted to eat dry dog food. Not even if it had been soaked in hot water.
THE POLICE movie was over just after midnight. Irene turned off the TV, stretched, and yawned. Goodness, how confused and messy it seemed to be at police stations in the USA. Large open office spaces where the desks stood close together, and every attempt at creating a close relationship was doomed to fail. Collared whores, drug dealers, and murderers walked past each other between the desks. In the middle of it all, cops stood and quarreled and fussed about their work problems. And everyone went around indoors armed. It would seem to be too easy for a suspect to pull a gun out of a holster amidst the general confusion.
Was it really like this? If that was the case, Irene felt sincerely sorry for her colleagues on the other side of the Atlantic.
She cleared away her coffee cup. Just as she had expected, Sammie came padding after her into the kitchen. It was high time for the last rounds of the night.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The air was fresh but still mild. Steam rising from the warm earth smelled good. The early summer foliage was at its most beautiful and everything breathed hope in the face of the oncoming summer. Judging from appearances, a student party was being held at a nearby house. Two skinny birches decorated with balloons stood on either side of the front door as a sign. A young man in a white shirt and dark pants stumbled through the open door. Heaving sounds could be heard by Irene and Sammie. The young man clung to the nearest birch for support and both he and the propped-up birch fell straight into the pool of vomit.
The future is ours, Irene thought.
Sammie became uneasy and whimpered when he saw the boy struggling with the birch tree. It didn’t get any better when, with loud curses, the boy swayed upright, grabbed the birch, and threw it down the steps. Sammie started barking heatedly. Of all strange behaviors, this took the cake! Personally, he loved trees and never fought them! He used them for their proper purpose. He demonstrated by lifting his leg toward a lilac bush.
Irene had to drag her furiously barking dog away by his leash. A lap around the soccer field would have to do. A wet dog wasn’t the nicest thing to have in bed and Irene knew that he would jump up as soon as she had fallen asleep. They should have dealt with that when he was a puppy, but it had been so charming when the chubby little dog, struggling, crawled into their bed.
Irene suddenly felt as though she was being watched. They were on the far side of the soccer field that bordered on woods. She looked around but couldn’t see anyone. The feeling wouldn’t go away.
Sammie didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary; he sniffed the ground as usual. The energetic wagging of his tail revealed that an unusually attractive female dog had passed by a little while ago.
Irene’s nervousness increased. Going home, the dog hesitated; someone was standing behind the trees, watching her. Sweat broke out over her entire body under the tight nylon rain jacket. Fear made her yell at Sammie, “Come on, you stupid dog!”
He was so perplexed that he followed without protest. She hadn’t been imagining things. When they began walking briskly, she heard a twig break. Someone had stepped on a dry branch. The young birches stood tightly together. It was impossible to see anything in the deep darkness between the trees. In a flash, she made up her mind. In a fake, hearty voice, she said to Sammie, “Now we’re going to run home to master!”
Bewildered by his mistress’s quick mood swing, he hesitantly started trotting, but pretty soon he got into the swing of things. He increased his speed and ran with the leash taut as a cable behind him.
While she ran, Irene fumbled with her house key. She held it, ready, in a tight grip inside her jacket pocket. As luck would have it, she had switched on the outside lighting when she went out. Even though her hand was shaking, she managed to get the key in the lock. She quickly pulled the dog inside, shut the door behind her, and locked it.
Without taking off her shoes she went straight through the house, checked that the patio door was locked, and switched on the outdoor lights facing the yard. Then she switched off all the lamps on the ground floor and checked the windows just in case, even though she knew that they were closed. Quietly, she crouched beneath a window, so that she couldn’t be seen from the outside. She peered out but didn’t see a single living creature. Only the light rain and the wind, setting the trees’ leaves in motion.
A thought struck her: the second floor. What if the girls had left a window ajar? With a pounding heart, she ran up the stairs. But she had worried for no reason; all of the windows were closed, including the ceiling window in the combined hall and TV room.
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.