The Torso

Chapter 10

FOR ONCE KRISTER DIDN’T have to work over the weekend. Irene’s mother and her significant other, Sture, were invited for dinner on Whitsunday in order to give a full account of their wine trip to the Moselle Valley. Krister was looking forward to it with eager expectation because, naturally, he was hoping for some really exciting samples from the wine district.

Mamma Gerd radiantly handed over two bottles to her son-in-law. Irene saw an expression of disappointment pass over his face but he quickly regained his composure. He warmly thanked his mother-in-law and gave her a big hug. Then he turned the bottles so that Irene could read the labels: Ockfener Scharzberg. Even she knew the brand was available at the state liquor store. But little Mamma didn’t know that. She rarely went there since she hardly drank any alcohol.

Sture wasn’t very familiar with wines, either which Irene realized when he smiled and said, “Gerd and I made a find. We bought a whole case of these bottles in a grocery store for twenty-five D-marks. Amazingly cheap!”

“But didn’t you drive around to different wineries? To do wine tastings and so on. .?”

“Of course, but those wines were so expensive,” chirped Mamma Gerd.

Irene pretended not to notice her husband’s low moan.

There were seven of them for dinner since Katarina had invited Micke to join them. He, too, was still feeling the effects of the accident so they had chosen to join the quiet family dinner at home instead of going to a big party with friends. Perhaps they just wanted to spend some time alone. Irene’s watchful eye noted their warm looks and stolen touches. It really seemed to be serious. They had been together for almost two months, a new record for Katarina.

Jenny was going out later that night. Her band was playing at a newly opened club with her as the lead singer! Irene’s daughter was in seventh heaven and seemed to be somewhere else. Out of pure distraction she almost put a piece of steak on her plate. At the last second she realized what she was about to do-meat! — and quickly put it back on the serving dish.

Krister had put together a wonderful menu for Pentecost. It was perhaps a bit too heavy for Whitsuntide, but Irene and Katarina had been allowed to request their favorite dishes. As an appetizer, they had crab Thermidor, crabmeat baked in a wonderfully spicy wine sauce, served in the shells.

Jenny ate pale celery sticks that she dipped in spicy tomato salsa.

Without revealing what he really thought, Krister served the wine his mother-in-law had brought, along with the first course.

The steak was sliced and covered in dark gravy. Cooked cauliflower, asparagus, lightly steamed sugar peas, peeled tomatoes, and Hasselback potatoes were the main course.

Krister had chosen Clos Malvern to go with the main course and, according to him, the wine had a heavy bouquet, a strong burned and smoky taste, and hints of both chocolate and sun-drenched berries. The hot sun and winds of South Africa had left their mark on this strong dark red wine.

“The wines are so full bodied and flavorful because they fertilize the wineries with elephant dung,” Krister announced with the utmost seriousness.

His mother-in-law and Sture opened their eyes wide and said to each other, “Really! Just imagine!”

But Irene knew her husband well and shook her finger at him. He arched his eyebrows innocently and toasted his wife.

IRENE HAD taken the bus into the city. They were on a holiday schedule since it was Whitmonday. She hadn’t thought about that when she and Jonny had made their appointment, and now she was almost twenty minutes late.

Jonny was standing outside the police station, huddled against the bitter wind. Based on the sour expression on his face, he had been standing and waiting for quite some time.

“Hi. Sorry, but the buses. .”

“You knew that it was a holiday. Women and time!”

Sour was Mr. Blom’s first name today, thought Irene. Obviously he was annoyed about having to come home from Stockholm a day earlier than planned and she was the one who was going to suffer because of it. Then again, though she had arrived late, at least she had apologized. If only she had been allowed to go to Copenhagen on her own.

“We should try and get there by eight at the latest, in time for a late dinner and a big bier,” she said briskly.

“Bier?”

“Beer. A big Danish beer.”

“Oh.”

That was their entire conversation as they drove the length of Halland’s coast. Since Irene was acquainted with Jonny’s driving, she had insisted on getting behind the wheel of the bureau car. For the most part, Jonny sat dozing with his head hanging. He didn’t wake up until they had driven onto HH-Ferries in Helsingborg. But he was first in line at the cafeteria. A large draft beer, and bread with a chunk of coarsely ground liver pâté with pickles, made him thaw out considerably. Irene went for the coffee and a plate of shrimp. She wasn’t able to finish the slice of bread under it.

They were sitting in the car again after twenty minutes, and then it was time for Irene to drive across the clattering ramp with the same chilly feeling in her stomach as before.

Since she was familiar with the route, they made their way pretty quickly to the highway heading toward Copenhagen.

“Could you go through everything you know about Isabell Lind one more time? It would be good if you could refresh my recollection,” said Jonny.

Irene went over everything she knew. But she didn’t mention Tom Tanaka.

“I don’t know much about the murder itself yet. We’ll find out more tomorrow. But Metz said that the murder of Isabell bears the signature of our murderer even though she wasn’t dismembered. That seems strange,” said Irene.

Jonny nodded. Then he quickly changed the subject. “What is the hotel like?”

“It’s really nice. I booked the rooms via the Internet. It’s the same hotel I stayed in a few days ago. The breakfast is amazing.”

“Are there some nice hangouts in the area?”

“It depends on what you mean by nice hangouts. The hotel is centrally located and everything is close by. It’s just a matter of choosing.”

Jonny nodded in response. Irene noticed that he started paying more attention to the areas they were passing through the closer to Copenhagen they came.

THEY EACH had a single room. To Irene’s silent joy they were not located on the same floor. She took the second-floor room and Jonny, the room on the third. Thanks to this, she would have much more freedom to move around. She suspected that Jonny had similar thoughts, but for entirely different reasons.

They agreed to meet downstairs in fifteen minutes. Even though Irene wasn’t particularly hungry after the pile of shrimp she’d had on the ferry, she realized that it was about time for dinner. If she ate too late, she would have a hard time sleeping.

The room was just as nice and fresh as the one she had had last time. She washed under her arms, put on a few strokes of deodorant, and touched up her makeup. She told her reflection that it wasn’t for Jonny’s sake but for her own.

In a cosmopolitan fashion Irene led Jonny over broad H. C. Andersen Boulevard. Restaurant Vesuvius looked warm and welcoming. The heat of the pub and the smell of cigarette smoke hit them when they stepped through the glass doors. They were shown to a little table by the window.

“Shit. The menu is in a different language,” Jonny muttered.

“No. It’s in Italian, Danish, and English,” said Irene.

“Hell, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He ordered a calzone, “so you know what you’re getting.” Irene ordered passera mira mare, which turned out to be fried red snapper with mussels in a white wine sauce. Jonny needed two strong beers in order to wash down his pizza while Irene was content with one Hof. Tomorrow was another day.

When they got back to the hotel, the bar was overflowing. A big group of Swedes filled the room, making noise. There was a sign on the wall announcing that it was a “Jell-O shot evening.” The guests were trying the gelatin drinks with a great deal of enjoyment and enthusiasm and, based on the rate of consumption, the Jell-O shot was definitely approved. A man sitting on a bar stool had fallen asleep with his head and arms on the bar. No one was paying any attention to him, and the noise gradually increased with the rate of consumption.

“That looks like fun,” said Jonny.

Irene continued toward the reception desk. When she had gotten her room key from the smiling receptionist, she turned toward Jonny and said, “We’re supposed to be at Vesterbro at eight o’clock. I’m planning on eating breakfast at seven-fifteen. Should I call your room before-”

She stopped when she saw Jonny’s back disappear into the crowded bar.

In the room she took out her cell phone and dialed Tom Tanaka’s number. He answered immediately.

“Tom.”

“Hi. Irene here. I’m at my hotel now. The Hotel Alex.”

“The same as last time,” Tom noted.

“Yes. Has anything happened?”

“No. The newspapers haven’t printed any details about Isabell’s murder, just that she had been strangled and bound to the bed with handcuffs.”

The handcuffs were news to Irene but she didn’t admit it to Tom. Instead, she said, “Did Marcus tell you that he was going to go to Thailand with a. . friend? Or did he just say that he was going home to Göteborg?”

Tom sounded harsh when he finally replied, “He didn’t say anything about Thailand. Just that he was going home.”

“Not a word about Thailand?”

“No. Who’s said something about Thailand?”

“He called an old friend when he got home to Göteborg at the beginning of March. Marcus told him that he was on his way to Thailand with a friend.”

“Apparently our dear Marcus had quite a few friends whom he didn’t talk about.”

Irene could hear deep bitterness in Tom’s tone. “Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.

Irene dreaded having to ask the next question but she was forced to. “Tom. . this friend in Göteborg whom we spoke with implied that Marcus liked. . hard sex.”

She didn’t know if her meaning was clear in English, but it was the only thing she could come up with. Tom seemed to understand. “I don’t have the slightest intention of telling you about my sex life with Marcus. But of course. . he was keen on some variations.”

“Even. . dangerous variations?”

“Not so that he would get seriously injured. Not like that. Maybe a little. . spanking.”

Irene didn’t understand the word “spank,” but based on the almost amused tone Tom used, she drew the conclusion that it had to do with a softer type of force. For fun.

“I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, but we need to try and find out what happened to Marcus.”

“It’s OK. I still want his murderer to be caught and punished. It’s unfortunate that you don’t have the death penalty in Scandinavia.”

Irene trembled uncontrollably. Dear Tom still had a dark side. She hadn’t realized it at the beginning of their acquaintance, but she was starting to understand that Tom had hidden depths he wasn’t about to reveal to her. And why should he? Thanks to him, they had been able to determine the identity of the dismembered body in Killevik and that was the important thing.

A thought started growing in Irene’s head. Maybe Tom could bring them closer to Marcus’s killer. She asked, “Tom. . since you know Copenhagen. . do you know if there is a place for necrosadists?”

“Necrosad. .!”

He was surprised by the question. But after thinking a bit he said, “There are several places for sadomasochists. But necrophiles! No. But. .”

He stopped to think again. “There are videos that show necrophilia and some illegal films that show actual murders. But, of course, if someone wants them, they can get them.”

“Did Marcus ever show any interest-”

“In necrophilia? Absolutely not! He was so alive and absolutely not interested in death!”

“Thanks for letting me ask these questions,” she said.

“No problem.”

They wished each other good night and hung up.

She sat for a long time thinking in the growing darkness of the room. Somewhere there had to be a connection between the three murder victims. A common variable. The police officer? The doctor? Or both?

Sex. All three of them were particularly sexually active. Carmen Østergaard had been in the business quite a while and Isabell was new to prostitution. But both of them had worked with sex professionally.

Anders Gunnarsson had said that Marcus was always ready for sex and that he was drawn to dangerous types. Did he do it for money? Hardly, especially as he made a very good living from his work. Money wasn’t his problem. Did he buy sex? Not very likely either. With his looks he wouldn’t have needed to pay.

No matter how she twisted and turned, she couldn’t find a logical connection between the three victims. She gazed out through the mullioned windows. The lights of the big city were hard and artificial. The shadows between the sources of light were deep and black. Perfect for a killer.

IRENE FELT well rested after eight hours of deep sleep. She called Jonny’s room at a quarter past seven, and after ten rings she heard the receiver picked up. Then, with a crash, it fell to the floor and she could hear Jonny’s muffled “Damn it!” He finally managed to get the receiver to his ear.

“Jonny. . Jonny Blom,” a cracked voice bleated.

“Time for breakfast,” Irene chirped.

“Breakfas. . God damn-”

The receiver on the other end of the line was slammed down, and Irene felt both anger and dejection. Having to drag Jonny around Copenhagen was like having a ball and chain around her ankle. A hungover Jonny was a catastrophe. There were some good moments when he was sober, and he could even be useful. But if he felt half as bad as he had sounded on the phone, he was going to be worthless.

Irene went down and ate a delicious breakfast. She took her time. The sun outside was already shining brightly, and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Jonny never showed up in the breakfast room.

Back upstairs she changed into a short-sleeved light blue linen shirt. She kept the dark blue pants on but put on her black loafers. She took off her socks as a gesture to the summery feeling she had. She decided that the dark blue linen blazer would have to do as a coat. With her big canvas bag nonchalantly hanging over her shoulder, she looked more like a tourist on a shopping spree than a cop on the trail of a killer.

She called Jonny before she left the room, and after several rings he managed to answer the phone. Irene could only hear a guttural mumble, and then the receiver hit the cradle again.

With a sigh, Irene decided to let him sleep.

SHE WALKED down to the Vesterbro police station. It hadn’t even been a week since she was here last, but it felt like an entire year had passed. Maybe it was the change in the weather that gave her this feeling. Last week she had been cold and had shivered, and now she was enjoying the warm wind’s promise of summer.

Beate Bentsen, Peter Møller, and Jens Metz were already sitting in Bentsen’s office. The air was thick with smoke. Irene hesitated on the threshold before she stepped into the room. Møller seemed to sense why. He opened the window. Whether the air outside was any cleaner was debatable but at least it diluted the nicotine concentration in the room.

Everyone greeted her warmly and welcomed her back, even if the reason for her return might have been more pleasant.

“Weren’t there supposed to be two of you?” Beate Bentsen asked.

Irene had hoped to avoid that particular question but realized that was wishful thinking. “Yes. . but my colleague wasn’t feeling well this morning. I thought it would be best if he could sleep.”

“Does he need a doctor?”

“No. It will pass on its own. Eventually.”

“A hangover,” Jens Metz whispered theatrically.

He winked meaningfully at Irene. She was ashamed of Jonny’s behavior. Personally, he wouldn’t have the good sense to be ashamed, she thought, and her irritation grew.

“We’ll start without your colleague and you’ll have to try and bring him up to speed when he gets here. Both Jens and Peter were present at the Hotel Aurora when Isabell Lind was found.”

Beate Bentsen looked at the two inspectors over the rims of her French designer glasses.

Jens Metz leaned back in his chair and linked his sausage-like fingers over his belly. The backrest protested nervously but Metz didn’t seem to hear it. Or maybe he was used to chairs whining under his weight.

“We got the call on Thursday afternoon, May 20, that a dead woman had been found at the Hotel Aurora by some painters. Peter and I got there shortly after four thirty. The medical examiner had already arrived and was inspecting the corpse. Here you can see the pictures of what we were faced with.”

Metz bent forward, breathing heavily, and shook some photos out of a thick envelope.

Irene started with a picture of the room. It was taken from a high angle. The photographer must have been standing on a tall stool or a ladder.

Under the bare window, an overturned nightstand lay on the floor next to a lamp with a broken plastic shade. A bed could be seen in the rear next to the wall. Another bed had been placed in the center of the room. Isabell was lying on top of it.

Irene took out another photo. It was an enlargement of the bed with Isabell’s body spread out on top.

Her hands were chained with handcuffs to the high wooden bed-posts. She was lying on her back, completely naked, with her legs spread apart. There was a deep incision from the top of her collarbone all the way down to her pelvic bone. Mechanically, Irene noticed that the incision hadn’t bled very much. There was, however, a good deal of blood under her, from her waist down to her separated legs.

Irene switched to the next photo, which was a close-up of the head and neck area. Strangulation marks from a noose were evident on her throat. Isabell’s eyes were wide open, and her tongue hung out of her mouth, dark and swollen.

Irene was completely unprepared for her reaction. She was barely able to make it to her knees by the wastepaper basket before she threw up. The entirety of the delicious Danish breakfast came up.

When she was done, she got up on shaky legs and stammered, “Excuse me. . I’ll go and wash the basket. . but this girl was a friend of my daughters’ for many years. . lived next door. . and stayed over and ate with us. . ”

“We understand. It’s difficult when you know the victim,” Bentsen said soothingly.

Irene quickly grabbed the basket and slipped down the corridor. She knew where the bathroom was.

She cleaned the basket and blessed the fact that it was made of plastic. Woven rattan would have been worse. She bathed her face with ice-cold water and washed her mouth clean. Then she saw her pale face in the mirror and mumbled half inaudibly to her reflection, “It’s not just the fact that I knew you. It’s my fault that you died. I led the murderer to you. Oh, Bell!”

Her throat felt thick with suppressed sobs, but there wasn’t time for sorrow right now. For Bell’s sake she was forced to try to be professional and objective. And what would the Danes think? One Swedish police officer is lying in bed at the hotel with a hangover, and the other pukes when she sees pictures from the murder scene.

Her Danish colleagues were sitting in the same places, waiting for her arrival, each with a fresh cigarette. The smoke made her feel ill again, but she braced herself.

“I’m sorry. It’s OK now,” Irene said and sat down.

She didn’t pick up the close-up of Bell again, but turned to Jens Metz instead and asked, “What did the medical examiner say?”

“She had been dead more than twelve hours but less than twenty when she was found. He thought that fifteen to seventeen hours was a good guess. It matches the time she disappeared. She was strangled first. That’s the cause of death.”

“So she was dead when the trauma to her abdomen was inflicted?”

“Yes.”

Thank God, thought Irene.

Metz picked up the enlargement of the photo of Isabell on the bed. He said, “The medical examiner thinks that she was chained with the handcuffs first. There are marks on the wrists that indicate she struggled to get free. Then she was strangled. As soon as she was dead, the murderer started striking her pubic bone with a heavy object. The bone was completely crushed, just like with Carmen Østergaard and your guy. . what’s his name.”

“Marcus Tosscander,” Irene added.

“Marcus. Both he and Carmen display exactly the same type of injuries. The object was also driven into her vagina and rectum. They were heavily damaged. Finally, he slit her open. According to Professor Blokk, he used the same incision that Østergaard and your guy had. Notice how careful he has been not to cut through the navel. The words are Blokk’s, not mine.” Metz made an ironic face.

“The object was not left in the room?” Irene asked.

“No. Blokk estimates that it was a sturdy, short clublike object.”

“Could it be a large baton?”

Irene could hear that her voice sounded unsteady when she asked the question.

Metz looked surprised when he answered. “That’s actually what Blokk guessed, but we really don’t know.”

A baton. The police officer, she thought. And she was sitting in a room with three officers who had known about her private search for Isabell.

Metz picked up the photo of Isabell on the bed. He studied the scene thoughtfully before he said, “The knife that was used was powerful, a hunting knife or an autopsy scalpel. According to Blokk, the murderer would have had a heck of a time with the breastbone even if he had had a proper knife. With the other two victims, the breastbone was sawed through with a circular saw, but here he must have decided not to worry about opening the chest.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t it have been easy to bring along a circular saw?” said Irene.

For the first time, Peter Møller responded. “Maybe he didn’t have access to the saw this particular night. But it’s probably because a circular saw makes a lot of noise. Even at the Hotel Aurora they would have reacted to the sound of a circular saw in the middle of the night.”

It sounded like a plausible explanation. Metz nodded in agreement before he cleared his throat and continued. “We found out from the staff at the hotel that a woman had called and asked about Isabell. First she had asked for a guest who was called Simon Steiner but when the porter said that there wasn’t a guest with that name, she got worried. That’s when she asked about Isabell.”

“Did any of the employees at the hotel see Isabell?”

“No, but we know why. The top floor was closed due to renovation. The room that Isabell was found in was one of the last ones to be fixed. The other rooms were still empty because they had just glued the carpets down and the smell was horrible. No one will be able to stay in those rooms for quite some time. We found marks on the emergency exit door that leads to the back lot behind the hotel. Someone picked that lock as well as the lock on the door of the hotel room. Our theory is that the murderer met Isabell outside the hotel and took her up to the top floor via the back stairs. He probably fixed the locks ahead of time.”

It was quiet in the room while they contemplated the likelihood of this theory. Irene decided that it sounded very logical.

Metz took a puffing breath and continued, “We traced the phone call from the young woman to Scandinavian Models, an escort service.”

Irene waited for the follow-up that never came. Now Metz should have talked about his visit to Scandinavian Models. He could have used the line that “It was a private investigation to help Irene,” or whatever, but he didn’t offer any explanation.

“The interrogations there have provided a good deal of information. The business is new and has only been up and running for a few months. All four of the girls have been there from the beginning. They share a large apartment in the same building in which the company is located.”

“Did they move from the address that Isabell’s mother had?” Irene jumped in.

“No. They’ve lived there the whole time.”

So Bell had given Monika the wrong address in Copenhagen on purpose. Of course, it had seemed odd that the girls didn’t have a phone in their apartment.

Irene remembered Bell’s inclination to run away when she was younger, how she had wanted to disappear so that her mother would worry. Had Bell chosen to be unreachable? Maybe it made her feel grown-up, free, and independent. She had had to pay a high price for her so-called freedom.

“Who owns Scandinavian Models?” asked Irene.

“An American. Robin Hillman. A nasty guy. This is the third bordello he’s started. He’s worked 24/7 from the get-go. The girls are paid fairly well but they really have to work hard.”

Metz winked and smiled knowingly after the last comment. Irene thought that he was disgusting. Why didn’t he say anything about his visit to the bordello?

Peter Møller took over. “When he thinks he has made a big enough profit, he shuts down the business, goes bankrupt, or sells. Of course, there’s no money left in the company. A colleague I spoke with says it’s estimated that he must owe a minimum of twenty million kronor in unpaid taxes. It may be a much higher sum, but no one knows. He has the best tax lawyers in the country working for him.”

“Have you spoken with Hillman?” Irene asked.

Møller shook his head. “No, he’s in the States. Left on Friday morning, after we found Isabell. Someone probably tipped him off, and he felt things were getting too hot to handle.”

“When is he coming back?”

“His wife didn’t know.”

“His wife?”

“Yes. Jytte Hillman. Danish. They have two small children and they live-very well off-in Charlottenlund.”

“Where is that?”

“North of Copenhagen, along Strandvejen.”

Irene remembered the fashionable neighborhood she had driven through on her way home the week before.

She looked at Møller’s blond hair with its sun-bleached strands, his short-sleeved light gray shirt in thin silk, and well-pressed chinos in a slightly darker shade of gray. He looked healthy with his suntan. Suddenly, it struck her that she didn’t know where he had gone to get his tan. Thailand? Also a question that had to be asked. But not right now; she would have to wait. Instead, she smiled and said casually, “Is the house located on the right side of the road?”

Møller raised his eyebrows and said ironically, “Of course. Own beach and dock. Hillman paid nine million kröner for the place. His occupation, as listed in the phone book, is businessman. Business seems to be going well.”

Birgitta Moberg had said the sex industry brings in more money than the drug trade in the USA today. It’s called an industry. Industries produce products for consumption. Women, men, children, animals …all are sucked into this industry, enslaved, converted to money, broken down, and spit out as worthless industrial refuse.

In order to stop her thoughts, Irene asked, “What have you found out by questioning the other girls at the bordello?”

“Isabell was requested via phone by a man who called himself Simon Steiner. He called around ten o’clock on Wednesday night. He asked specifically for Isabell and wanted her immediately. She was free at eleven. Petra, the one who took the phone call, said that Isabell hailed a taxi and left just before eleven. We’ve found the taxi driver and the time matches. He dropped her off at the Hotel Aurora at five minutes to eleven. The driver doesn’t remember if there was a man waiting for her outside the hotel.”

“Have you found anyone with the name Simon Steiner?”

“No.”

Beate Bentsen suddenly cleared her throat and said, “The fact is, I knew someone named Simon Steiner. He lived here in Copenhagen but died four years ago. Lung cancer.” She put out her half-smoked cigarette.

Metz suddenly looked interested and asked, “Who was he? Could he have a relative with the same name who’s still alive?”

Bentsen shook her head. “No relatives with the same name, as far as I know. He was a retired real estate agent. Widowed.”

“No children?”

“No.”

Irene thought she heard a slight hesitation in Bentsen’s voice but she wasn’t completely certain. The superintendent’s face didn’t reveal anything. Since none of the other inspectors seemed willing to ask the question, Irene decided to do it. “How did you know Simon Steiner?”

“He was a good friend of my father’s. They were childhood friends.”

It was a simple explanation but Irene still felt uneasy. It seemed to be quite a coincidence that the superintendent had known a man with exactly the same name. Still, the explanation was credible. A dead man couldn’t possibly be the murderer they were looking for, but someone could have easily used his name. But why that name?

Irene had to interrupt her train of thought when Metz said, “Now I want to hear everything you know about Isabell Lind.”

Irene summed up everything she could remember about how Isabell had ended up in Copenhagen. She also told them about her own investigation at Scandinavian Models at about the same time Isabell’s murder must have taken place. Jens Metz gave a start and gave her a sharp look. She calmly looked back into his small light blue eyes whose almost white lashes gave the impression that he didn’t have any.

Surely now he will mention his visit she thought, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked away quickly.

She did not talk about her visit to Tom Tanaka. She wouldn’t breathe a word about his role in the investigation.

She finished by telling them about the postcard with its short message.

“The Little Mermaid is dead,” Metz repeated thoughtfully.

“But in English,” Irene clarified.

The three Danish colleagues looked grave. Møller was the one who said it. “To your home address. The murder of a girl you knew, here in Copenhagen. Murdered according to the rituals we recognize from two other murders. A warning can’t get much clearer.”

“But why me? Several police officers, both in Göteborg and in Copenhagen, are working on this investigation,” said Irene.

She could hear the fear in her own voice. Metz looked at her expressionlessly before saying, “You must know things that make the killer feel threatened. Maybe you can’t see how important these details are and that’s why you haven’t told us about them. But he thinks you’re a threat.”

A block of ice lodged itself in Irene’s stomach. What Metz had just said could be interpreted as a threat. It sounded like a well-intended warning, but it could just as easily be-Irene warned herself not to over-analyze. There was a risk of becoming paranoid. Yet she had to tread cautiously and think about every word she uttered when she was with these three people.

Hurried steps were heard in the corridor, and the door to the office was thrown open with a bang. Jonny Blom stood on the threshold, swaying. With bloodshot eyes he looked at his colleagues, each in turn, before saying, “Excuse me. I overslept. They said this was where you were meeting.”

Irene fervently wished that he would close his mouth. The stench of garlic and stale alcohol mixed with the cigarette smoke in the room.

“This is my colleague, Jonny Blom,” she said stiffly.

Jonny politely shook hands when he was introduced to the Danish colleagues. Metz pounded him on the back and said, “Dear friend, you look like you need a big cup of coffee. What do you say about going to Adler’s?”

Everyone got up. Metz kept a firm grip on Jonny’s shoulders and led him through the corridor.

CAFÉ ADLER was located just around the corner from the police station. It had a strong turn-of-the-nineteenth-century feel to it, with dark heavy wood paneling and decorative Art Nouveau mirrors. The glass counter inside the entry door was loaded with delicious pastries. Irene decided to get a Danish with chocolate and her own pot of coffee. She felt a strong need for caffeine. One look at Jonny Blom almost made her ask the friendly woman behind the counter if it was possible to get the coffee intravenously. He looked like he needed it.

Jens Metz asked Jonny if he wanted a “little one.” Jonny said that he craved a Danish schnapps even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. When the dark schnapps came, Jens toasted with his coffee cup and Jonny with his shot glass, just like two old friends.

I wonder what the reaction would have been if I had been the one with the hangover and had arrived two hours late, thought Irene. She was quite certain that no one would have pounded her on the back and called her “dear friend” or offered her an eye-opener. The Danish colleagues would have thought that an intoxicated female police officer was an abomination, probably a drunk, and a bad cop.

Jonny stuffed himself with an éclair and a Danish pastry. His expression brightened after the schnapps, and he looked like he was enjoying himself in the smoky atmosphere. He smiled and raised his glass to Irene. “We should have these kinds of coffee breaks at home in Göteborg,” he said.

Irene smiled in response but she could feel her entire face tighten.

She suddenly became aware that Beate Bentsen wasn’t participating in the general conversation. The superintendent was sitting with her chin in one hand, staring blankly out the dirty café window. Her look was very far away. Irene decided to ask her the question that had been burning inside her.

“Did you tell anyone else I was looking for Isabell?”

Beate Bentsen gave a start and at first didn’t seem to understand what she had said. Irene repeated the question. The superintendent lowered her gaze before she answered. “Just after you left, Emil came into the restaurant. I had mentioned that you and I were going to eat dinner there. I was going to invite him for dinner, but he only wanted to have a beer because he had already made dinner plans.”

Emil had been chewing on a baguette when Irene had seen him around ten o’clock at night at Tom Tanaka’s. He hadn’t been eating in the little windowless employee lounge but right behind the store counter. Emil definitely hadn’t gone on for dinner later, anywhere.

Beate cleared her throat with difficulty and quickly gave Irene a sideways glance before continuing. “He asked what we had spoken about and I told him that you had a murder-mutilation case in Göteborg that was very similar to Carmen’s well-publicized murder. Then it struck me that Emil is out a lot and knows Copenhagen’s nightlife. I asked him if he’d heard of Scandinavian Models but he hadn’t.”

“So you told him that I was looking for a girl who worked at Scandinavian Models and that her name was Isabell Lind?”

The superintendent nodded.

Irene’s brain was humming. Emil, Emil.

Emil who knew about her contact with Tom Tanaka.

Emil was Beate Bentsen’s son and had found out from her that Irene was looking for Isabell in Copenhagen.

“Maybe I should speak with Emil. He may have asked other people about Scandinavian Models and about Isabell. Can I have his address and telephone number?” Irene said nonchalantly.

For the first time during their conversation the superintendent looked directly at her. The look was clearly hostile, though her voice didn’t show it. “Why do you want to speak with Emil? I can do that. I need to speak with him anyway. He hasn’t been in touch for a week.”

Irene nodded. She couldn’t get any farther with Beate Bentsen. Her reluctance to let Irene talk to her son was very clear.

Irene became aware that Peter Møller was watching her. She turned her head and their eyes met. He smiled faintly, his gaze one of admiration. Irene understood that he had overheard the conversation between her and the superintendent. Did he think that she was a clever police officer, willing to ask the right questions? Or was it appreciation for her as a person and a woman? To her vexation, she felt herself blushing. Peter Møller turned his blue glaze toward Jens Metz, who was speaking to him and the remainder of the group.

“No, this won’t do. Let’s go and look at the crime scene.”

He got up, puffing, and helped Jonny to his feet. They walked out the door, laughing, with Jonny pounding Jens on the back. Anyone seeing them would never guess that they had known each other for less than an hour.

THE SUPERINTENDENT didn’t go with them to the Hotel Aurora. Peter Møller drove the car and Irene sat next to him in the front passenger’s seat. They didn’t exchange a single word during the two-minute car ride. Jonny and Metz, in the backseat, jabbered all the more.

The painters had been complaining. They wanted to get into the murder room because it was the last one to be renovated. According to them, they couldn’t do anything else in the meantime, but the police hadn’t budged. The disgruntled painters had started on the hallway. The police officers had to step over buckets and wend their way between ladders in order to get to the room at the end of the hall.

Aside from the body, which was no longer lying on the bed, everything was as it had been in the photographs. The bloody mattress was still there and the nightstand and the floor lamp were still lying, knocked over, by the window. The room was small and the bathroom was minimal. It seemed to have been a double closet that had been turned into a toilet and shower.

“The question is, do you pee in the shower or shower in the toilet?” Irene commented.

Møller smiled but the other two didn’t hear her. They were talking by the bed.

Irene could hear Jonny ask a question but she couldn’t make it out. She did, however, hear Metz’s reply. “Not a single one. He probably used gloves the whole time. We haven’t found the keys to the handcuffs or the object that was used to mutilate the abdomen or the knife used to cut her open.”

“So no fingerprints or tools were left in the room,” Jonny remarked. He wrinkled his brow and tried to look thoughtful and intelligent. Irene was fed up with him.

The rust-colored stain on the mattress made her shiver. A large pool had coagulated under the bed and a footprint could clearly be seen at its edge. One of the officers, or a technician, had probably stepped in it. All of this blood had poured out of Isabell’s body. It wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t bled much from the incision. There wasn’t much blood left in her and no blood pressure to pump out the last few drops.

Irene had a deep feeling of discomfort and she wanted to get out of the room as quickly as possible. She didn’t think that the visit here had added anything to the investigation.

The whole time a name echoed in her head. Emil. How was she going to obtain his address? Maybe he was listed in the telephone book? Something told her that the telephone directory for Copenhagen had to be a hefty volume. It was just as well to wait until tomorrow and see if Bentsen had reached her son.

The next moment it struck her: Tom had to know Emil’s address and telephone number. Her skin tingled when she realized that she couldn’t call him right away. She would have to have patience and wait for a good opportunity.

THE OPPORTUNITY came when they were going to eat lunch. They went to the same restaurant as last time. Irene understood that it was Peter and Jens’s regular hangout. When she had placed her order she excused herself and headed toward the ladies’ room. She checked to make sure that there wasn’t anyone in the other stall, then she dialed Tom’s number.

“Tom speaking.”

“Irene Huss calling.”

“Hey, my favorite cop. Are you coming to visit me?”

“I would love to, but it’s not possible. My colleague. .”

“I understand. What did you want to talk about?”

“Beate Bentsen. . Emil’s mother. . told him that I was looking for Scandinavian Models and Isabell Lind. I need to get in touch with him.”

“Why?”

“To ask him if he told anyone else.”

Tom’s answer was a long silence. When he finally started speaking, a chilly undertone could be heard in his voice. “Our dear Emil certainly keeps on surprising us. Do you think he’s the one who leaked it?”

“Leaked. . but I never said that it was a secret that I was looking for Isabell. I never thought it would be dangerous for her.”

“I haven’t seen Emil for a week. Not since the night you were here.”

“That’s exactly one week ago. Does he usually stay away that long?”

After a long pause, Tom said, “It’s happened. But usually he shows up every few days. Sometimes I’ve even asked him to come in when I’ve needed help in the store. Since he isn’t employed, he comes and goes as he wants.”

“Do you have his address and telephone number?”

“Yes, one second.”

Irene heard the desk drawer pulled out. She guessed that he was sitting in his office and had just reached for his Rolodex.

“He lives on Gothersgade. Near the Botanical Gardens.”

It sounded funny when Tom tried to pronounce Botanical Gardens in Danish. But Irene didn’t laugh. He gave her the street address and telephone number. Summing up, Irene asked, “What do you know about Emil?”

“He studies law. That’s what he says anyway. He lives in a big apartment that he inherited from his father. It’s big enough that he can rent out a part of it. I suspect that he lives on the income from the rent. He’s twenty-two years old. Doesn’t draw a lot of attention to himself.”

Irene was very close to asking Tom if he had had a “relationship” with Emil but decided not to. Such a question might destroy the relationship of trust they had built.

She dialed Emil’s number as soon as she had finished the conversation with Tom. After ten rings she gave up. He wasn’t home.

The food came at the same time as her arrival back at the table. The portions were lavish. Jonny had already accepted Danish food traditions with great enthusiasm. The young waitress set a schnapps glass filled to the brim in front of him. Jens Metz slapped her on the bottom and winked mischievously when she glared at him in irritation.

“Don’t look so sour. A little clap on the rear is a compliment,” he laughed.

The waitress quickly replied, “It depends on who’s giving it!”

Irene could have applauded but managed to control herself. Jens looked cross, though he immediately cheered up after taking a big swig of beer.

They went back to the police station after lunch. Irene managed to reach Svend Blokk via telephone. The professor of pathology was absolutely convinced that the same murderer had been at it again. The abdominal incisions of both the dismembered victims matched Isabell’s incision. The damage to the lower abdomen was also identical. Blokk was most intrigued by this last victim, since she still had all of her organs.

Irene was close to throwing up into the receiver. She had never reacted so strongly to a murder investigation before. Maybe when she was a rookie, and they had gotten a very rotten corpse to deal with. . but no, not even then. In her emotional chaos after Isabell’s murder, a much stronger feeling had begun to make itself known. It had been there for a while but now it surfaced and asked to be taken seriously: revenge.

She wanted vengeance. She wanted to avenge herself for having been used for the killer’s purpose. She wanted to avenge herself for having been made responsible for Bell’s death. She wanted to avenge the sorrow that Monika Lind’s family was forced to go through. She wanted to avenge the terror Bell must have felt when she realized that she was going to die, and she wanted to avenge the desecration of Bell’s dead body.

She would take revenge.

THE QUESTIONING of the three remaining girls from Scandinavian Models didn’t add anything new to the investigation. They had closed the establishment for a few hours in order to be interrogated by the Swedish police. From what Irene understood, their establishment was open to customers fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. The girls worked in seven-hour shifts.

“Robin. . Mr. Hillman. . says that it’s important now, in the beginning. The customers need to know that we’re accessible. We’re going to build a circle of regulars,” Petra had said. Her tone of voice had been businesslike. She sounded as if she were describing the start-up of a health-food brand.

Irene wanted to yell at her and tell her to go home to Malmö on the next ferry. But she didn’t say anything. The way Petra was sticking out first her chest and then her tight-pants-clad bottom in Peter Møller’s face told her that it wasn’t worth it.

THEY ATEdinner at Copenhagen Corner that evening. The three Danish officers had suggested the restaurant to their two Swedish colleagues and Irene knew right away that it was a good choice.

They were seated at a table on an enormous glassed-in veranda that faced the open Rådhuspladsen. The atmosphere was cozy, with lots of green plants, and the staff was pleasant.

Jens Metz and Jonny Blom ordered beer and a Danish schnapps straight away. Peter Møller and Irene satisfied themselves with one large beer apiece while Beate Bentsen ordered a glass of white wine.

Irene had tried calling Emil Bentsen several times during the afternoon without success. Jonny had had time to sleep for two hours at the hotel before Irene phoned his room and woke him up. Now he was sitting jovially exchanging toasts with Jens and looked as though he was really enjoying himself.

“When are you leaving tomorrow?” asked Jens.

“After lunch. We’re just going to take copies of some of the interrogations and of the technical examinations. It’s definitely your case, but it will be best for us to have information, too, since the murderer is still at large. No one knows what he’ll do next,” Irene replied.

A gloomy silence swept over the table but was quickly brushed aside by Jonny’s comment. “He can do whatever he wants, as long as he stays in Copenhagen. Then we can come here every now and then.”

Jonny and Jens drank to that. Their laughter resounded from the glass walls.

Irene noticed that Beate Bentsen seemed withdrawn. She was slowly rotating her wine glass between her fingers, staring down at the swirling liquid. Her thoughts seemed to be very far away. She looked tired, there were deep furrows in the corners of her mouth.

“Did you reach Emil?” Irene asked.

The superintendent gave a start and looked at Irene, confused. “What? Emil? No.”

With the last word she bent over her glass again.

Irene felt strongly that something was wrong. But she couldn’t stop now. “Do you think we can reach him tonight or tomorrow morning?” she asked.

Beate looked irritated. “I don’t know. He lives his own life.”

“I understand that. But for the sake of the investigation, it’s important to clarify who knew that I was looking for Isabell. We need to know whom he told.” Irene tried to sound calm and reasonable.

Beate looked at her sharply, then she nodded and looked away. “I can’t get ahold of him.” she admitted. “I was at his apartment today but he wasn’t home.” she sounded worried.

Irene thought quickly, then asked if he had left a note or a message for her at his apartment.

“I don’t have a key,” Beate Bentsen said.

Irene almost gave it away. The sentence was already rolling off her tongue-but doesn’t he have a tenant who can open it for you-when she realized what she was about to reveal. She quickly swallowed the sentence and became mute out of sheer terror. She had come close to exposing Tom Tanaka! She could feel that she was starting to sweat.

Beate didn’t seem to have noticed anything. Almost whispering, she continued, “He says that he doesn’t want me to come and go in his life just as I please. That’s why I don’t have a key.”

Irene could come up with several reasons why Emil wouldn’t want a mother who was a police superintendent to suddenly show up at his home. She nodded, without saying anything.

Beate suddenly burst out, “It’s so strange! He seems to have disappeared!”

The three men turned their heads simultaneously and looked at her. Jens peered good-naturedly from the depths of his fatty jowls and asked, “Who has disappeared?”

Bentsen took a deep breath and looked morosely. “Emil. I haven’t heard from him in a week.”

Clearly Beate was worried, and Irene had a feeling that she had good reason to be. Impulsively, she put her hand on the coarse linen-clad arm of her colleague and said, “When we’re finished here, we’ll take a taxi and go to Emil’s apartment. I’ll come along. If he’s home, I can ask him my question directly. Then it’ll be taken care of.”

Beate shrugged at first. Then she nodded.