The Torso

Chapter 11

THE DINNER HAD BEEN superb. Jens Metz had entertained them with stories about the work of the Copenhagen Police Department, and Jonny had countered with glimpses from the everyday lives of his Göteborg colleagues. They had laughed and passed a very enjoyable couple of hours.

Just before eleven o’clock, Beate Bentsen touched Irene’s arm and said in a low voice, “Shall we go?”

Irene nodded. They got up and excused themselves. Peter Møller asked if he should escort them but they assured him that it wasn’t necessary.

After the increasing warmth and cigarette smoke of the restaurant, the night air of Rådhuspladsen felt refreshing. They hailed a free cab and Irene remembered to let the superintendent give the directions. At Gothersgade they paid for the trip and asked the cabdriver to wait five minutes. If they hadn’t come back before then, he could leave.

Emil lived in a beautiful old stone house dating from the beginning of the twentieth century. The house itself was of red-brown brick, richly embellished. Sculptured faces on the building’s friezes gazed down at the two women through the half darkness.

They were lucky. A man was coming down the stairs and opened the door, giving Beate a friendly smile. He probably recognized her as Emil’s mother, thought Irene.

Broad marble steps led to an airy stairwell. At the far end of the hall, light streamed in from a rectangular elevator window. The elevator was considerably younger than the remainder of the house. They were quickly carried up to the fourth floor; the car stopped with a gentle bounce.

The hallway had been recently renovated, revealing Art Nouveau designs along the walls and around the lead-framed stairway windows. It must be unbelievably beautiful when the sun shines through the multicolored glass windows, thought Irene. They were dark now since street light didn’t reach to the top floor. The walls were newly glazed in pale yellow, and a talented painter had covered the heavy outer doors in an old-fashioned style using a dark chestnut brown color for a hand-drawn pattern.

Beate Bentsen walked with determined steps up to one of the two doors on the landing. It said EMIL BENTSEN on the blue ceramic plate, which contrasted with the elegance of the rest of the entrance. If one looked closer, it could be seen that the little pink border under Emil’s name was made up of pigs. The first stood on all fours and the others stood behind, each with its forelegs resting on the back of the one in front. There were ten pigs in a row, copulating.

Beate didn’t give the pigs a glance. She rang the doorbell forcefully. It echoed behind the massive door, which remained closed. Irene put her ear to the door. All was quiet; no movement could be heard. She got down on her knees and peered through the mail slot. On the floor she could glimpse newspapers, advertisements, and some envelopes.

“He hasn’t been home for several days,” she said.

Just when she was about to get up, Irene became aware of the smell coming through the open slot. It was so faint that she hadn’t noticed it at first. But this smell, even if ever so faint, was well known to a murder investigator.

At first she didn’t know what she was going to say to Beate. In order to buy some time, she asked, “Did you look through the mail slot when you were here earlier today?”

“Yes, I saw the pile of mail. That’s what got me so worried.”

Irene swallowed before she asked the next question. “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”

“No. Why?”

Irene looked quickly at Beate. It was quite possible that the superintendent hadn’t noticed the smell as she was a heavy smoker. Her sense of smell might be diminished, but not Irene’s. A faint but unmistakable odor of corruption was coming through the mail slot.

Beate Bentsen managed to get the building’s owner using Irene’s cell phone. Judging by the tone of the conversation, they were old acquaintances. He hadn’t gone to bed, and since the women didn’t have a car, he promised to come and give them the keys personally.

The superintendent’s face was pale green when she ended the conversation. With a gesture of exhaustion she handed the phone to Irene. “He lives very close by. It will only take him a few minutes by car.”

Then the remote expression returned to her face. Irene decided not to bother her with chitchat. They stood in silence outside the door with its racy sign.

All of Irene’s instincts were signaling with red warning lights: the smell wasn’t coming from old, forgotten trash. Someone or something was rotting inside the apartment.

THE ELEVATOR swished quietly up to the top floor and the building’s owner stepped out. To Irene’s surprise he was as dark as ebony. He flashed a brilliant smile and introduced himself as Bill Faraday. He was tall and wiry. If Irene had been asked to guess his profession, she would have said he was a dancer. The last thing she would have guessed was that he was a real estate lessor.

Faraday pulled an enormous set of keys out of the pocket of his expensive-looking leather coat. He searched for a long time among the different keys before he fished out one with a joyful exclamation. The key slid easily off the ring and, with a click as it turned in the lock, the door opened.

Beate stepped in front of Faraday. Brusquely, she said, “Thanks, Bill. We’ll go in ourselves. Can we keep the key?”

If he was surprised by this dismissal, he didn’t show it. With another beaming smile, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the elevator. Bentsen waited until it had started descending before she opened the door completely and, with a wave of her hand, invited Irene in.

The smell was evident in the hall. Irene turned on the light and looked around. It was big and airy and the ceiling was very high. A soiled folk art rug in shades of wine red lay under the large pile of mail and newspapers. The only furnishings were a hat and coat stand and a large mirror with a gilded frame. A naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling.

At random, Irene chose the closest door on the left. It turned out to lead into a large dirty bathroom, which smelled stale. A sour-smelling terry-cloth towel had been thrown on the floor among empty toilet-paper rolls and shampoo bottles.

The next door led into a kitchen, which was equally messy. Encrusted dishes and smelly pizza boxes overflowed the filthy counter. But this wasn’t the dominant smell in the apartment. Irene realized that Beate Bentsen was following right at her heels. Irene understood. The superintendent was afraid of the nauseating smell and of learning where it was coming from. She didn’t dare find out on her own.

As if she had read Irene’s thoughts, Bentsen took a step toward a closed door and said, “Emil’s music room is in there. The door next to it leads to the living room and over there is the bedroom.”

Irene went directly to the bedroom door. It wasn’t completely closed.

The stench hit her as she opened the door wide.

Irene whirled around and tried to keep Beate away but she had glimpsed enough and rushed past Irene. Bentsen stopped by the bed as if frozen in place and stood stock-still without making a sound. Irene hurried to stand beside her.

Emil lay with his hands and feet bound. Rope this time, instead of handcuffs, Irene registered automatically. He was naked. The killer had left his mark on Emil’s abdomen. Beate Bentsen began moaning; soon her moans had risen to a hysterical scream. “It’s gone! He’s taken. . It’s gone. . .”

Irene also saw that body parts were missing. The murderer had mutilated his victim.

IT WAS along night. Irene didn’t get back to the Hotel Alex until just before 4:00 a.m.

I’m never going to fall asleep, she thought. She didn’t remember anything after that until she was awakened by the telephone at eight thirty. Half asleep, she fumbled the phone to her ear. She came awake after she heard Superintendent Andersson’s booming voice. “Naturally, I called the police station to talk to you since you’re supposed to be there working. But I didn’t get you or Jonny so I had to try and understand a gruff-speaking Dane. At least I’ve understood that you found another dismembered victim! What the hell are you doing?”

Irene felt offended and tried to protest. “I’m not the one going around killing people!”

Andersson ignored her objection and continued. “And where are you and Jonny? You’re lying in bed at the hotel sleeping!”

Irene was finally awake enough to get angry.

“I was there last night when the latest victim was found, and I didn’t get to bed until five o’clock!” she hissed angrily. She added an hour while she was at it because it sounded better. Andersson wouldn’t be able to refute this information. There was a short silence on the phone before the superintendent started speaking again. In a considerably calmer tone, he said, “You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the victim?”

“Superintendent Bentsen’s son.”

The silence that followed was very long, but she knew her boss and was preparing for another explosion. “What the hell are you saying? Bentsen’s son! It can-”

She interrupted him. “This murder bears the signature of our killer. His victim was bound, split open, defiled and mutilated.”

When the superintendent’s voice could be heard again, it sounded serious and sensible. “Irene. He’s working close to you. He’s probably still in Copenhagen and he has struck again at someone connected to you.”

“That’s not entirely certain,” said Irene. “The medical examiner reported that Emil Bentsen has probably been dead for a week. The murderer could already be back in Göteborg or wherever it is that he lives.”

“So this victim was killed at the same time as that girl, Isabell?”

“Yes. The murders are connected. Jonny and I have to stay here another night.”

“Why? Can’t the Danes report to us as to what their investigation turns up?”

“I found a business card on Emil Bentsen’s bulletin board in his bedroom. It was hanging pinned under another piece of paper and only one corner was sticking out. But I recognized the corner. It was Marcus Tosscander’s business card. You know, the one that has Tosca’s Design on it.”

She could hear Andersson gasping for breath. Irene worried that he was going to have a heart attack but he sounded relatively normal and collected by the time he spoke again.

“OK. Look for more connections to Marcus today. But you’re coming home tomorrow! This is getting expensive. We can’t pay for two police officers to stay in Copenhagen. . ”

He stopped himself and Irene realized that a thought had struck him.

“Was Jonny with you last night when you found Bentsen’s son?”

“No.”

“Where was he?”

Irene hesitated about telling the truth, which was He was sitting and drinking with his Danish colleague Jens Metz. She decided not to.

“No idea. I was with Beate Bentsen. She was worried because Emil hadn’t been in touch for so long and I agreed to go with her to his apart-”

The superintendent interrupted her. “So Jonny wasn’t there when you discovered the murder. What excuse does he have for not working?”

Irene chickened out again. “Don’t know.”

“I’ll call his room and ask. And Irene. . be careful.”

“Of course. I’ll call tonight.”

A RED-FACED and hungover Jonny Blom entered the breakfast room when Irene had almost finished eating. He sank down in the chair across from her and sighed. “Andersson called. He was in a horrible mood. Why was he jabbering about my not being with you last night? What corpse was he ranting about?”

“Go and get some food and I’ll tell you.”

In a pedagogic tone, Irene explained what had happened during the night.

When he heard that they had found Emil’s body and in what condition, Jonny sat up straight in his chair and seemed completely sober. The look he gave Irene was full of doubt.

“Is it true? Beate Bentsen’s son?”

Irene nodded.

“That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard! How’s she holding up?”

“She had to be taken to the hospital. Had a complete breakdown. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The killer cut away his penis, one chest muscle, and one buttock.”

Jonny looked at the remainder of his ham sandwich with distaste. He set it aside on his plate. “What a sick bastard!”

For once, the two of them were in agreement.

“I’ve booked us for one more night. We can keep the rooms we have and, Jonny. .” She leaned forward over the table and said seriously, “. . I would be very grateful if you could stay sober this last day. Andersson was right when he said that the murderer is working close to me. And you’re close to me. For your own safety, you should-”

Jonny’s face turned red, and he got up so quickly that he knocked over his half-full cup of coffee. “You’re no damn chief or boss over me! You have no say in what I do!”

Furious, he stormed out of the breakfast room. Irene sighed loudly. It looked as though it was going to be yet another day of schnapps drinking.

JUST AS Irene had thought the night before, it really was beautiful when the sun shone in through the multicolored glass windows in the stairwell. But she couldn’t enjoy the play of colors on the walls when she and her three male colleagues stepped out of the elevator and walked up to the door of Emil’s apartment. Jonny looked at the blue ceramic sign in surprise and bent over in order to check out the pigs. He mumbled something but he didn’t comment out loud.

He had ignored Irene on the car ride over to Emil’s apartment. Her appeal for restraint with respect to alcohol had not gone over well.

When they inspected the crime scene during the night, Irene had realized that the other door on the landing belonged to the rental portion of Emil’s apartment. It was made up of two large rooms with a communal kitchen, hall, and bathroom. Neither of the rooms seemed to be rented currently. A large door in the kitchen that was locked led to Emil’s bedroom.

The rooms were almost identically furnished; each held a wide bed, a large fancy dresser with a mirror above it, and a leather recliner with a floor lamp next to it. On the floor were worn but beautiful folk art rugs. The closets were empty as well as the dressers. Everything was covered by a thick layer of dust, which indicated that no one had lived in the rooms for several weeks, maybe even months. The only thing that made the rooms different was the color scheme. One of them was decorated blue, the other green. Both the rooms had wonderful views of the Botanical Gardens.

The kitchen and the bathroom were dusty and dirty, but not as filthy as Emil’s. There was actually a certain degree of impersonal order discernable.

Jens Metz turned around and breathed old booze in Irene’s face. “We’re going to let the technicians search for hair strands and so forth in both of the rental rooms. We have lots of hairs from the Hotel Aurora since the victim there was found in an old hotel room. We’re going to search Emil’s apartment thoroughly. It’s going to take a hell of a long time but if we’re lucky we’ll find hair or something else that matches,” he said.

Irene nodded. She couldn’t speak since she was holding her breath. The question was who had the most repulsive mouth odor, Jonny or Jens.

They left the rental area and entered Emil’s apartment. The smell of decaying flesh still hung in the air even though the body had been taken to the morgue. Irene opened the window in the kitchen. The technicians were in the process of collecting evidence in Emil’s bedroom. A short, rather rotund young man looked up at the police officers through the door opening, and said, “This is going to take a while. There is more dust and shit than you can imagine. It doesn’t look like the guy ever cleaned.”

“Fingerprints?” Peter Møller asked.

“Tons.”

“Anything of interest?”

“It looks like there are a lot of semen stains on the mattress and the bedclothes, but they appear to be older. We found a fresh semen stain under the bed. It’s very small but I think it will be enough for a DNA test. It looks like someone wiped up something with a rag, here by the bed. It’ll show up clearly when we light the area.”

“Did you find the rag?”

“No. The murderer probably wasn’t stupid enough to leave it behind.”

“Where is the area that was wiped clean?”

“Here.” The technician pointed at the floor just below the head of the bed.

Peter Møller nodded and turned to Irene. “Finally, we may have a bit of luck. The murderer slipped up and left some traces. If it’s from him, that is. Emil could have left a sample before he was killed.”

“You mean that if the semen belongs to the killer, he achieved climax through performing his rituals, and cleaned up afterward but missed a spot under the bed?”

“Yes.”

The bright sunlight fell on the only picture in the room, a large framed black-and-white photo of a man in an incredibly exposed pose. He was half sitting against some large pillows. The focus was on his very erect penis. Even though his face and upper body were a bit fuzzy, Irene recognized him. She hadn’t done so during the shock and chaos of the previous night. Now she saw that the model was Marcus Tosscander. What was even worse was that she recognized the type of photograph. Tom Tanaka had two of them hanging in his bedroom.

This realization hit her like a blow to the head. She needed to speak with Tom as soon as possible. He would probably be questioned since the police knew that Emil usually hung out in Tom’s store. But they wouldn’t find out anything from Tom. Emil’s murder would just confirm his suspicions about the police in general and the Vesterbro station in particular.

The four crime inspectors backed out into the hall. They had to leave the bedroom to the technicians for the time being.

“Since there are four of us, I suggest that we each take a room to check. Jonny can take the bathroom; Peter, the kitchen; Irene can take the other room-the music room-and I’ll take the living room,” said Metz.

No one else came up with a better suggestion so each went to his or her assigned room.

Irene opened the door and stopped abruptly on the threshold to the room. She recognized this smell: marijuana smoke. She hadn’t noticed it the previous night either. That evening’s investigation had been cursory. There hadn’t been time or personnel for a more careful investigation of the apartment.

She entered the music room and closed the door after her. The smell of pot mixed with the stale smell of a room that hadn’t been cleaned or aired out. It was large and practically unfurnished. The morning sun shone in through the dirt-streaked and curtainless window. A withered brown plant in a little plastic bucket was placed in the middle of the window’s marble ledge. Irene tore off a leaf. She crumbled the dry leaf in the palm of her hand and sniffed. It was a marijuana plant.

The floor was covered with a wall-to-wall carpet, which at some point in time had been light yellow. The dominating color at present was nicotine brown. The room had probably originally been used as a library. A built-in bookcase of dark wood ran along one of the walls. Emil had sloppily torn down some of the shelves in order to make room for two huge speakers and an impressive stereo setup. Along the sides of the speakers were overstuffed CD shelves. CDs and CD cases lay in random piles on the floor.

Irene assumed that Emil and his friends had laid on the floor to listen to music since there wasn’t any furniture to sit on. They could have rested their eyes on the posters that decorated the walls. Irene took a closer look at them. They showed various rock groups with names like Warriors of Satan, Deathlovers, and Necrophilia. The band members were depicted in different stages of decay. Worms crawled out of holes in their skulls. Despite this, they were standing and jamming on their instruments and bellowing out their lyrics. The living dead.

The thought of the state Emil had been in when they found him-rotten and dead-made the pictures on the walls seem like mockery.

The majority of the CD covers resembled the posters.

Irene tried to imagine the fantasies that could lead a young man to like this type of picture and music. She jumped when the door behind her was yanked open.

“Why did you close the door?” Jonny asked.

“Come in and shut the door behind you,” said Irene.

Uncertain, Jonny did as Irene had asked him.

“Sniff,” she ordered.

He took some loud breaths.

“Pot,” he determined.

“Yep. In the window is a marijuana plant but the smell is coming from the filthy rug. A hell of a lot has been smoked in here over the years.”

Jonny looked at the pictures on the walls in bloodshot wonder.

“Shit,” was his opinion.

“I agree. But it shows that he was drawn to necrophilia.”

“Damn!”

“Again, I agree. But it’s in these circles that we must look for our killer. Not just a necrophile but a necrophile who supplies his own corpses.”

The wheels of logic had started turning in Jonny’s fuzzy brain. With a clever smile, he said, “So it can’t be Emil we’re after.”

“No. But he most likely knew his killer.”

Jonny finally remembered why he had come to summon Irene. “Møller found something he wants to show us,” he said.

They left the music room and almost ran right into Peter. He was standing in the hall, staring into a closet attached to the wall. Irene and Jonny stood beside him in order to see what he was looking at.

The large closet contained a worn leather jacket, a black trench coat, and two police uniforms.

“We shouldn’t touch the clothes. There could be evidence on them,” said Møller. His voice sounded strained. Irene guessed that he was thinking about the police officer who had shown up on the periphery of the murder of Carmen Østergaard. Her body become hot all over. Thoughts were going off like fireworks in her head.

Was it really possible? Could Emil be the police officer? Of course, his mother was a police officer. The photo on the wall and the business card proved that Marcus and Emil had known each other. Emil matched the description of the officer that the prostitute had given in connection with the investigation of Carmen’s murder. Was this where Marcus had been living during his time in Copenhagen? Not unlikely. Where were his things? His car? Why hadn’t Emil rented out the rooms again? Why had Emil himself been killed?

The answer to the last question must be that Emil somehow had become a threat to the murderer. Irene also saw another possibility: the killer had found sexual release during the murder. Perhaps desire had gotten the better of him and Emil was the only one around. The thought was nauseating, but Irene decided to bring up this hypothesis with Yvonne Stridner when she got the chance.

Jens Metz had rejoined the others in the hall. His heavy breathing could be heard in the silence. Finally, he said sincerely, “Now I feel damned sorry for the superintendent.”

They should try and speak with Beate Bentsen as quickly as possible, thought Irene. Tentatively, she asked, “May I come with you to the hospital and speak with her?”

“Why?” Jonny asked sourly.

“Because Emil and Marcus knew each other. The model in the photo above Emil’s bed is Marcus Tosscander. This is probably where Marcus was living. How much did Beate know about Emil’s life? His sex life? There’s a lot that I would like to ask her,” said Irene.

Jonny looked irritated, but didn’t say anything.

“You can come along. I’ll call the hospital and see if we can speak with her. If it’s possible, we’ll go there right after we’ve eaten,” said Peter Møller.

“I’ll try and get Svend Blokk. He should be able to tell us if it’s the same murderer. Actually, have you thought about the fact that the first two murders were different from the last two?” Metz pointed out.

“You mean because he hasn’t cleaned out Isabell and Emil?” asked Jonny.

“Exactly. Plus the fact that the chest hasn’t been opened. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had access to a circular saw. That’s probably also the reason he hasn’t cut off the head and other extremities. Maybe we should be asking ourselves whether we could have a copycat murderer?” said Metz.

That was a possibility, but Irene’s intuition said that it was the same killer. No copycat could have known the details of the mutilation and defilement of the first two victims since the media hadn’t had access to all the facts. But she agreed that there were certain striking differences between the first two murders and the later ones. It was almost as though the last two were incomplete.

Irene became terrified by the word that popped into her head: incomplete. She would keep it in mind and come back to it when she had more information about the new murders.

Peter stuffed his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a closed plastic bag. “I found this far back in the pantry. A bit of pot. Pretty strong.”

“It matches the smell in the music room. The door has probably been closed since the murder. The posters and CDs show that Emil had an interest in necrophilia,” Irene told him.

Møller and Metz went into the music room. They looked at the wall decorations in silence. Møller bent down and picked around among the CDs and covers. When they started walking toward the door again, Møller said to Irene, “It seems to mostly be death metal and black metal. He wouldn’t have had to have been a necrophile to listen to that kind of music. There are a lot of youngsters who think it’s cool. But I agree that he seemed to be obsessed with death.”

He made a gesture at the poster hanging closest to the door. It depicted a guitarist, full length, standing and grinning at the observer, while worms crawled in and out of holes in his skull. Under the electric guitar his rotting intestines appeared to be hanging down to the floor. The words over the picture said: “There is no death!”

IT WAS a relief to come out onto the street again.

“It will be just as well if we eat lunch now,” said Jens Metz.

Irene wasn’t very hungry but realized that it would give her a chance to contact Tom Tanaka. There were certain advantages to having separate toilets for men and women.

They decided that after lunch Jonny should go back to the police station and make copies of the investigation reports about Isabell Lind. Naturally he groaned and mumbled, but deep down inside he must have been happy to be driven to the police station to sit in peace and quiet to deal with a stationary pile of paper. He obviously had a headache. But maybe he could get past it with an aspirin and some cups of coffee. A “little one” and some food would probably also do the trick.

Peter Møller called the hospital and asked if they could question Beate Bentsen that afternoon. After several discussions with the nurses, they mercifully were given a visiting time after three o’clock.

It was almost a quarter to twelve. If they hurried up and ate, Irene would have time for a visit to Tom Tanaka’s before three. She became insistent that they eat an early lunch.

They walked to Gråbrødretorv and the small rustic pub Peder Oxe, known for its meat dishes and generous glasses of wine. All of them chose tender ox rolls in a divine cream sauce, black currant jelly, and a large helping of early spring greens. Everyone had beer. To Jonny’s disappointment, he was the only one who wanted to have a schnapps. To save himself embarrassment he didn’t order it, but his expression was that of a sad puppy who had been tricked.

Irene excused herself before coffee and slipped off to the ladies’ room. She locked herself in the bathroom and took out her cell phone, then quickly brought up Tom’s number on the cell phone display and made the call.

“Tom speaking.”

“Irene Huss here. We need to meet immediately.”

“Has something happened?”

“Yes, I need to speak with you.”

“Are you able to, even with your colleague around?”

“Yes. If we can meet in half an hour.”

“I can make it in an hour. OK?”

“No. There won’t be enough time. It’s important! Otherwise I wouldn’t have called you!”

He must have heard the desperation in her voice.

“OK. I have company now. Come in half an hour. Call when you’re outside the door and I’ll come down and open it for you.”

Irene pulled a comb through her short hairdo and ruffled it a bit. To her surprise, she had started liking her short hairdo. For the sake of appearances, she put on some more lipstick. She smiled at her own reflection for practice. It was important that she look casual while she was serving up a white lie to her colleagues.

She dropped down next to her steaming cup of coffee and said, “I think that I’m going to try and speak with the girls at Scandinavian Models again. I’d especially like to talk to Petra one more time. Now that the initial shock is over, she might remember more from the night Isabell disappeared.”

“Do you think it will add anything? We have already questioned the girls several times,” Peter objected.

“I know, but I want to make one last attempt.”

Peter shrugged to show what he thought of the idea. To Irene’s relief, the three men started talking about soccer. She sat quietly and pretended not to know anything about the group matches for the European Championship.

When she had finished her last cup of coffee, she smiled apologetically and said, “I think I’ll head out. So long.”

“I’ll pick you up next to the entrance to Vor Frue Kirke at 2:45,” said Peter.

“Fine.”

Irene faintly recalled that this meeting place was in the immediate neighborhood. She realized that it was going to be difficult to get to Vesterbro and back in time. She would have to take a taxi.

Irene called Tom from the taxi. The driver turned in on Helgolandsgade and Irene paid. Without hurrying, she went through the entrance door. Even though it was broad daylight, she looked around the courtyard carefully. The run-in with the skinheads was still fresh in her mind.

Tom was already standing at the window. He opened the door, welcomed her, and shuffled up the stairs. Irene shivered when she heard his strained breathing. He sounded like a mountain climber without his oxygen at the top of Mount Everest. Tom was dressed in a silver-colored satin outfit for the day and he had wound small silver threads around his knots of hair.

With a chivalrous gesture he held open the door to his bedroom and invited Irene to step in. The room looked just the same. If Tom had been entertaining someone there, he had had enough time to put things in order again. When he started to walk toward the door that led to the corridor, Irene said, “Tom. Could we please stay here in the bedroom?”

Tom raised his eyebrows ironically. “In the bedroom?”

When he saw the serious look on Irene’s face he hurried to add, “Sorry. Bad joke.”

“It’s OK. Why don’t you sit on the bed?”

Without arguing, Tom lowered himself heavily onto the edge of the bed.

“Tom. Prepare yourself for horrible news. Emil Bentsen was found dead in his apartment last night. Murdered. Based on the evidence so far, he was killed a week ago. His body carries the signature of our killer. The signature of Marcus and Isabell’s killer.”

She watched for Tom’s reaction. At first nothing happened; he sat immobile, like a massive gray stone. Slowly, a dull moaning sound rose toward the ceiling. Even though Irene had expected a reaction, she was still surprised. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Tom’s plaint sounded wordlessly and terribly through the room, traveled desperately out into the hall, and died away in the far reaches of the apartment. He began rocking his large body back and forth. His moaning decreased in intensity until finally it ended. But he continued to rock his enormous body back and forth.

Irene was about to continue when he hissed, “That devil! You have to catch him!”

“I’m going to try but I need your help.”

Tom nodded. Irene pointed at the framed photographs on the wall and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that these are photos of Marcus?”

Tom looked sincerely surprised. “I didn’t think about it actually. And he’s only in one of the photographs. The other model is a friend of his.”

Irene took a closer look at the two pictures and realized that he was right.

Marcus was sitting right at the edge of the water. The sun glistened on the droplets on his young sunburned body. He was smiling into the camera. The wind was playfully blowing the hair above his forehead. He was resting his hands on his knees, which were slightly bent and very wide apart. His condition was amazing. The photo had been taken from the water’s edge, looking up, and the whole picture breathed sensual joy and acceptance of one’s own sexuality. Irene had to admit to herself that it was one of the most exciting pictures of a naked person she had ever seen.

The other model was standing in profile, leaning against a rugged stone wall, which seemed to be part of a building. He appeared to be muscular and well built. The picture was taken against the sun so it was impossible to make out his face. Irene could see that his long hair was combed back and had been put in a thick ponytail. The photographer had managed to create the illusion that the sunbeams originated from the top of his erect penis.

Irene had to admit that the photographer was talented.

Suddenly, she had a strong feeling that she recognized the man. She stepped closer but her memory failed her. The direct light pulled his face into darkness, yet she definitely recognized the man. But where had she seen him?

“Do you know who the friend is?”

“No, he never said.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“No.”

“Did Marcus give you these photos?”

“Yes, right before he left. Framed and ready. I just needed to hang them up.”

“Do you know who took them?”

“A photographer in Göteborg, but I don’t know his name.”

“Did you know that Emil also had this same kind of photo of Marcus over his bed? Not the same pose, but it is Marcus.”

Tom gave a start. “No. I didn’t even know that they were that well aquainted.”

“But you knew that they knew each other?”

“Yes. The first time I saw Marcus, he came into the store with Emil. Marcus came up to me right away and started talking. Emil bought some things and didn’t participate in our conversation. I never got the feeling that they were. . together. They seemed more like friends. That’s the only time I saw them together.”

“Marcus never spoke about Emil?”

“No.”

“And you never asked?”

“No.”

“Did Emil ever speak about Marcus?”

“No. Never.”

“You don’t know very much about the personal lives of either Emil or Marcus? You never asked?”

For the first time, Irene felt a reserve on Tom’s part. His tone of voice was icily neutral when he replied, “No.”

“Why not?”

“If you don’t ask any questions, then you don’t have to answer any.” That was as close to the truth as you could get; Irene realized that she wasn’t going to get any personal information out of Tom.

“But Marcus spoke of ‘my police officer’ and said that he lived with a police officer, right?”

“Yes.”

“We found two police uniforms at Emil’s place. And Emil had a rental unit that was part of his apartment. Do you think Emil could have been the policeman Marcus was staying with?”

Tom sighed. “Good God. . Emil! It could have been Emil. I sold him a police uniform about a year ago.”

“Do you remember when?”

“It was right in the beginning when I had just taken over the store. Almost two years ago. It was the first time we met.”

“He only bought one? Not two?”

“One.”

Irene said, after some hesitation, “Emil found out from his mother that I was looking for Isabell Lind. When I left Beate Bentsen at the restaurant, it was eight thirty. Emil came in just after that. He couldn’t have known, then, until eight thirty. I saw him here with you around ten o’clock. At about the same time, a man named Simon Steiner called Scandinavian Models and requested Isabell Lind be sent to the Hotel Aurora, a stone’s throw from your store. Who would Emil have had time to tell that I was looking for Isabell?”

A loaded silence ensued. Finally, Tom answered, “He must have called the killer from his cell phone. Can’t you trace calls from cell phones as well?”

“I don’t know if it’s possible at this point. I don’t even know if they found his cell phone. Do you have his number?”

Tom shook his head. “No.”

A thought struck Irene. “Did Emil have your number?”

“No.”

“Did Marcus?” A hint of a smile could be seen in one of the corners of Tom’s mouth, when he answered. “Of course.”

“And you gave it to me.”

Tom raised his massive head and looked her straight in the eye. “I trust you,” he said.

An unspoken question lingered above their heads: did she trust him? Irene looked at the massive figure in front of her, seated on the edge of the bed. He had known both Marcus and Emil. As a police officer, this fact should cause her to be on her guard. He was a grotesque figure in the eyes of many people: frightening and at the same time inviting ridicule. But Irene had felt his sincere grief over Marcus’s murder. She had also seen his lust for vengeance and realized that he was dangerous. He had meant what he’d said when he’d asked her to catch Marcus’s killer.

“I trust you, too. Without you we wouldn’t have identified Marcus as quickly, and you have always answered my. . close questions truthfully.”

Tom hid his smile when he heard Irene search for the English word for “intrusive”; it became instead “close questions.” Irene understood English much better than she spoke it. He knew what she meant and he hadn’t corrected her. He hadn’t done that a single time during their sometimes stumbling conversations.

“I’m doing everything I can to help you,” he said.

Irene looked at the clock and saw that it was high time she went on her way.

“Can you call me a cab?”

“Sure.”

Tom reached for the telephone on the nightstand and pushed a speed-dial button. He instantly got an answer and ordered the car to the street behind the back lot.

He rose from the bed in a cumbersome fashion and went to the door that led to the stairwell. Before he opened it, he turned toward Irene and said, “We’ll keep in touch, like before. But be on your guard. Keep a good lookout.”

“The same goes for you.”

Tom nodded. “I understand.”

She called Scandinavian Models from the taxi. Petra didn’t answer. Instead, a hoarse, sexy voice introduced herself in Danish as Heidi. Irene explained who she was and asked for Petra but was told that she was unavailable. Irene quickly decided to take a chance. In an official, neutral tone she said, “Petra told me what time Jens Metz arrived on Wednesday the nineteenth. But I happened to write it down sloppily and I can’t see if it says eleven thirty or eleven forty.”

Irene could hear Heidi flipping through the logbook. Her smoky, dark voice said, “Eleven thirty.”

Irene was overjoyed. But her voice didn’t reveal a thing when she thanked Heidi for her help.

Irene saw Peter Møller outside the entrance to the church before he saw her. He was standing on the top step next to the entrance, peering out at the people passing by. She knew that she was late and she quickened her steps. Peter caught sight of her and raised his hand to wave. Without haste, he sauntered down the steps toward her.

“Sorry, Peter. I went into a store and forgot the time.”

She smiled apologetically and tried to look female and scatterbrained. Peter nodded, but she felt him subject her to careful scrutiny. Without wasting unnecessary words, he piloted her over to the parked BMW. As usual, he held open the passenger-side door for her.

He slid smoothly into the heavy stream of traffic.

“Did you find out anything new?” he asked.

“I couldn’t get Petra. She wasn’t there. But I got confirmation for something I had been wondering about.”

She explained that she had been outside Scandinavian Models at about the same time Isabell was murdered and that she had seen a man who looked strikingly like Jens Metz go into the bordello. After forty-five minutes he still hadn’t come out. Heidi had admitted that it really had been Jens Metz.

“How should we deal with this information?” she asked.

Peter sat quietly for some time.

“Don’t say anything to Jens. His visit to a bordello doesn’t have anything to do with Isabell’s murder.”

“But don’t you think it’s an amazing coincidence?”

“Maybe not. Jens could have become curious about Scandinavian Models after you mentioned it. Maybe he went there to get a closer look. And then he thought about other things when he was there. . ”

“You don’t think it’s the least bit suspicious?” Irene persisted.

Peter gave her an amused look before he said, “As I see it, he has a perfect alibi. You were standing outside keeping an eye on him.”

He had a point there.

They turned onto a wide avenue with impressive beech trees lining both sides. The immense network of branches met in the middle and had braided themselves together like an enormous vaulted ceiling. The half-light of the avenue contrasted sharply with the sun-drenched surroundings.

An arrow pointed toward a parking lot. Peter turned in and stopped inside a white marked box.

Tall oaks shadowed the well-tended flower beds in the hospital garden. The hospital itself was a low yellow stucco building. Even though the building looked idyllic and romantically old-fashioned, the barred windows on the bottom floor dispelled this impression.

A discreet brass sign next to the entrance informed visitors that they had come to Queen Anne’s Hospital.

“This is a psychiatric hospital,” Peter informed her.

“I’d assumed that.” Irene had to try not to sound sarcastic.

The heavy entrance door was open and led to a spacious hall with pillars in a Roman style supporting the white painted ceiling. It looked fresh and newly decorated.

“She’s in Ward Three,” said Peter.

The door on the left bore the number one, and that on the right, number two. Consequently, Beate Bentsen should be located one floor up.

There weren’t any bars on the windows of the second floor, but the door to the ward was locked. They had to ring the bell and wait for a nurse.

One of the largest men Irene had ever seen-even compared with Tom Tanaka-filled the doorway when the door was finally opened. Under his curly blond beard and tangled head of hair, which seemed to be joined, a deep voice emerged. “Who are you looking for?”

Neither Peter nor Irene managed to reply. The giant was used to this reaction.

“I’m Erland. One hundred and sixty kilos, two meters ten. An old basketball player who has gained a few kilos.”

Irene heard a hint of a titter in his bass voice. Peter had finally managed to get his act together and said, “Crime police. We’ve been given permission to visit Beate Bentsen.”

The superintendent was half sitting in a raised hospital bed. Her hair lay, uncombed, over the pillow like a mass of copper red steel wool. Her eyes were closed when they came in, but when she heard them she turned her head and looked at them.

Beate Bentsen had aged several years in the past day. Her skin was gray, and her face, free of makeup, had a sunken look to it. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought she was suffering from a fatal disease. But in reality her soul and her mind had received a deadly blow, thought Irene. No parent should have to see his or her child in the condition Emil had been in when they’d found him.

Beate’s gaze cleared when she saw who it was. She raised herself up on one elbow with difficulty and nodded to them. “Good of you to come. I thought about calling you.”

Her lips were cracked and dry and her hand shook when she reached for the water glass on the nightstand. She took a greedy gulp. She put the glass back, coughing.

“We should have brought flowers,” Irene said apologetically.

The superintendent waved off the idea with her hand as she finished coughing.

“Not necessary. I’m going home tomorrow.”

Was that really possible? She didn’t look like she was in any condition to be released. As if she had read their thoughts, Beate continued, “I had an acute psychological crisis. But my doctor was here after lunch and he says that it’s over. I’ll have to continue with the medicine but I’m not sick anymore so I don’t need to be in the hospital. But I’ll be on sick leave for a while.”

The long speech seemed to wear her out. She sank back onto the pillow.

Peter inhaled as if he was about to say something but Beate was ahead of him. “I thought about calling you because there is something important I haven’t told you.”

She looked Peter straight in the eye. “You will remember that I told you about the real estate agent Simon Steiner. He was my father’s best friend and died of lung cancer four years ago. All of that is true but there is something else. He was Emil’s father.”

Last week someone who claimed to be Emil’s dead father called and requested that Isabell go to the Hotel Aurora. The killer must have known who Emil’s father was, thought Irene.

“Who knew that Simon Steiner was Emil’s father?” she asked.

“No one. It says ‘father unknown’ on his birth certificate. I never even told my parents that it was Simon.”

“Did Emil know who his father was?”

“Yes. He inherited the apartment and a good deal of money when Simon died.”

Beate sighed before she continued. “I might as well start from the beginning. I had known Simon all of my life. He was a few years younger than my father but they had been friends since they were kids. My father met my mother and married her. Simon married my mother’s sister Susanne a few years later. Susanne was diagnosed with MS the same year they were married. They didn’t have any children. My aunt was very sick off and on.”

Beate stopped in order to take a drink of water.

“There was a twenty-one-year age difference between Simon and me. I was twenty when our relationship started and twenty-two when Emil was born. I knew then that Simon would never leave Susanne. The poor thing was paralyzed and wheelchair bound-”

She stopped abruptly. Maybe she could hear the bitterness in her voice as she uttered the last sentence. In a more controlled tone, she continued, “He took good care of me and Emil. He was the one who bought me the apartment where I still live. It’s worth a great deal today. He paid child support the whole time up until his death.”

“How could he be ordered to pay child support if he never admitted to being the father?” Irene asked.

“He wasn’t ordered to pay. It was done in a voluntary and generous spirit. But I wish he hadn’t left his apartment and money to Emil.”

“Did you know about it in advance?”

“No.”

“His wife didn’t inherit?”

“Susanne died three years before he did. She was tougher than anyone could have predicted.”

“But you wish that Emil hadn’t inherited?”

“Because that’s when he found out who his father was. He was furious. He thought that I had deprived him of contact with his father. Using the argument that his father had never attempted to reveal his paternity even though they saw each other several times a year didn’t affect Emil’s opinion one bit. He believed that I was the one who had stood in the way. I couldn’t keep him from moving into his own apartment. He was eighteen years old.”

“So the relationship between the two of you wasn’t the best?”

“No. Not for the first two years after his move. But recently we started spending more time together, even though he only let me into the apartment once. I didn’t say anything but he knew what I thought. . we mostly met at my place or in a pub. We were getting along better and better. I’m very grateful for that now. . that it’s over.”

Beate’s voice broke, and heavy tears rolled down her cheeks.

Would she have the strength to answer the questions that had to be asked? To Irene’s relief, it was Peter who paved the way. “Were you aware of Emil’s odd taste in music?”

Beate reached for a package of Kleenex. She fished one out and dried her eyes. “Of course I saw his so-called music room. . It was horrible. But we never discussed it. He would only have become angry.”

“We found two police uniforms in his closet. Did you know about them?”

Now Beate hesitated. When she started speaking, her voice sounded very tired. “I didn’t know that he had two. One is my old uniform. He asked to borrow it for a masquerade ball and I never got it back.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years ago when he got in touch with me again after the move. That’s probably why I never asked for it back. I didn’t want to anger him and have him cut off contact again.”

Irene decided to take the risk and ask the question burning inside her. “I got the impression that you and Bill Faraday know each other well. He came right away, on short notice. . ”

“He’s my lover.”

The answer came so quickly that neither Irene nor Peter was ready with a follow-up question. To Irene’s relief, Beate smiled faintly at them.

“You should see the looks on your faces. Mouths gaping open! I met Bill when Emil inherited the apartment. I was required to get in touch with him because he owns the building. Emil was so young when he moved in but there weren’t any big problems. The building is a very old cooperative with old-fashioned and complicated rules. Bill owns and manages the property, but the tenants own their apartments. The tenants pay a management fee. It’s that, plus the rent, that provides an income for Bill.”

“Like a private tenant-owner’s company,” Irene said.

“Yes. Bill manages several properties.”

Peter cleared his throat and announced that he wanted to ask a new question.

“You knew that Emil was. . gay. Do you know any of his partners? Has he had a steady boyfriend recently?”

Beate shook her head. “No. He never confided in me. I’ve had the feeling that he has been very lonely. That’s what the parent of a homosexual child is most afraid of, that they will be alone. If he had had a steady …friend and a secure relationship, he probably wouldn’t have been so restless.”

Maybe his preferences had been so particular that it hadn’t been easy to find a like-minded individual.

“Did you know the people Emil rented rooms to?” Peter asked.

“No. He handled that himself. I have the feeling that he only rented the rooms out now and then. Of course it provided some extra income but he had the income from Simon’s assets to live on. Thank God they are placed so that he can’t. . couldn’t spend the money. The income was paid to him each month.”

“I’ve heard that he was studying law,” said Irene.

“It didn’t go very well,” Beate said shortly.

“Did you know that Emil often hung out in a gay sex shop in Vesterbro that is owned by one Tom Tanaka?” Irene continued.

Beate looked incredibly tired. She tried in vain to wet her lips.

“I know that he was often seen at different gay hangouts. But I don’t know if he spent a lot of time in Tanaka’s store.”

It was clear that Beate didn’t have the energy to talk anymore. Peter could see it as well.

“Take care of yourself, Chief. We can talk again when you are feeling a bit stronger.”

“Thanks. I’ll call if I come up with anything. My brain almost feels paralyzed right now,” she whispered.

Irene felt deep sympathy for Beate. The image of Isabell’s dead face floated past for one second. A strong pang of guilt hit her. In a sense, she was an accessory. The murderer was working close to her; involving her was his intention. Catching the murderer was something she owed his violated victims. Now it had become personal.

“SHE DIDN’T seem to know anything about his sex life,” said Irene.

“Maybe it’s just as well,” said Peter.

They sat in the comfortable BMW and zoomed at an even speed toward downtown Copenhagen. Peter skillfully maneuvered the car into the parking spot in front of the Hotel Alex.

“Are you going to eat now?” he asked.

Irene saw that it was only five thirty. “In an hour. Then I’ll go across the street; the food is good there,” she said.

“I’ll pick you up here.”

“You shouldn’t feel like you need to. . ”

“I don’t feel like fixing dinner tonight. I had already planned on going out to eat.”

He stepped out of the car and quickly went around and opened the passenger-side door for her. Irene thought it was a bit embarrassing. She decided that it must be because she wasn’t used to it.

ALONG hot shower followed by a short cold one raised her spirits. She relaxed, wrapped in a clean bath towel, a smaller towel wound around her wet hair. For a while she sat in the only recliner in the room with her fingers clasping the bottle she had just taken from the minibar. She slowly drank the cold Hof.

Her brain felt sluggish and overwhelmed by the events of the past few days. The murderer must have shown up at some point. Where? When? She couldn’t locate him among all of her unsorted impressions. But she knew that he had been close by. He had been in Copenhagen a week ago, on her previous visit. Was he still here? Irene felt convinced that he wasn’t. It was high time for her to return to Göteborg.

She longed intensely for Krister and the girls. She went to get her cell phone and called home.

Just before six thirty, Irene went downstairs to the lobby. They had put up the “Jell-O shot evening” sign in the bar again. She saw Jonny at a table in the bar together with two men and a woman. He lifted a small glass filled with pink Jell-O.

She didn’t bother going into the bar. She was content. There would be no discussion about who was going to drive tomorrow. She exited through the revolving door and waved at Peter, who was walking toward her.

They went back to Restaurant Vesuvius. The head waiter was a gray-haired older man who showed them to a table for two in the smaller room with the movie-star photos on the walls. Two younger women sitting at a table by the window looked at Irene with undisguised jealousy and Irene became keenly aware of the fact that she was in the company of a very attractive man. When Peter stood near her in order to pull out her chair, she caught a whiff of his good aftershave. Light, masculine, and sensual. Could be Armani.

He pushed her chair in and when he leaned forward she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.

“It’s been a busy day for you. Now you have to relax,” he said. He smiled encouragingly at her when he seated himself across from her. “Do you want wine?”

She hesitated for half a second and then common sense took over.

“No, thanks. I have to drive tomorrow. Jonny is already in fine form in the bar. He’s drinking Jell-O shots with a group of people. Something tells me it will be a quiet trip home.”

Peter laughed. His eyes were as blue as the short-sleeved Sand shirt he was wearing. The top two buttons were open, revealing blond hair. A thin gold chain glimmered against his golden brown skin. He had hung his light-colored linen jacket on the back of his chair.

She still had on her dark blue linen pants, which at this point were wrinkled. She had managed to press them a bit with the iron in the hotel room, but they weren’t pristine. Her linen jacket was still in good shape. She wore a new silver-gray satin top under the jacket. Her feet in blue suede sandals were bare.

“Beer then. What would you like to eat?”

“Something spicy that will make my spirits soar.”

“How does gamberoni sole mio sound? Giant shrimp in a lobster sauce with cayenne pepper.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Good. I’ll have that as well. A drink before dinner?”

She hesitated. “OK, one. A dry martini, please.”

The drinks came to the table very quickly. Peter and Irene raised their wide glasses in order to toast. Their eyes met and Irene felt her cheeks become hot. Damn the man for being so handsome!

A chill suddenly ran down her spine. Her brain became crystal clear. The police officer.

Mechanically, she took a sip of her drink as she thought feverishly. She put down her glass and said in as natural a tone of voice as she could muster, “You never had a chance to tell me where you got your tan.” She smiled encouragingly but didn’t get a response.

He looked into his glass. Finally he said, “I wasn’t planning on telling you. I was in South Africa.”

“How exciting! How long were you there?”

“Three weeks. A tour and safari.”

“How wonderful, to get away in March when the weather is so bad. . ”

“It wasn’t in March. We. . I left on April 1.”

A month after Marcus’s supposed trip to Thailand; Marcus had been dead for almost a month already. Peter’s sunburn also seemed to match better with three weeks in April than with a few weeks the month before.

But there were tanning salons. You could maintain a tan. She had to confirm the date Peter had taken his vacation.

He seemed unwilling to talk about his trip. The conversation became strained. Irene decided to start a new topic: Copenhagen as a tourist city. Peter thawed out a bit but the intimate feeling was completely gone. Irene felt that something had come between them despite the wonderful food and drink.

What had happened on the trip to South Africa? Had he really been in South Africa?

They finished dinner at ten o’clock. He escorted her back to the hotel but didn’t show any interest in following her inside.