She pointed at the copper door of one of the marble crypts. “Certainly, certainly,” the administrator said nervously.
He had to play with the lock for some time before it slowly gave way. The door was reluctant to open and complained loudly. It hasn’t been opened for many years, thought Irene.
It smelled like a damp, musty cellar. Irene switched on her powerful flashlight and let it swing over the coffins, which were piled on top of each other along the walls. She counted nineteen of them. It was so full they couldn’t have jammed in one more. The dust on the floor seemed to be untouched. She shook her head and turned 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.
Gösta 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.
Gösta 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