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.
Gosta 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.
Gosta 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.
“SO WE’VE found Marcus Tosscander’s head. But there weren’t any arms or legs in the crypt or whatever it’s called,” said Superintendent Andersson.
“Mausoleum,” corrected Irene.
Andersson pretended not to hear her. He continued, “Under no circumstances is this allowed to get out to the press. If it does, Basta will know we’re hot on his trail.”
“Are we going to watch the graveyard?” Fredrik Stridh wondered.
“I’ve already posted a guard,” Andersson replied.
The technicians had been working all evening to secure the scene. Svante Malm had shown up at morning prayers. Now it was his turn to speak. “Professor Stridner has promised to be in touch as soon as the identification of the head has been made with the help of dental records and X-rays. A medical odontologist will be present during the morning. But based on what remained, Irene and Birgitta have established that it is Marcus Tosscander’s head.”
The image of the decaying head quickly fluttered through Irene’s mind. Marcus’s beautiful features had vanished forever. A vague thought about the mortality of all beauty was forming in her head, but she had to let it go in order to concentrate on what Svante was saying.
“There’s no evidence to support the theory that a murder was committed inside the burial chamber. However, we’ve found footprints. When we sorted out the ones Irene and Birgitta made when they went in, two sets remained. A pair of heavy boots, size eleven, and a pair of athletic shoes, also size eleven. Right now we’re in the process of matching the prints to the one we secured over the weekend from the flower bed outside Irene’s house. We’ve also sent copies to Copenhagen in case they have footprints from any of their crime scenes.”
Where had there been a footprint? Irene strained to recall: there had been a print on the outer edge of the big pool of blood at the hotel room where Isabell was found. At the time, Irene had thought that it had been made by one of the police officers who had clumsily stepped in the blood. But what if she’d been wrong, what if it turned out to have been made by an athletic shoe, size eleven! That would be the first evidence incriminating Basta for the murder of Isabell.
“We’ve also found some long blond strands of hair, but they’re very light and don’t really match with the description of Basta,” said Svante.
A thought struck Irene. “That could be hair from the older Mrs. von Knecht. She’s very blonde.”
“Very possible. They were found in the coffin, where the head lay.”
Svante knelt and rummaged in his dark blue bag. Then he waved a paper in front of them.
“A fax from Copenhagen. They think that they’ve found the location where the first dismemberment took place. Apparently, the interior matches that on the video. It’s a small shipyard north of Copenhagen that has been abandoned a few years, and will be torn down this summer. Our colleagues in Denmark have requested the fingerprints. It’ll be interesting to see if the ones we believe belong to Basta are found at the Danish crime scenes,” he said.
Irene had her misgivings but, on the other hand, Basta had made some mistakes. Each one of them had been small but, put together, the accumulation of evidence made a serious case against him. Now it was just a matter of determining his identity and catching him.
Irene glanced at the clock. It was almost 9:00 a.m. Henning Oppdal should arrive any minute. She excused herself.
HE DIDN’T look anything like the man she had pictured. The owner of the soft voice turned out to be a rather large man, in good shape, definitely not corpulent. He was of average height and about twenty-five years old. His thick black hair stood straight up on his head. A friendly blue gaze was aimed at Irene through thick glasses enclosed by round, steel frames.
Irene had turned
