There was enough of Shtayf’s headstone left to reveal that neither a forename nor a date of birth had been inscribed on it, only ‘Shtayf’ and a date of death: 7 September 1981. The question was therefore whether this mysterious ‘Shtayf’, above whose broken grave Leonard Sheinkman had met his death, was in any way linked to him. It was all a touch vague.
A long shot, like they say in American films.
But even those worked out from time to time.
Chavez stepped into the sunshine and hopped gracefully over the blue-and-white plastic tape marked ‘Police’. The three men in overalls turned to look at him.
He had walked over a grave.
‘I’m sorry,’ he shouted, holding his police ID up for them to see. ‘I’m afraid I cut across a grave.’
The eldest of the three men came over to him. He looked Eastern European, Chavez thought with a certain bias – like one of the men you saw playing chess in the Kulturhus.
‘You shouldn’t walk over graves,’ the man said sternly, ‘and you should cover your head.’
It clearly wasn’t the first time he had uttered those words because, as if by magic, a small hat appeared from his pocket – a skullcap. Chavez took it and thanked him.
‘You wouldn’t happen to be Yitzak Lemstein, would you?’ he asked, placing the skullcap high on the crown of his head.
The old man looked sorrowfully at him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’m Jorge Chavez, from CID. You’re in charge of the cemetery?’
‘Yes,’ said Yitzak Lemstein. ‘My sons and I take care of it.’
‘I’m very sorry about the night’s events. Things like that shouldn’t happen in Sweden.’
‘They’ll always happen. At all times and in all places on earth.’
Chavez paused, slightly surprised. Then he said: ‘I understand there’s been a lot of damage over the past few years?’
‘Yes,’ Lemstein replied laconically.
‘I was planning on asking you a few questions, if you have time. You heard what happened to Professor Leonard Sheinkman here last night. Did you know him?’
‘No.’
‘And you have no idea what he might have been doing here?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve been wondering about the grave he was killed next to.’
‘When can we take care of it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When can we take care of the gravestone inside the plastic tape there? It’s not well.’
Chavez observed him for a moment. Then he said: ‘I don’t really know. It’s probably OK now. I can ring and check with our technicians as soon as you’ve answered a couple of questions about it. Who was “Shtayf”? And why is there no forename or date of birth on the stone?’
At that, the old man turned his back. He wandered slowly back to his wheelbarrow and began pushing it away.
Chavez stood where he was for a few seconds, slightly bewildered. Then he jogged after him.
‘Why don’t you want to answer that?’
‘It has nothing to do with you. It’s Jewish.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. We think Leonard Sheinkman may have been on the way to that grave. This is important.’
Yitzak Lemstein paused, set the wheelbarrow down with a clank and fixed his gaze on Chavez.
‘Are you familiar with Jewish humour?’ he asked solemnly.
‘Not really,’ Chavez admitted. ‘Woody Allen?’
Lemstein sighed and grabbed the wheelbarrow handles again. Chavez placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and said: ‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to explain what you mean.’
The old man stood for a moment, his hands still gripping the handles. He sighed once more, let go and turned to the stubborn Latino policeman.
‘Humour is how we’ve survived,’ said Yitzak Lemstein. ‘Jewish humour is a special kind of gallows humour, often using wordplay. There were a whole lot of jokes in the Nazi camps. It was just one part of our survival strategy. Believe me, I know.’
He held out his wrist for Chavez to see. The black digits were almost completely covered with thick grey hair. But sure enough, they shone with an utterly dark light.
Chavez nodded and said: ‘So “Shtayf” is what – a joke?’
‘It’s Yiddish,’ the old man said. ‘“Shtayf” means “stiff”. Corpse. We can make jokes in the cemetery, too.’
‘But why is it on the gravestone? What does it mean?’
‘It means it’s an unidentified body. The grave of the unknown soldier, as they say. Unknown dead Jew.’
‘Died in 1981 and still unidentified?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you there when they buried him? If it was a man?’
‘It was a man. And yes, I was there when they buried him. I’m part of Chevra Kadisha. It’s my duty in looking after the cemetery.’
‘Chevra Kadisha?’
‘The burial organisation.’
‘If he was unidentified, how did you know he was of Jewish origin?’
‘He was circumcised. And he had one of these.’
He showed his tattoo again.
Chavez nodded.
‘How did he die?’
‘Murdered. A stab wound, I think. I seem to recall he was found naked out in the woods. I don’t remember exactly where. No one could identify him. But you’re a policeman, you can find out more.’
‘Yes, I’m going to. Do you remember anything else? How old was he?’
‘Must’ve been in his forties. Oh yes, there was one other thing.’
‘What?’ asked Chavez.
‘He didn’t have a nose.’
Jorge Chavez felt utterly confused.
‘Didn’t have a nose?’
‘It was gone.’
‘Whoever killed him had cut it off?’
‘No,’ said Yitzak Lemstein. ‘It had been gone a long time. There was a big scar where it should have been.’
‘I understand,’ said Chavez, not understanding much. ‘Do you have anything else to add?’
‘No,’ said Lemstein. ‘But you do.’
Chavez stood for a moment, still feeling confused. Then he raised a finger to the sky, exclaimed ‘Ah!’ and phoned the National Forensic Laboratory.
‘Brunte,’ he snorted. ‘My dear old father-in-law. Our rock. How’s it going with Södra Begravningsplatsen? Is everything wrapped up?’
He listened for a few seconds. Then he hung up and turned back to Yitzak Lemstein with a nod.
‘You can take care of the headstone now,’ he said. ‘This “Shtayf” has suffered enough.’
Yitzak Lemstein stared at him, turned round, took hold of the wheelbarrow and moved off. Chavez stood there for a moment, watching him as, bow-legged, he pushed the sorry old gravestone away.
Chavez headed back to his car.
On the way, he phoned his wife.
‘Hi, Sara,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘In my office,’ Sara Svenhagen replied. ‘I just got back from Slagsta.’
‘Did anyone recognise our Greek?’
‘His name was Nikos Voultsos, you know. Do you want me to call you “my Chilean”?’
‘During intimate moments, why not, Mrs I-don’t-want-to-be-called-Chavez-I’d-rather-stay-Svenhagen-like-Daddy-Brunte. Oh, I just spoke to your dad, actually. Lovable as ever.’
‘No,’ Sara replied calmly. ‘No one recognised our Greek. But it doesn’t really matter. Arto just got in touch from Italy. From what he said, it seems like Nikos Voultsos was in Sweden for some big crime syndicate in Milan. He was meant to take over the eight women in Slagsta and bring them in to some kind of enormous prostitution ring. We’ve got a probable translation of the message to your ninja feminist as well. “Everyone through OK. Three seven two to Lublin.” I’m busy checking all the ferries I can think of now.’
‘Lublin?’ said Jorge. ‘Poland?’
‘Yeah. Seems like it’s our eight women who came “through OK”. It’s probably something to do with a rival syndicate in Ukraine. I mean, their contacts in Slagsta were Ukrainian, and the message was in Ukrainian. In other words, the ninja feminist seems to be Ukrainian and part of some kind of sex syndicate.’