So Sebastian Martinsson had used the nickname his father had given him when he was alive. But he had died when Sebastian was thirteen. The psychologists could probably figure out what this meant when they examined him. Too bad that he hadn’t called himself Sebbe; then it would have been much easier to guess his full name.
Irene tried again. “When was the last time you spoke with Sebastian?”
Sabine leaned back, her hands still pressed hard against her stomach.
“I don’t know. Maybe at Christmas,” she mumbled.
Apparently mother and son were not in close contact, Irene concluded. She remembered something she had to ask. “Had Sebastian injured the tip of his left index finger?”
Sabine tried to focus her suspicious look on Irene. “Why. . are you asking?”
“One of his friends at work said something about an injured fingertip. It may be good to mention it if we need to conduct a search for him,” Irene said innocently.
Sabine nodded and sighed. “He crushed it. . in the main school door when he was living here. . with me.”
Her chest heaved after the long sentence as she fought for breath.
“Do you know where he lives in Copenhagen?” Irene asked.
“No. He’s moved. . different places.”
She closed her eyes. Irene worried that she would fall asleep. Quickly, Irene asked, “Do you know the name of the school he’s attending?”
Sabine opened her eyelids slightly. With difficulty she straightened up. Hesitantly, she said, “Not a school. . Kreuger. . Academy or something.”
Kreuger? Wasn’t he a Swede, the match king? Maybe he had founded an art school in Copenhagen? She would have to call her colleagues there as soon as possible.
For the first time Hannu broke into the questioning. He asked, “Sabine, is there a place out near Säve that Sebastian might have access to?”
“Säve? My little house. . inherited from my parents. Can’t live there. Burned down. . ”
“Do you still own the house?”
Sabine nodded in response. She sat with her head hanging. Now and then a low groan escaped her.
Since Sabine had just been released from the hospital there really wasn’t any sense in trying to have her admitted again. No one wanted to touch Sabine with a ten-foot pole. No one, except for her cavaliers in the kitchen.
When Irene got up to leave, Sabine’s clawlike hand shot up and gripped the lower part of Irene’s jacket hard.
“Find him. . please,” she wheezed.
Irene reassured her with the greatest sincerity, while at the same time freeing the jacket fabric from her grasp. “We’ll do everything we can.”
They stepped over the man in the hall, who was still snoring peacefully.
“WHAT WAS she talking about when she said that he works at a funeral home? Basta works in Pathology!” said Irene
She was holding on to the steering wheel as they zoomed toward Göteborg again, just above the speed limit. Hannu sat for a while before he answered. “The suit.”
The man could be insanely irritating but Irene knew that he was often right and his conclusions correct. The irritating part was that he was the only one who understood what he meant but he thought it should be crystal clear to everyone. He went through several ideas mentally and then stated the last one, often monosyllabically. Everyone around him gaped and looked like an idiot. Right now only Irene was around him, but she was no exception.
“What damn suit?”
She hadn’t meant to hiss, but it turned out that way. As usual, Hannu was unaffected.
“The suit in the closet,” he said.
A sober black suit had hung in Basta’s closet, with a white shirt and a black tie. A pair of black-laced shoes stood on the floor. Altogether, the prevalent clothing for employees at a funeral home when they were going to assist in burials.
“You’re right. I had forgotten. The doctor’s outfit was more interesting to me. Police uniforms and operating clothing. . God! They’re playing dress up.”
“Both Emil and Basta knew what they were doing. It was never a game. They were planning and preparing for the murders of Carmen and Marcus,” Hannu said.
Irene reminded herself of the scenes from the videotapes they had found at Emil’s. Emil and Basta had procured a video camera and a circular saw before they killed Carmen.
“I’ll find out where Sabine’s house is located,” Hannu said.
He took out his cell phone and called a number in his address book. Irene could hear someone answer and the start of a conversation in Finnish. The only part she recognized was something about “entry into the land register,” but she wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly.
Hannu turned off the cell phone and said shortly, “He’ll call.”
If Irene hadn’t known Hannu she definitely would have asked “Who?” But now she knew him, so she didn’t ask. She didn’t doubt for a second that his cell phone would ring soon and they would get the address of Sabine’s house in Säve.
“Have you ever heard of the Kreuger Academy?” she asked instead.
“No.”
“I’ll have to phone Copenhagen when we get to the station.”
IRENE WOULD have liked to have taken a shower after their visit to Sabine Martinsson. The smell of dirt, human degradation, poverty, and destitution had an uncomfortable ability to stick to you. But it wasn’t the first time she had wandered around in that environment and it would hardly be the last time, either. Like a wet dog, she shook off the worst of it and decided to start working.
Before she had had time to dial the number for Vesterbro her cell phone rang.
“Irene Huss.”
“Tom speaking.”
Joy made Irene’s heart skip a beat.
“Tom! So nice of you to call! That means you’ve come home. How are you feeling?”
“That’s right, I’ve come home. All things considered, I feel good. I’ve felt better. I should probably be thankful that I’m alive. But I’m not calling to complain. I wanted to thank you for the flowers. Your friend Peter Møller brought them to me. Beautiful orchids, which are actually my favorite flowers. Thanks.”
A thought struck Irene: what if Basta was in Copenhagen and decided to take care of an unfinished job? Tom was the only one of his victims who had survived. Should she warn him? Hesitantly, she said, “Tom. We’ve gotten a lead. We probably know who the murderer is. Did Emil or Marcus ever mention the name Basta?”
The silence became loaded. Finally, Tom said shortly, “No.”
“Do you know of any art school called the Kreuger Academy?”
“Not Kreu. . no.”
Irene heard him stop himself. When he didn’t continue, she asked, “Did Emil or Marcus ever talk about someone they knew who was studying art?”
“Yes. For a while Emil rented to a guy who was studying art. I think his name was Sebastian. Is he the one called Basta?”
“Yes.”
Again a fraught silence ensued.
“Is this Basta the murderer?” Tom asked finally.
“A lot of evidence points to him. He could be in Copenhagen right now. You must be on your guard. We don’t know how he thinks. Maybe you’re a failure he has to fix. You survived.”
“Such a klutz. But he wasn’t after me; he was after the picture on the wall. Why did he want it?”
“He’s the one in the picture.”
“Aha.”
Afterward, Irene felt a deep and sincere thankfulness that Tom had made it through alive.
After two mugs of coffee, she called her colleagues at Vesterbro. Jens Metz answered, just as Irene had expected.
“Hi, Jens. Irene Huss. We spoke with Sebastian Martinsson’s mother about an hour ago. We have good reason to believe that he is in Copenhagen now. She maintains that he’s studying art at the Kreuger Academy.”