The Torso

Chapter 8

ISABELL WAS GONE. IRENE had searched the entire house. She had walked through all the dark and never-ending corridors and looked through all the dilapidated rooms. Dust and spiderwebs whirled up with every step she took. Her feet felt heavier and heavier but she forced herself to continue, pushed by the strength of her despair. It was up to her to find Isabell before it was too late. Because it was her fault that Isabell was gone. Bell was just a little child and now Irene had lost her. The temperature was rising in the gloomy house. Time was running out. Irene felt panic grow inside her. The ceiling started sinking and the walls of the corridor bent inward. Soon the whole house would implode. Everyone who was in the house would be crushed and die. Desperate, Irene tried to yell Isabell’s name but she couldn’t get out a sound. Suddenly she felt the floor moving and realized that it was too late.

IT WAS Sammie who had jumped up on the bed and made it move. Irene was bathed in sweat and she felt her heart pounding in panic after the dream. The numbers on the dark clock face showed 3:37. Krister was lying next to her, snoring peacefully. Sammie had laid down at the foot of the bed on his back, with his paws in the air. He was already asleep. At least he was pretending to be, in case his mistress tried to get him off the bed.

Irene went into the bathroom to drink some water and to try and slow down her heart rate. Her sweat felt sticky on her naked body. After a while she began to feel chilled. She went into the bedroom for her bathrobe and wrapped herself in the soft terry cloth, then padded to the kitchen barefoot, and sat down with a glass of cold milk.

The kitchen window faced east. On the horizon the sun was in the process of painting a beautiful dawn in pastel colors of pink and turquoise. The few moonbeams that remained glittered like golden ribbons. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Irene had a hard time forgetting her dream, which she didn’t have any difficulty analyzing. She had a guilty conscience and was worried about what might have happened to Isabell.

The telephone conversation with Monika Lind barely six hours earlier had been tough. It was difficult to say that she had located Isabell without having had the chance to meet her before she disappeared again. The worst had been talking about Isabell’s work. Monika was brokenhearted when she understood that Isabell was a prostitute. The thought had never crossed her mind. She had bought the idea hook, line, and sinker that her beautiful little daughter was struggling to become a famous photo model; she couldn’t accept the truth. Maybe she also felt ashamed. Toward the end of the phone call, Monika had become aggressive and started questioning Irene’s information. Maybe Irene had seen the wrong picture in the tourist guide? Maybe it wasn’t Bell after all! Even if the escort service was called Scandinavian Models, couldn’t there be other agencies with the same name? Why not a serious modeling agency? Yet in the end, Irene made her see reality. The girl who had disappeared was Isabell and no other.

Irene hadn’t said a word about the suspicions she and Tom Tanaka had. She still had a hard time believing that her appearance in Copenhagen had started a domino effect that led to Isabell’s disappearance. It seemed too far-fetched.

She decided not to mention Tom’s identity to anyone. She trusted him completely but her boss and colleagues never would. They would make fun of him and question his credibility. But Irene had faith in him, because he had truly loved Marcus Tosscander. Now they had to find out who Marcus really had been. It appeared that he had had many dangerous acquaintances.

IRENE GOT to start Thursday’s morning prayers with a report of her doings in Copenhagen. A censored version.

“Good work in Copenhagen. It seems as though it could be some of Marcus Tosscander lying in the sacks,” said Superintendent Andersson.

Jonny interrupted him. “What’s this funny stuff about not being able to tell us how you got the information?”

He looked at Irene. She had known the question would come and she wasn’t all that surprised about who had asked it. “I have guaranteed complete confidentiality to my informant. No one but me knows his identity. Those were the conditions I agreed to in order to get the information. The main thing is that we finally have a name to start with,” she answered.

Jonny began to object but the superintendent was ahead of him.

“Exactly. Hannu and Jonny worked on it all day yesterday. Everything points to the torso really being Tosscander. Hannu can begin.”

Hannu nodded slightly and read from his notepad: “Marcus Emanuel Tosscander was born March 8, 1968, in Askim Parish. He would now be thirty-one years old. The mother died ten years ago. The father is a retired senior physician. No siblings. Educated at the College for Art and Design for five years. Started his own design firm as soon as his education was done. Moved the business to the offices at Kungsportsplatsen four years ago. According to his tax declarations for the last five years, his company has done very well. The company has declared profits in the millions, and personally he has taken out five hundred thousand in salary each year. Lives on Jenny Lindsgatan in Lunden. Unmarried. No children. Drives an imported red Pontiac, 1995 year model.”

Had he actually thought of checking the car registration as well? thought Irene. But by this time she knew Hannu and realized that he had. Where was the car now? Marcus had probably taken it to Copenhagen.

“Jonny contacted the father yesterday,” Andersson said to Irene.

Jonny got ready to take over: “I drove out to Pappa Tosscander’s after lunch yesterday. He didn’t want to meet with me earlier because he was going to be out golfing. This despite the fact that I told the old man it had to do with his son when I called him in the morning. Golf was more important. He lives alone in a damn big shack by the ocean right next to Hovås golf course. But I understood that the old man and his son don’t have any contact at all. He seemed like he didn’t want to know anything about Marcus. He said several times, ‘My son lives his life and I live mine.’ ”

“Had he heard anything from Marcus during the past few months?” asked Irene.

“From what I understand, they haven’t spoken with each other since Marcus moved to Copenhagen.”

“But he moved at New Year’s!” Irene exclaimed.

“Yes. But apparently that’s the way it is.”

“Strange not to have any contact with your only son for five months. . ”

Irene stopped herself. Marcus had said to Tom Tanaka that he might be moving to Copenhagen for good. Had that decision been based on a break with his father? Yet another thought struck her. The father was a doctor. In Göteborg. She decided that she would try and talk with him when she had a chance.

“Has anyone reported Marcus missing?” Birgitta asked.

“No,” answered Hannu.

“It could be that the publication of the tattoo drawing confused people here in Göteborg. Marcus Tosscander had it done in Copenhagen before he disappeared. Apparently no one here saw Marcus’s new body decoration,” said Irene.

“You mean that even if people had missed Marcus, no one would put his disappearance together with the discovery of the body parts out at Killevik? But where do people think he is? He can’t have been in contact with anyone since the end of February or possibly the beginning of March,” said Birgitta.

The superintendent cleared his throat and started showing signs of wanting to say something.

“Even if we’re almost certain that the victim at Killevik is Marcus Tosscander, I want to wait to release his identity to the media. We’ll collect all the information we can in the next few days and maybe we’ll release his name after the weekend.”

“It’s a long weekend, Pentecost. That won’t be until Tuesday. Five days,” said Hannu.

Irene agreed. Five days felt like way too much time to wait. But she could understand the superintendent’s unwillingness to be hasty. There was a microscopic chance that the victim wasn’t Marcus Tosscander. A mistake like that could be disastrous. They had to have watertight proof that it really was him.

“Has anyone been to his office or his apartment?” she asked.

“No. I was thinking that you should start there today,” said Andersson.

IRENE SPENT several hours writing up the report on her trip to the other side of Øresund. It was difficult since she constantly had to think ahead and make sure that she didn’t write too much. Meanwhile, Jonny and Hannu were chasing after permission and keys so they could enter Tosscander’s residence and workplace.

By lunchtime everything was done.

“We’ll take a look at the office first. It’s the closest, and then we’ll have time to eat lunch before we head over to Lunden,” said Jonny.

Hannu and Irene nodded.

The offices of Tosca’s Design were located on the second floor of a house between Kopparmärra and the canal. A house telephone and keypad lock were supposed to keep unwanted visitors outside, but since the police officers had keys, access wasn’t a problem. Wide marble steps with massive balustrades stretched upward in the light yellow stairwell. There was no elevator. Apparently, Marcus Tosscander didn’t have any handicapped clients, unless they used the telephone or Internet.

TOSCA’S DESIGN, it said on the enamel sign, in elegant dark blue writing against a white background. Hannu had keys to the ASSA deadbolt lock and the burglar alarm.

A stale smell of stagnant, dust-filled air hit them when they opened the door. It seemed as if no one had been here for months. Hannu turned on the light in the long windowless corridor.

The door to the right led into a small room with a glass wall facing the corridor. It had probably been intended as a switchboard operator’s or secretary’s room but Tosscander had made it into a comfortable room for visitors. The window was large and uncurtained, evidently in order not to block the magnificent view of the canal. A brown buffalo hide on the floor covered almost its entire surface. There were two circular-shaped recliners with backrests and seats upholstered in light brown leather. The frames were made of steel. One of the shorter walls was completely covered by books and glossy interior design magazines.

A large watercolor in sober colors hung on the opposite wall. It showed small houses crouched near the foot of a large mountain. A windstorm was whipping snow over the sea and around the corners of the cottages, but warm light glimmered from the little windows. Irene was captivated by the picture and stepped closer in order to be able to read the signature. The artist was Lars Lerin, but the name didn’t mean anything to her.

Straight across the hall was a bathroom. The drains smelled; all of the water had long since evaporated. The door next to it led to a small pantry, a miniversion of Tom Tanaka’s kitchen. Everything was there: the cherry flooring, black-and-white painted drawers and counters, the remaining furnishings in stainless steel. The view from this window was not nearly as striking as the one from the visitors’ room; it faced the front of the house across the street.

The other corridor doors concealed a cleaning supplies closet, a small wardrobe, and a little office storage area for paper and binders.

The remaining door on the right side led into Marcus’s large workroom. The tall bare windows let in generous sunlight. It was warm and stuffy. Irene opened the windows and admired the beautiful view over the glistening water in the canal. The chestnut trees on the other side were in the process of blooming. A multicolored carpet of different bulbs was spread beneath them, a bounty of wasteful splendor, but soon their bloom would be over.

She turned and examined the room. The floor was original and had been sanded and varnished. The walls and ceiling were white. Next to one of the windows was a large desk bearing a computer, telephone, and drawing board. The wall behind the desk was covered by a bookcase. Binders and rolls of sketches were crammed onto its shelves.

An enormous table stood before the other window. Now it was empty but it seemed to have been Marcus’s worktable. Paintbrushes, pens, India inks, and chalks were crammed onto a little side table.

Drawings of interiors, sketches of large display windows, various fabrics, and color samples hung all along the walls. A very creative person had worked in this room.

They each put on cotton gloves and started systematically going through the room. When every box and binder had been looked through, Hannu said, “I haven’t seen a client list.”

Everyone looked at the computer. Hannu turned it on. It demanded a password.

“How about trying pansy or asshole buddy?” said Jonny.

He laughed at his own wit, but he laughed alone. Hannu tried “Tosca’s,” “Tosca’s Design,” “design” and the like but without success.

“We may as well go and eat. Maybe we’ll have better luck at his apartment,” said Irene.

THE VIEW at this elevation was fantastic. They looked out over Olskroken and Stampen and off toward Heden, with Ullevi in the foreground. When they had had enough of the scenery, they turned around. The old house was built in country manor style. Marcus Tosscander had a corner apartment on the top floor.

“That kid knew how to arrange awesome views,” said Jonny.

They could only agree.

They mounted the narrow steps. The walls along the stairwell were newly painted in an old-fashioned pink. The stairs, doors, and handrails were light gray, creating a cheerful but subdued impression. Irene thought that Marcus might well have had a hand in choosing the color scheme.

On the top landing there was the nameplate for M. TOSSCANDER on one door and for G. SVENSSON on the other.

They entered Marcus’s apartment and Irene’s suspicion was confirmed. The walls in the front hall were painted in the same pink as the main stairwell. All four doors in the hall were painted light gray. The kitchen was to the right of the entrance. It also featured black and steel but Marcus had used a light-colored wood for cabinets instead of white. The same wood was used for the flooring.

Something struck Irene. “Check the flowers. They seem to be fresh, and it doesn’t smell stuffy and dusty in here like it did in the office,” she said.

This window was also curtainless. Marcus had trained a yellow creeper to climb along strings on one side of the window, and a flowering wax plant covered the other side. Irene stepped up to the window and looked out. The kitchen faced a thickly foliaged courtyard filled with plants and even a lilac bower.

They peered into the little bathroom, which contained a large bathtub on lion’s-paw feet. The floor and walls were completely covered in dark blue tile. Here and there were interspersed tiles with a half or full moon or a star. The ceiling was also painted dark blue and Marcus had stencilled different constellations on it. Irene recognized some of them, but only knew one of the names, the Big Dipper. She imagined lying in the tub with some candles along the edge and looking up at the starry sky. …

None of them heard the door open. A sharp voice called out behind them. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The three officers turned to look at the owner of the voice. She stood in the middle of the hall, the light from a lamp reflecting from her white hair. The skinny little lady did not inspire fear but the angry expression on her face testified to her feistiness.

“We’re police officers,” said Jonny. They showed their badges to her.

Most of the anger melted from her face. “Is that so? But what are you doing in Marcus’s apartment?” she asked sternly.

Irene chose her words carefully. “We suspect that Marcus is missing. Who are you?”

“Is little Marcus missing? I’ve begun to fear that myself these last few weeks. It’s been two months since I’ve heard from him.”

“Are you looking after his apartment?”

“Yes. I live in the apartment next door; my name is Gretta Svensson.”

“We are Crime Inspectors Irene Huss, Jonny Blom, and Hannu Rauhala.”

The hostility had vanished from the old lady’s face and been replaced with a look of deep concern. “What has happened to little Marcus?” she said.

“We aren’t sure yet but his friends in Copenhagen also said that Marcus hadn’t been in touch for two months. When did he say he’d be back?”

“No exact time. It depended on how things went in Copenhagen. If things were going well he was going to stay, and if they didn’t work out, he would come straight home. What I understood from his call was that things were going very well for him there. I assumed he had gotten a lot of work since he’s so talented.”

“Has he sent you any letters?”

“No, Marcus always calls. He’s so sweet and thoughtful. Could anything have happened to him?”

“We know nothing for certain. But the possibility is always there when someone disappears.”

It was just as well not to give Gretta Svensson false hope. She would find out from the mass media in five days.

“Mrs. Svensson-” Irene started but was interrupted at once.

“Ms.”

“Ms. Svensson. Will you be home during the next few hours?”

“Yes.”

“May we come in and speak with you when we are done looking through this apartment?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We’ll stop by in a bit.”

Gently but firmly, Irene showed Ms. Svensson out of Marcus’s apartment and closed the door.

Jonny and Hannu had already gone into Marcus’s bedroom. Lots of splendid houseplants stood in the window. The walls were painted a shade of terra-cotta. Near the ceiling there was a wide patterned border in black, white, and different shades of brown. The flooring was dark brown varnished wood. There was only one piece of furniture in the room, a circular bed that had to be at least ten feet in diameter. The bedspread was black silk, and Irene was willing to bet that the sheets were of the same color and quality. Imaginative African masks decorated the walls, and spears and shields were hung, artistically arranged, between the masks.

“Hello, Africa,” Jonny said in a deep bass tone.

He was right. The grotesque masks and shields felt threatening to Irene. She had the irrational feeling of being watched.

The living room provided a striking contrast. The walls were white and the flooring was the same type of light wood as in the kitchen. The sun flooded in. It was probably Ms. Svensson who had lowered the wooden blinds to protect the plants.

“This man has done away with curtains. I think it’s really nice,” said Irene.

A short windowless wall was completely covered by an overflowing bookcase. Two big white leather sofas stood in the middle of the room, facing each other. A black-and-white cowhide lay on the floor beneath them. The coffee table was constructed of two freestanding triangular pieces of marble, one white and the other black. They could also be put together to make a larger table. The remaining furniture consisted of a large stereo system and a wide-screen TV. Two oil paintings hung on the walls, probably painted by the same artist who had painted the watercolor at the office.

“Nice,” said Hannu.

Irene was a bit surprised. He rarely aired his opinions.

They searched the apartment without finding anything interesting except for three photo albums that were on a shelf of the bookcase. One turned out to contain pictures of a single man in various poses and outfits. The heading on the first page was MARCUS TOSSCANDER. He had posed nude for the pictures on the last two pages.

He had been very attractive, with thick dark brown hair, clean and symmetrical facial features, big deep blue eyes, and a beautiful smile. Irene had expected him to be effeminate but his looks were completely masculine. From the nude photos, Irene noted that he was muscular with six-pack abs. He was very sexy.

The two other albums contained pictures taken at parties and on trips. There was a good deal of writing next to the pictures so Jonny, Hannu, and Irene decided to take them back to the station.

Hannu remarked on their failure to find an address book here either.

“We’ll have to ask the technicians to come and collect evidence. I assume that the big bathtub might have been suitable for the dismemberment of the body,” Irene said, although they had found nothing to indicate it had taken place there, but it was best to go by the book.

There weren’t many clothes in the bedroom closets. It looked as though Marcus had taken both summer and winter clothes with him. Odd, since he had left in the middle of winter. Maybe he was counting on staying away till the summer. Then again, the distance between Göteborg and Copenhagen wasn’t that far. If nothing else, he had both his office and his apartment to look after. Had he really not planned to return to Göteborg a single time during the spring? Yet that’s exactly what he must have done: returned home, only to be murdered and dismembered.

In the beautiful apartment, Irene shivered.

“Only one of us has to talk with the old lady,” said Jonny.

“OK, I’ll do it,” Irene volunteered.

Hannu and Jonny had found two keys in a drawer of the tall dresser in the hall. One of them was marked “Basement” and the other “Attic.” They each took a key and on the landing they split up. Jonny unlocked the door to the attic, Hannu went down the stairs, and Irene rang the bell of the door across the hall. It opened at once.

“Did you find anything?” asked Gretta Svensson.

There was concern, not curiosity, in her voice.

“Nothing that tells us where he might be,” Irene answered truthfully.

She entered the apartment. The hallway was the same size as the one in Marcus’s apartment, but the color scheme was completely different. Deep purple velvet flocked wallpaper revealed that the last renovation had taken place sometime during the late sixties. All the interior doors were painted a dark brown. Gretta Svensson showed Irene into a large living room, the same size as Marcus’s. This was not a corner apartment so there was only one window and the room was not as bright. The furniture was a mixture of dark oak pieces and IKEA recliners. The window was framed by thick rose-patterned chintz curtains. The impression was dark and oppressive.

“Please sit down. I’ll get the coffee,” said Ms. Svensson.

Irene didn’t protest because she was longing for a cup of coffee. As she sank down on the pink sofa she noticed that the coffee cups had already been set out. She had never had a chance to decline.

The little woman came flying out of the kitchen with a coffee pot made of glass in one hand and a plate of Marie biscuits in the other.

“I don’t have any coffee cake in the house. This was a bit unexpected,” Gretta Svensson apologized.

Irene nodded understandingly and inhaled the scent of coffee. The biscuits weren’t important as far as she was concerned; the main thing was that she got some caffeine.

“Please start by answering a few routine questions that we always ask people in cases like these,” Irene said.

“That’s fine.”

“Your full name?”

“Anna Gretta Svensson.”

“Thanks. Your date of birth?”

“October 19, 1921.”

Irene quickly did the math and determined that the woman sitting in front of her was seventy-eight years old. Before she was able to ask another question, Gretta continued. “I was born a few houses down on this street, though that building was torn down many years ago. This house hadn’t been built yet. Pappa was a baker and Mamma sometimes helped in the bakery where he worked. It was them and the six of us kids in a two-room apartment. I’m the only sibling left of the bunch. I guess I was what you would call a late surprise.”

“Have you always lived on this street?”

“All my life. I’ve lived in this apartment for thirty-two years because it suits me so well. Before that I had a studio apartment in the house next door for many years.”

“What did you work as?” It had nothing to do with the investigation, but Irene was curious.

“A seamstress. The last few years I worked at Gillblad’s.”

Gretta sat up straight in the little chintz-covered Emma recliner and kept her light blue eyes focused steadily on Irene as she slowly brushed a white wisp of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “But this isn’t about me. Where is Marcus?” she asked.

“If we only knew,” Irene sighed.

Gretta looked as though she was preparing to ask another question, but Irene quickly prevented her. “How long has Marcus been your neighbor?”

“Ten and a half years. We celebrated our ten-year anniversary during Saint Lucia. He came over with a bottle of wine and I made some delicious sandwiches. We sat talking and had a wonderful time. That’s when he told me about Copenhagen and I promised to look after his apartment.”

“Do you often get together over a bottle of wine?”

“Sometimes. He comes over when he thinks I’m feeling lonely. That’s the way he is. Very sweet and thoughtful.”

Gretta smiled unconsciously when she spoke about Marcus.

“I know that Marcus moved to Copenhagen around New Year’s. How often did he call you from Copenhagen?”

“Not very often. He had so much to do. There were always new jobs and. .” She stopped herself and compressed her lips. Finally she said dully, “He called me twice.”

“When was the last time?”

“Wait.”

Gretta rose surprisingly quickly and disappeared into the bedroom. After a while she came back with a small blue pocket diary. She nervously skimmed back and forth, then triumphantly she announced, “Here. February 18.”

She held out the page. “Marcus has called,” it said. The other days were blank.

“I always write down important things.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

Gretta’s brow wrinkled as she concentrated. “He said that he was getting on very well in Copenhagen and he might come home at the beginning of March, but he would call me beforehand. He didn’t. But he may have called when I was in the hospital.”

“When were you in the hospital?”

“I was admitted the night of February 27 and came home on March 5. I’d had some intestinal bleeding and it turned out to be a large polyp, which they removed immediately. But I lost a lot of blood so they had to give me transfusions. I got seven bags of blood! Then there were a bunch of tests with-”

“Could Marcus have been home during that time?” Irene brusquely interrupted the health story.

“Yes. Because there was something. .” Gretta fell silent and looked uncertain. “I went to the emergency room on Sunday night. I had gone in and watered the plants at Marcus’s on Friday. As soon as I got home, I went into his apartment because I expected that the flowers would be droopy, but they weren’t. They looked healthy. As if someone had watered them.”

“Did they look like they had been watered recently? Was there water on the dishes? Was the soil moist?”

“They hadn’t been watered that recently. Maybe three or four days earlier.”

This was very interesting. If they could prove that Marcus had been home the first week in March, they might be able to pinpoint when he died.

Irene chose her words carefully. “Do you know if Marcus had a girlfriend or another friend whom he often saw?”

“Marcus lived such an active life. There wasn’t room for a girlfriend. He used to say that he didn’t need one because he had me.”

What kind of man had this effect? Tom Tanaka and Gretta Svensson both seemed to feel specially chosen by Marcus.

“Did he have a lot of buddies?”

“Not all that many. Sometimes he would have small parties in his apartment. But never any rowdiness! All of the boys were polite and well behaved.”

“Do you know any of their names?”

“No.”

Irene couldn’t come up with any more questions for the moment. She got up and said, “I’d like to thank you for your help. Is it all right for me to return if I come up with any more questions?”

“It’s perfectly fine.”

The little woman followed her out into the hall. When she had closed the door, Irene heard the lock rattling as the key was turned.

Jonny had found a box that he carried down from the attic.

“Magazines and films. Gay porn,” he announced.

There was only an old bike in the basement. Hannu had returned to the apartment and was looking through the albums they were planning to take back to the station.

“Names,” he said and pointed.

A wedding invitation was glued to the top of one of the pages. It was a double card with two gold rings on the outside. On the inside it read:

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Anders Gunnarsson and Hans Pahliss in the Göteborg City Hall on 5/29 1998 12:30. Wedding lunch at Fiskekrogen, 1:30. There will be a party in the evening at our home. Looking forward to seeing you!

“Pahliss. A name that should be easy to look up,” said Irene.

“A wedding. But, damn, it’s two guys,” Jonny said. The distaste was evident in his voice.

There were several photos next to the invitation, which had evidently been taken during the partnership ceremony and at the lunch.

The two men appeared to be in their thirties. One of them was tall and blond and the other was shorter and had dark hair. It was possible that he was a few years older than his blond partner. Both wore dark suits with bright red bow ties. The roses in their buttonholes were also red. They looked serious in the first picture, in which they were listening carefully to the officiator. Marcus’s handsome face could be seen behind the blond man. The next picture was taken from the side, and Marcus could be seen from behind. His light linen suit fit perfectly. The last picture from the City Hall ceremony showed the couple standing outside on the steps and being showered with rice by lots of people. Irene quickly counted forty-three, plus the photographer. She could see Marcus’s light-colored suit in the crowd.

The pictures that followed were from the lunch: happy people, toasting and laughing. The newly wedded couple beamed at each other and their guests. Irene noticed that there seemed to be an equal number of men and women in the pictures. There were no photos from the party that evening.

“We’ll take a closer look at the albums at the station. And maybe you can start looking for Gunnarsson and Pahliss,” she said.

The latter was directed at Hannu, who nodded.

“ITHINK it’s about time for me to meet Pappa Tosscander,” said Irene.

She was standing leaning against the edge of Superintendent Andersson’s desk. Jonny was sitting on the visitor’s chair, sulking.

“I’ve talked with the old man. And I don’t want to go through that gay porn myself.” He made a face at the box that was standing by the inside of the door.

“You don’t need to pore over the magazines. Just look through the videos,” said Irene. She didn’t want to admit even to herself that she felt uncomfortable about watching them. That’s why she quickly said, “The possibility that Marcus returned to the city in the first week of March needs to be confirmed. Maybe he contacted his father. We have to ask him. Maybe he has forgotten or he doesn’t want to remember.”

“Has Hannu found those two guys from the album?” asked Superintendent Andersson.

“No, but he’s still looking. And he will locate them,” Irene said confidently.

“It’s after five. It’s almost time to leave,” said Jonny.

The phone on Andersson’s desk rang. He answered and then looked in Irene’s direction.

“Just a second. She’s here,” he said. He handed over the receiver and hissed, “A Dane, asking for you.”

Irene took the receiver. “This is Irene Huss.”

“Jens Metz here. We’ve found Isabell Lind. Dead.”

Irene couldn’t utter a sound. Her colleagues watched in astonishment as she grew pale and tried to steady herself by grasping the edge of the desk.

“Hello! Are you still there?” Jens Metz’s voice could he heard asking.

With great effort, Irene croaked, “I’m here.”

“Good. She was found murdered at the Hotel Aurora. The top floor is closed to guests due to renovations. The painters found her in one of the rooms. There are signs that point to our mutual murder-mutilator.”

To her own astonishment, Irene felt her knees begin to shake. She leaned heavily against the superintendent’s desk and managed to rest her weight on the edge. It felt as if her legs wouldn’t hold her.

“Is she. . is she dismembered?” she finally managed to get out.

“No. None of the parts are missing. But the murder method bears our murderer’s signature. She was strangled and abused, the same as Carmen Østergaard and the boy you found. The stomach was cut open but none of the contents were removed, according to Svend Blokk, who performed the autopsy.”

“Oh my God!” was all Irene could say.

“We want you to come back to Copenhagen. You know more than we do about Isabell and the investigation in Göteborg. I would also like to ask a big favor.”

“What?”

“That you notify the parents. It would be better than if we tried to convey this kind of message over the phone, and in Danish.”

Irene knew that he was right but her stomach clenched. She didn’t want to face Monika Lind’s despair. But she had to.

“OK, I’ll do it. But I have to talk to my boss about returning to Copenhagen.”

Andersson’s expression told her that he also had a good deal he wanted to talk about. The color of his face was ominous, and his expression was grim.

He exploded when she hung up the phone. “What the hell! Who’s been dismembered?”

Irene had to go through the whole Isabell Lind story from the very beginning, starting with Monika’s phone call. She went to get the tourist guide she had taken from the hotel room with the picture of the girls from Scandinavian Models.

Sven Andersson looked sternly at Irene. “And the only ones you showed the picture to were the three police officers you worked with on the murder-mutilation?”

For a hundredth of a second, Tom Tanaka’s heavy image floated in front of her eyes but she decided to keep him out of this. Her instinct was to protect his identity.

“Yes,” she said, looking Andersson in the eye.

The superintendent gazed at her for a long time. Maybe he sensed that she was hiding information.

“OK. You are going back to Copenhagen tomorrow. But you are taking Hannu with you.”

“That’s not possible,” said Hannu.

“Geez. You don’t have to stay the whole Whitsuntide,” said Andersson.

“I’m getting married.”

The others stared at him as though he had just revealed that he was the murderer. No one had anything to say.

Irene tried to get her act together. “Oh. I mean. . congratulations.” “Thanks.”

“Who the hell are you marrying?” said Andersson.

“Birgitta.”

Of course. Irene’s brain finally started working again. She had spied on Hannu and seen him get into Birgitta’s car, had thought they might be dating, but in her wildest imagination she hadn’t dreamed that it would go as far as marriage.

Andersson gasped for breath. After he managed to get some oxygen, he exclaimed, “Birgitta Moberg, here in the unit? Are you insane? A married couple can’t work together in the same unit!”

Hannu met his boss’s tirade calmly. “It will only be for about half a year. Then she will be on maternity leave a while and we’ll have to think things over.”

The silence was heavy. Irene sensed it was a good thing she was sitting. Andersson’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. She worried about his blood pressure, since she knew he didn’t always take his medicine.

“Well. This is a pretty kettle of fish! My inspectors, going behind my back and keeping secrets from me. Irene is conducting her own investigations in Copenhagen, and Hannu and Birgitta are getting married-”

He paused before he continued, “Of course, that doesn’t have anything to do with the job. But it still has to affect work when two inspectors are in a relationship. Not good at all!”

“Have you noticed any effect on my work or Birgitta’s?” asked Hannu.

A certain sharpness could be sensed in his voice. Andersson took note of it and didn’t answer. He just stared sourly in front of him. After a while he turned his chair around to face Jonny and said, “Well. And what kind of secret business do you have going on?”

Jonny looked very puzzled. “None. Not that I know of. None,” he answered, stammering.

No, you don’t have enough imagination Irene thought.

“Good. Then you can go with Irene to Copenhagen tomorrow morning. We can’t let her loose on her own because then people start dying like flies!”

It was an immature and unfair comment, thought Irene. But she understood that he was really stressed.

“Actually, I can’t go anywhere tomorrow either. As you may recall, I asked for the day off. We are going to Stockholm. My wife’s niece is getting married on Whitsunday. A big wedding with a hundred guests and-”

“This is unbelievable!” Andersson began, but he stopped himself. He rummaged around, pulled out the calendar, and found Whitsuntide with his index finger. With a wrinkled brow, he looked at the date. Finally, he came to a decision, saying, “OK. You and Irene will go to Copenhagen on Whitmonday. On Tuesday morning you will offer to assist our Danish colleagues.”

“But we were planning on coming home on Whitmon-”

“I don’t give a shit about that! You can come home whenever you want! But on Tuesday morning you are going to be in Copenhagen!”

IRENE CALLED home to explain that she had to drive to Vänersborg. Jenny didn’t ask what she was going to do there, just noted that her mother would be late, as usual.

The meeting with Monika Lind was just as traumatic as Irene had feared. Based on Irene’s expression, Monika must have known that the news could not be good. Or maybe it was just the fact that Irene showed up in person that warned her something serious had happened.

Irene explained without going into detail. Realizing that her daughter had been murdered was terrible enough for Monika. In closing, Irene said, “The information we have at the moment is scanty. On Monday, I’m driving down with one of my colleagues to try and find out more.”

Monika’s husband was at home and helped Irene comfort her. Unfortunately, the five-year-old daughter was also at home. She watched, wide eyed, as her mother cried. Pretty soon she started crying as well, mostly because her mother was.

Irene contacted the parish priest. Her name was Eva Nesbo and her voice sounded young. Without hesitation she promised to come right away. The doorbell rang after fifteen minutes. Irene opened it and let in a blond woman in a pastor’s shirt and Levi’s. She apologized for her attire, but she had dropped what she was doing and come right away. Briefly, Irene brought the young minister up to speed on what had happened.

On the way home, Irene felt as if a large black hole was opening up inside her. She had vented her sorrow and despair indirectly. Yet even though no one would ever blame her for Isabell’s death, she blamed herself. If she hadn’t clumsily gone around Copenhagen looking for Isabell at the same time she was chasing a terrifying killer, Isabell would still be alive. How had the murderer found out about her private investigation? Only the three Danish police officers knew of it. The murderer must have felt threatened, and decided to give Irene a warning, and singled out an innocent victim with a connection to Irene.

Poor Isabell. What had the end of her life been like? Irene tortured herself with thoughts and images surrounding Isabell’s murder. It was a sheer miracle that she managed to get home in one piece. During the drive she decided to tell the twins and Krister as much as she could. It would be in the newspapers very soon anyway.

Just after ten o’clock, Irene put her key into the lock of the door to her home. A heavenly smell of Jansson’s Temptation hit her when she opened it. Sammie whirled toward her and welcomed her. The rest of her family was seated in the kitchen.

“Hi. It smells great,” she said. Surprised, she noticed her hunger. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. Then she saw the serious expression on the faces of Krister and the twins.

“We know what’s happened,” said Krister.

“Who has. .? How do you know?”

“Jonny Blom called and asked for you. You were going to fix a time to drive down to Copenhagen on Whitmonday. When I asked what you were going to do there, he said that you were going to assist in the investigation of the murder of Isabell Lind. Then I understood what you were doing in Vänersborg. You were speaking with Monika.”

Irene couldn’t keep her eyes from filling with tears; she had only the strength to nod. Krister took her in his arms. He held her close for a long time and Irene absorbed warmth and renewed energy. She freed herself in order to get a big piece of paper towel with which to dry her tears and blow her nose. Through the teary mist she saw her daughters’ pale and resolute faces.

“I’m going to try and tell you exactly what’s happened, but it’s a long story,” she said.