The Torso

Chapter 6

A PALE SUNMADE some brave attempts at breaking through the clouds but it gave up around Varberg. It drizzled the rest of the way down to Helsingborg. Even though the spring had been rainy and cool so far, the farther south she drove, the greener it got. The chestnuts were blooming magnificently in Helsingborg but the detective inspector from Göteborg could not enjoy the splendid blooms. She was busy trying not to get lost. The city was bigger than she had thought and to add to her misery there were several ferry lines to choose from. Randomly, she chose HH-Ferries. She paid for her ticket, drove up, and joined the waiting line of cars. The ferry had just docked and cars were in the process of driving off it. She was allowed to embark after just ten minutes.

It felt good to stretch her legs. Irene walked around and inspected the boat. The ferry was relatively small, and the shipping company had to be Danish since all the signs were in Danish. She wasn’t tempted to stay on deck because of the weather, so she went inside when the ferry left the dock. She ended up in the cafeteria and decided to get a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

The sandwich was enormous. Somewhere under the layer of roast beef and pickles there must be a slice of bread, she hoped. It was a clear sign that she was on her way abroad, to a more hedonistic land.

Soon the feeling of being in another country grew stronger when Irene went to the bathroom. A yellow plastic tub hung on the wall next to the mirror over the sink. On the tub there was a broad label: USED SYRINGES. So nice to have a special place to discard them, Irene thought sarcastically.

They arrived in Helsingör after twenty minutes. With a silent prayer that the rattling car ramp was more stable than it looked, she drove off the ferry just after one o’clock and followed the signs for Copenhagen. After having made her way through heavily trafficked side streets, she finally reached the highway where there was much less traffic. The first twenty-four miles passed without difficulty, but the closer to Copenhagen she got, the tougher things became. Traffic became more congested, the signs were too small and hard to find, the lane designations weren’t logical, and cyclists came from every direction like projectiles. She had never driven in Denmark before and wasn’t used to traffic in a big city. Finally, Irene realized that she needed to stop at a gas station to buy a decent map.

She bought an ice cream and a map. While she was eating the ice cream she tried to memorize the best route. Finally she had it: Østerbrogade down to Sortedams Sø, then a right turn and drive along the water on Øster Søgade, which turned into Nørre Søgade. Where it ended was where she was supposed to turn left and come out onto H. C. Andersen Boulevard.

It didn’t look that complicated on the map, but the reality was something completely different. Her blouse was sticky with sweat when she finally stopped outside the Hotel Alex, where you were only allowed to park for five minutes. Irene went in and asked the receptionist where the car could be left. The friendly, smiling young woman explained that, for the most part, it was fine to park anywhere there was a free spot. She recommended that Irene try the side street next to the hotel, Studiestræde.

Irene drove around the large block and came onto the side street. There was only one free space, almost right in front of the entrance to the bar Wild Strip. In English it was advertised as a “Nude show” and in Danish as “Dance that’s the very barest.” She didn’t care so long as she had a parking spot.

She took her bag and went to check in. The friendly receptionist handed her a message from Beate Bentsen, which she decided to wait to read.

The room was clean and newly renovated. As luck would have it, the window faced Studiestræde. She could even see her car if she leaned out. She didn’t have to worry about having her night’s sleep interrupted by the traffic. The noise level through the well-insulated windows was surprisingly low. She succumbed to the temptation to lie on the inviting bed. It was wonderful to be able to stretch out. Her muscles were tired and stiff from sitting still in the car. She decided to walk down to Station One at Vesterbro. She pulled out her map of Copenhagen and judged that it would be a brisk fifteen-minute walk from the hotel to Halmtorvet.

The message from Beate Bentsen took a while to decipher since it was handwritten and in Danish. In the end, Irene understood that Superintendent Bentsen did not have time this afternoon as she had promised. She apologized profusely and hoped to be able to take Irene to dinner at seven at Restaurant Vesuvius of Copenhagen. The directions were simple: straight across the street from the hotel entrance and then at an angle to the right. But Bentsen would send Inspector Peter Møller to pick up Irene at exactly three o’clock. According to the superintendent, he was familiar with the investigation and with the area around Vesterbro.

Irene looked at the clock. Peter Møller would be there in less than twenty minutes. She told herself to get up and change.

She was awakened by the ringing of the telephone and found herself standing at the side of the bed before she was fully awake. A soft female voice told her in Danish that Inspector Peter Møller was asking for her.

“Goodness! Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She was out of her clothes before the receiver had come to rest in the cradle. The shower was short and hot. The jeans she had had on during the day would have to remain on the floor. She pulled out her new dark blue linen pants, clean underwear, and an ice blue colored tennis shirt. She exchanged the worn-out tennis shoes for black loafers. Maybe it would have been more elegant if the shoe had had a bit of a heel to go with the nice pants, but if you were one hundred and eighty centimeters tall without shoes, you don’t wear heels. Irene had never even learned to walk in heels. A short pass with lipstick would have to do as a means of freshening up her makeup. On the way down the stairs she twisted her arms into a new trench coat-style jacket. It was blue, the color of her eyes.

A slender young man stood leaning against the reception desk. He had short blond hair. He must have heard her steps on the stairs because he turned in her direction. His light blue eyes passed over her appraisingly. She saw that he was older than she had first thought, at least thirty-five. He smiled pleasantly and walked toward her with his hand extended.

“Irene Huss, I presume?”

“Yeah. I mean. . yes.”

“Inspector Peter Møller.”

They shook hands and he motioned in the direction of the street.

“The car is outside.”

He walked in front of her and held the door for her. When they passed each other, Irene noticed that he smelled of good aftershave and that she was just a hair taller. He was also dressed in civilian clothes, a short light brown suede jacket and light tan chinos. Peter Møller walked up to a dark wine red colored BMW, the newest and largest model, and opened the door for Irene. When they were sitting in the car, Irene said, “The police certainly have nice cars here.”

“It’s my own,” said Møller.

A short silence followed and Irene decided to leave the topic of cars and move on. “I’m sorry that you had to wait. The ferry took some time. . ”

She left the sentence unfinished on purpose. Møller turned his face toward hers and smiled charmingly.

“I expect that sort of thing when I’m picking up a lady,” he said.

Knowing that Denmark had had weather as bad as Sweden’s during the spring, Irene concluded that his dark tan resulted from a trip abroad. It could just as easily have been acquired on a tanning bed at home but something about Møller’s manner told her that his tan was genuine. It would have to do as a conversation opener.

“Have you had good weather here in Denmark? You’re so dark.”

He laughed softly. “No. I’ve been to a place with guaranteed sunshine.”

“Wonderful!”

“Yes. But a bit too warm. Have you been to Copenhagen before?”

“Twenty years ago.”

“Then it was about time for you to come back.” Møller smiled.

He quickly became serious and asked, “Do you want to drive out to Hellerup now or later?”

“Hellerup?”

“That’s where the sacks with the body parts of Carmen Østergaard were found.”

“When was that?”

“June 1997. Almost two years ago.”

It was a good thing he added that it had been almost two years ago; the number ninety-seven, uttered in Danish, was completely incomprehensible to Irene’s ears.

“I think we can drive out there later if it’s necessary. It feels more important to see the sign with the dragon.”

“You’ll get to see that in just a second.”

They drove down a wide street that, according to the signs, was Bernstorffsgade. Peter Møller turned into a parking lot behind a boxlike building of gloomy brown brick. He didn’t have to tell Irene that they had parked behind the Police Department. All police department buildings built during the sixties and seventies appeared to have been designed by the same deeply depressed architect.

“Come. We’ll go and look at the sign right away,” said Peter.

They left the parking lot and started walking along a small, quiet street lined with dreary-looking houses. The dirty building fronts, rotten doors, and windowsills with chipped paint gave the whole street an atmosphere of gloomy decay. The dirty gray weather added to the unpleasant impression.

The houses farther down the street were covered with scaffolding and plastic fabric. Under the fabric, the harsh buzzing of a highpressure sprayer could be heard.

“Nice that they are renovating the old buildings,” said Irene.

“They are trying to sanitize the shacks. Get the houses in order and raise the rents so that the rabble can’t afford to stay there. These old houses are in an attractive central location.”

“Something similar has been done at home in Göteborg. Has it been successful here?”

“The poor are driven away, farther out into the suburbs. They are the drug addicts and the street prostitutes. We don’t get rid of the others as easily. They have far too much money.”

“Sex is a profitable business,” Irene concluded.

“Exactly. Do you know anything about Vesterbro?”

“No.”

“It’s known as Sin Central in Copenhagen. It used to be Nyhavn but now only millionaires and people of culture can afford to live there. Upscale bars and restaurants have opened, pushing out all but the most discreet sex operations. But if you want sex, you come to Vesterbro and, above all, to the area around Istedgade. Everything can be found here. Absolutely everything!” As confirmation, a porn movie store popped up advertising “Here you can get the video you didn’t think existed!” Peter continued walking as though he hadn’t noticed.

“Are we on the way to Istedgade?” Irene asked.

“Yes, to one of the cross streets. We’re almost there.”

A sex shop on the corner in front of them had thin gauze underwear with strategically placed holes hanging in the display window. As a counterbalance, there were more substantial items in leather but these also seemed to be made of thin straps and holes. It was probably a good thing they were well equipped with rivets so that they sort of held together. In order to embellish the display further, whips and handcuffs hung from the ceiling. Dildos in various colors and sizes lay on the floor of the display window. A large one in black rubber was almost as long and as thick as Irene’s forearm.

Bewildering pictures came to mind: A man was whipping a woman in see-through red underwear after first having chained her with handcuffs to the bedpost and then taken the black rubber dildo. . What kind of people would have to subordinate other people in order to get some enjoyment? Was it power over another person that gave them a boost? Pictures, and mechanical procedures with sex toys, provide a quick release. Warm and sensual relationships are more difficult and take longer to build. Most of all, they required emotional engagement. Masturbation is easy; relationships, difficult and time consuming.

Suddenly she became aware that Peter Møller was talking to her. With a great deal of effort she abandoned her train of thought.

“Pardon me. What did you say?”

“Are you going to buy anything?” Peter teased.

Irene felt her throat tighten with rage but she managed to sound relatively calm when she answered, “No. There’s nothing here that I want. I get depressed when I see this sort of thing.”

“It’s just for fun. Casual sex toys-”

“No! It cannot be fun to have that huge rubber dick shoved in! It must hurt terribly!”

She stopped herself and tried to calm down. Møller looked at her in confusion. With great control she said, “You may not understand this, but there is no casual sex in this display window.”

Peter Møller didn’t answer. He looked completely unsympathetic and shook his head slightly. Maybe he thought his colleague from Sweden had taken a dose of prudishness? He could think what he wanted.

They crossed Istedgade and walked one block up the street of sin.

“Here it is,” said Peter Møller. He stopped at the corner and pointed at a cross street. The street sign said Colbjørnsensgade. Irene took a few steps before she stopped short.

A large enameled sign hung on the wall over a store. It was almost three square meters in size. The Japanese character for “man” was encircled by a terrifying dragon. The background was light blue, which effectively contrasted with the colorful dragon. Every scale on the monster’s body glittered in varying colors. The horrifying mouth with its razor-sharp teeth was wide open, and the whole monster pulsated with restrained power.

But the sign was not hanging over a store for Asian food. On the display window it said, “The Best Gay Place In Town.”

“A gay sex store,” Irene said. She couldn’t help letting out a deep sigh. Møller glanced at her but didn’t say anything. They walked up to the shop’s window.

Things were also hanging from the ceiling in this display window. They looked to Irene like Barbie’s fiancé, Ken, but when Peter and Irene came closer, Irene realized her mistake. These boy dolls were not intended for little girls; they were supposed to be used by boys and grown men. The dolls were dressed in different outfits but their pants were pulled down to their knees, in order to show that they were well endowed. A human-size display doll stood on one side of the window. The uniform he was wearing looked surprisingly like a real police uniform and he was holding a bunch of handcuffs in both his hands. Across from the police doll hung a porcelain urinal. Along the edge there was a whitish liquid that was apparently supposed to represent semen. Dildos, videos, and magazines lay on the floor. One of the covers caught Irene’s eye. The magazine was called Fist, which would have been Knytnäve in Swedish. The picture showed two male hands spreading apart the buttocks of another man.

“This is sick,” Irene said loudly.

Møller shrugged but didn’t comment. Irene turned toward him and caught his gaze.

“Have you or anyone else from the police been here and spoken with the owner about the sign and the connection to our murder-mutilation case?”

“No.”

“Then we have to go in and find out if he knows anything.”

Møller sighed. “We probably should. Then you’ll get to meet Tom Tanaka.”

“Who’s that?”

“The owner.”

Again he went first and held the door for Irene. His courtesy pleased her. He was polite and well mannered but unaccustomed to being so, in Irene’s opinion. She stepped into the gay shop with an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

Everything she had anticipated was on display. Leather clothes, leather corsets, leather scrotums, whips, and rubber clothes were hanging everywhere. There were neat shelves lined with videos and magazines and sex toys of whose purpose she had no idea. Two men were standing close together over a leather corset, talking, but they stopped when Irene made her entrance. They weren’t relieved when Peter Møller appeared right behind her. Suspiciously, they observed the police officers’ progress to the store counter. Tom Tanaka was enthroned behind it.

Whatever Irene had expected, this man surprised her. He was almost two meters tall and probably weighed over two hundred kilos. He looked like a sumo wrestler, and wore his hair in the characteristic style with small hard knots of hair at his crown. To Irene’s relief, he was not wearing the diaperlike pants in which sumo wrestlers compete; instead his huge body was covered in black silk pajamas.

Irene’s undisguised surprise must have been obvious because Tom Tanaka made a hint of a bow and said in English with a strong American accent, “If you’re surprised to see me here, it’s nothing compared to how I feel about seeing you.”

His voice was very deep and his tone ironic. Irene couldn’t keep from smiling.

“Good day. My name is Irene Huss. I’m a police officer from Göteborg, Sweden, and I’m investigating. . a crime. May I ask a few questions?” she said in her broken English.

Tom Tanaka looked at her without expression through dark eyes embedded in the huge rolls of fat on his face. Irene didn’t believe that the man in front of her was an out-of-shape, harmless mountain of lard. Fighting with a sumo wrestler was like running right into an oncoming steam locomotive traveling at full speed.

The Japanese man nodded slightly. In a deep bass he rumbled, “Emil.”

The door behind Tanaka opened almost instantaneously, and a tall, ruddy young man stuck out his head and also answered in English, but with a heavy Danish accent, “I’m almost done eating-”

He stopped himself when he became aware of Irene and Peter. His gaze locked onto Peter but quickly shifted. Irene suspected there had been a hint of recognition. Emil swallowed hard several times, and his prominent Adam’s apple yo-yoed up and down his thin throat.

“Will you take over the store while I’m speaking with the police officers?”

Emil hurried to finish chewing. He slipped through the door and stood behind the counter as far away from the arm of the law as he could get, nervously pulling at his red goatee.

With a massive hand Tom Tanaka gestured toward the door. They passed through a small windowless employee lounge with soft lighting and two comfortable black leather recliners. Tom Tanaka went over to a heavy door and unlocked it.

Inside there was a huge, very modern kitchen done in white, black, and stainless steel. The floor was laid with wide polished boards of cherrywood. A strong smell of fried fish hung in the air. On the other side of the kitchen Irene glimpsed a sizeable room like a living room. She heard the sound and saw the color flickering from a TV. Between the kitchen and the living room there was a small hallway.

“I live here,” Tanaka said simply.

“So you don’t have far to go to work,” Irene tried to joke.

“True,” the Japanese man replied.

He led the way through the kitchen and then headed to the right. The floor beams creaked under his considerable weight. He opened a door and preceded them into the room. There was no other option since neither Irene nor Peter would have been able to squeeze past him.

“My office,” said Tanaka.

This room was also large. A pleasant smell of expensive cigar smoke encircled the visitors. The room was sparsely furnished in Japanese style. The desk was made of black shiny wood, and the black leather desk chair had obviously been specially constructed to hold Tom Tanaka’s colossal body.

Along the short side of the room there was a glass cabinet containing knickknacks and prize buckles. Irene observed, “You must be a good sumo wrestler.”

One of the corners of Tom’s mouth twitched and Irene took it to be an amused smile.

“Was a good sumo wrestler. I’m retired.”

Irene looked at him, surprised. He couldn’t be older than she was.

“We retire at age forty.”

She didn’t know why she volunteered, “I’ve also worked with Japanese wrestling-jujitsu.”

Tanaka didn’t respond. He pointed at two cloth-covered chairs next to the desk.

“Please,” he said.

Irene and Peter Møller sat. Then Irene realized that Møller hadn’t said a word since they’d entered the store. She looked at him but he remained silent so she started talking about the dismembered male corpse they had found in Sweden. She emphasized that the only clue they had to the man’s identity was a dragon tattoo, and raised her gaze over Tanaka’s head to look at a silk painting that was evidently the original of both the sign and the tattoo.

There was one important difference: there was no sign for man on the painting. Instead, a pointy mountaintop could be seen. Irene recognized the holy mountain, Mount Fuji. She said so and Tanaka nodded.

“Colleagues here in Copenhagen contacted us when we sent out the picture of the tattoo via Interpol. That’s why I’m here. Do you know who the man might be?”

“No. No idea.”

“You don’t know of anyone who has had a tattoo done based on your sign or this painting?”

He shook his head in denial.

“I’ve had the store for less than two years. I inherited it from my cousin. He was the one who started it, years ago. Maybe the tattoo was made during his time. The idea for the sign and for replacing Fuji were also his,” he said.

Irene thought a moment, then asked, “Do you know of any tattoo artist in the area who is especially skilled?”

“A master? No.”

They rose at the same time, and Tanaka led the way. At the kitchen door he stopped with his hand on the door handle and turned to Irene.

“Keikoku. Uke. Okata?” he asked softly.

He warned her of enemies and asked if she had understood. She didn’t know the Japanese language but these words and expressions were used in martial arts. In a calm voice she answered, “Hai.”

Tanaka let them out through the shop, which now contained many more customers. With a neutral “good-bye,” he closed the door after them.

“What was it he said in Japanese?” Møller asked when the door shut behind them.

Irene concluded that he hadn’t understood Tanaka’s warning. She didn’t know anything about him, and he, too, might have been familiar with Japanese martial arts. But she was willing to take the risk.

“He asked if I remembered any terms from jujitsu,” she said indifferently.

They walked back to the Police Department in silence.

“ THIS IS Inspector Jens Metz.”

Peter Møller introduced Irene to the heavyset, reddish blond colleague in an office that smelled like stale smoke. Jens Metz looked so typically Danish that Irene had to hold back a giggle. Instead, she gave him a friendly smile and let her hand be encircled by his sausage-like fingers. He wasn’t in Tanaka’s class, but he was heading in that direction. Irene guessed his age to be somewhere around fifty-five.

“Welcome to Copenhagen. But the reason could have been more pleasant.” Metz smiled with nicotine-stained teeth.

He appeared to be friendly and efficient. Out of nowhere he magically made three steaming cups of coffee appear on the desk. This sort of thing always earned bonus points in Irene’s coffee-dependent existence. That the coffee tasted like it had been brewed from crushed pieces of vinyl was a completely different matter. One can get used to Danish coffee, Irene tried to tell herself.

Jens Metz tapped a pile of thick folders that was lying on the table.

“Here is the material from the case of the murder-mutilation of Carmen Østergaard. You’ll get to meet the medical examiner tomorrow at eleven o’clock. One of us will drive you there,” he said. And he briefly went through the investigation of the dismembered corpse that had floated onto the beach in Hellerup. The first sacks had been found on June 3, 1997. Two more sacks were found the day after. The head, limbs, and the intestines were never found. Both breasts, including the musculature, along with the buttocks, were gone. The outer genitalia and the rectal opening had been removed. The victim had extensive bruising on her pubic bone as a result of extremely brutal force.

“She was as empty as a watch case,” Metz commented.

“The dismemberment sounds strikingly like that of our corpse,” Irene observed.

“You’ll get more details about it from the pathologist tomorrow. We didn’t know who the victim was, but two days later, on June 5, a man named Kurt Østergaard reported that his wife, Carmen, was missing. He hadn’t seen her since the last week in May. He started missing her then since she was his source of income. Both of them were on heroin. We could rule out Kurt as the murderer pretty quickly. He wouldn’t have been able to hold a knife in the shape he was in. Actually, I heard that he died last winter of an overdose.”

Metz caught his breath, wet his index finger, and turned the page. “At the time of her death, Carmen was twenty-five years old. She had been a prostitute for four years, the same period during which she had been married to Kurt and hooked on heroin. Her mother was Danish and her father Spanish. The girl was a souvenir from a hitchhiking trip to Spain. Many of us in the district knew Carmen, since she lived here in Vesterbro. The mortician established that she was HIV positive. She probably wasn’t aware of it since she wasn’t registered anywhere for testing. We interrogated Kurt but he couldn’t give us any information. Carmen never told him about her customers; she just gave him money.”

Metz looked down at the papers and continued, “We interrogated all the prostitutes in Vesterbro. A lot of the women had been threatened by customers during that time, with everything from strangulation to assault. But nothing sounded like the murderer we were after. Sometimes Carmen hung out with two other prostitutes. They talked with each other in between clients and ate together. Carmen supposedly talked to one of them in a café about a police officer who had frightened her in the days before she was killed. A customer who paid well but had strange requests and was also a cop. Carmen never said what in particular the police officer wanted. Before they left the café, Carmen allegedly said, ‘The policeman or the doctor will be the death of me.’ Her friend asked her if she had to see them again and she just said, ‘Yes. Money and drugs.’”

“Did any of the other prostitutes know anything about a suspicious policeman or doctor?”

“One broad talked about a strange doctor and another started talking about a policeman. But she was high on God knows what. When she started to come down, she denied everything and claimed that she had made it all up. We never found any evidence that these two characters existed.”

“Did you ask the girls at the bordellos?”

Both Møller and Metz smiled. It was Metz who answered. “Do you realize how many nightclubs, escort services, strip bars, and so forth there are in Copenhagen? Not to mention all of the girls at these places? And boys, for that matter.”

He paused, then said, “Since Carmen never worked at a place like that-she worked the street-we only asked the girls on the streets. The papers printed a lot about the murder. Had any of the girls at the clubs experienced something terrifying, they could have gotten in touch with us. But no one did.”

They didn’t dare to because they would lose their jobs, Irene thought, but she didn’t say anything.

“It’s the whores on the street who are addicted to drugs who fall victim to the most gruesome violence. At least in the clubs they have some degree of protection,” Peter Møller added.

“Mmm. We worked the whole summer on this case but during the fall we had to shut it down. It was at a complete standstill. No new witnesses and, thankfully, no new murders.”

“Until now. In Göteborg,” said Irene.

“Yes, it’s really strange. If it hadn’t been for the tattoo, I would have said that there was no way there could have been a connection, even if the dismemberments were identical and extreme. But the sign is located here in Vesterbro. Everyone at the station has seen it,” said Metz.

Møller started talking about their visit to the gay sex shop. Irene noticed that he didn’t mention Tom Tanaka’s short sentence in Japanese. She hoped he had forgotten about it. He finished up with his own theory about the tattoo, “I think the victim in Sweden had taken a photo of the sign. The tattoo looks like the sign and not like the painting in Tanaka’s office.”

Irene nodded.

“That’s not impossible. We have to find the tattoo artist,” she said.

“But if the tattoo was based on a souvenir photo, it could have been made anywhere in the world,” Metz pointed out.

“That’s true but we have to begin somewhere. I’m going to start in Vesterbro,” said Irene.

She unfolded the picture of Isabell Lind and put it on the desk in front of the two Danish crime investigators. “At the same time, I’m thinking about trying to locate this girl. She’s the daughter of a friend.”

She briefly went through the story about Isabell. Møller and Metz examined the picture thoroughly while she was talking. When she was finished, Metz said, “I understand why the mother didn’t find a photographer or agency for photo models that recognized her. You’ll probably find her in one of the clubs. Usually they call the girls at these establishments hostesses or models.”

“Scandinavian Models. . I think it must be an escort service,” said Peter.

Metz gave the picture back to Irene. With a big yawn, he stretched his arms out and straightened his back. “My friends, it’s almost six o’clock, and I want to go home to my dinner. See you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

Peter and Irene went into the corridor. He walked beside her in silence. Finally he said, “And you. . where are you going to eat dinner?”

“Superintendent Bentsen has invited me to a restaurant not far from my hotel.”

“Good. . I mean otherwise I would have asked you. . but as you’ve already made plans with Beate. .”

The relief in his voice couldn’t be missed, and Irene was just as relieved. There was a reserve about Peter Møller that was difficult to overcome and she didn’t feel particularly motivated to try. She didn’t have that kind of time here in Copenhagen. There were other more important people to focus on.

Møller drove her back to the Hotel Alex. The traffic was heavy but he was accustomed to it and navigated skillfully. He parked quickly in front of the hotel entrance. Before Irene got out he offered, “I can pick you up here tomorrow at a quarter to eight.”

“I’ll definitely say yes to that.”

They took leave of each other. In the reflection of the door’s glass she saw the elegant BMW engulfed by the flow of traffic as it disappeared.

When Irene asked for her room key, to her surprise, she was given an envelope by the receptionist. It was made of thick white linen paper and was glued securely shut. She resisted the temptation to open it in the elevator. In her room, with equal parts curiosity and impatience, she tore open the envelope. It contained a stiff white card with the message:

Please come at 10 p.m. Important!

T. T.

Tom Tanaka. He wanted her to come to his place tonight. It was important. With some trepidation she remembered his words, Keikoku. Uke. Okata?

AS THE clock struck seven, Irene stepped into Restaurant Vesuvius. She had to revise her misgivings about having been invited to a pizzeria. Obviously they served pizzas but they were the size of mill wheels and smelled wonderful. The restaurant was big and packed with customers. In broken Danish a dark-skinned, harried young man asked if he could help her.

“I’m meeting Beate Bentsen here,” said Irene.

The man bowed and led her into a smaller room with about ten tables. The walls were decorated with black-and-white photos and posters from Italian films. Under a large picture of a young Sophia Loren sat Beate Bentsen. The actress smiled seductively straight into the camera with her bare arms stretched over her head and her hands clasped behind her neck. The ideal of feminine beauty changes, Irene thought, when she noticed that the film star had small tufts of hair in her armpits.

The waiter politely pulled out the chair for Irene, placed a menu in her hands, and quickly disappeared.

Irene shook hands with the superintendent. To Irene’s surprise, Beate Bentsen’s slender hand was ice-cold despite the warmth of the room. Irene judged that the woman sitting across from her was a few years older than she was but tall, attractive, and in good shape. She had twisted her coppery red hair into a bun but a few stray wisps had gotten loose and curled around her forehead and ears. The linen dress suit she was wearing was a sober tan. Under its jacket she wore a low-cut silk top in light green that perfectly matched the eyes behind her black-framed eyeglasses.

“Forgive me for not being able to meet you this afternoon. But I assume that Peter and Jens took good care of you,” Beate began.

“They have been great.”

“Good. Maybe we should order before we talk.”

With a hint of a nod she called the waiter over. Irene understood that Beate was one of the regulars. Irene ordered saltimbocca à la romana and a large beer, and the superintendent ordered a seafood dish and a glass of white wine.

While they were waiting for the food, Irene told Beate what had transpired during the day but she didn’t mention Tom Tanaka’s warning or that he wanted to meet her later that evening. Beate sat and observed her and sipped her wine. Sometimes she nodded as if confirming something she had already suspected.

When Irene had finished she said, “It’ll be difficult to find the person who made the tattoo. It may not have been made in Copenhagen. But the similarities between the dismemberment of Carmen Østergaard and the male corpse in Göteborg are remarkable. I participated in the investigation as an inspector; I’ve since been promoted. We’ve never seen anything like what Carmen was subjected to, even here in Copenhagen.”

“Then you’re familiar with the witnesses’ reports that Carmen had spoken about a policeman and a doctor?”

The superintendent said, “It was in all of the papers. Someone leaked it to the media and was well paid. As usual.”

“A doctor would be able to completely empty the body.”

“Yes, the pathologists picked up on that as well. But there were some complicating factors. You’ll find out more from Blokk tomorrow. He’s a pleasant fellow.”

Irene remembered that the name of Professor Stridner’s friend and colleague was Svend Blokk.

The food came and the delicious smells made Irene realize how hungry she was. Her veal with Parma ham and noodles in a white wine sauce was wonderful. They concentrated on the food for a long time. When they were almost done, Beate said, “Tomorrow you can read through the investigation file on Carmen. You can make copies of whatever you think is important. The same thing goes for the autopsy report itself. You’ll get that from Blokk. And you-”

She was interrupted by the first bars of “The Marseillaise.” It took a few confused seconds before it occurred to Irene that it was her cell phone that was blaring. Blushing, she dug through the pockets of her coat, which hung next to them on the wall.

“This is Irene.”

“Hi, Mamma. It’s Jenny. The dog sitter has the stomach flu. Who can take Sammie tomorrow?”

“Goodness. . I don’t know. I’m sitting at a restaurant eating dinner right now. Can I call you in an hour? Are you at home?”

“Sure.”

“Sounds good. Bye for now, sweetie.”

She hung up and started mumbling an apology. Beate Bentsen stopped her. “I know how it is with kids. How many do you have?”

“Two. Twin girls who are sixteen.”

“My son is twenty-two.”

They nodded in motherly understanding, raised their glasses, and drank the last few drops. Irene had an idea and dug through her other coat pocket. She pulled out the picture of Isabell Lind and set it in front of the superintendent. Briefly, she went through the story about the missing girl. Summing up, she said, “Peter and Jens think that Scandinavian Models might be an escort service and that Isabell is working as a prostitute.”

Beate studied the picture before she answered.

“Unfortunately, it’s quite likely. Copenhagen lures hordes of young girls, consumes them, and spills them onto the trash heap after a few years. They often come here with the dream of making a career in the theater or as photo models. The reality is something completely different.”

“Have you heard of Scandinavian Models?”

“No. There are countless places like that. Usually they disappear after a while or change their name and owner. It’s impossible to keep track of all of them.”

“Where do I look for a list of porn clubs, strip bars, escort services, and the like?”

Beate laughed hoarsely and lit a cigarette at the same time. She lifted the extra-long filter cigarette that was already glowing, gesturing toward Irene, and asked, “You aren’t offended?”

Irene shook her head.

“I just remembered that the Swedes are so touchy when it comes to smoke. Do you smoke?”

She held the pack out to Irene, who politely declined.

The superintendent inhaled greedily and peered at Irene through the smoke. “A list where you may find Scandinavian Models? I would suggest that you look in the tourist guide in your hotel room. There are usually advertisements in the back for. . everything. The worst places aren’t allowed to advertise, but people find their way there anyway.”

Neither of them wanted to have dessert. They ordered two cups of coffee. It was almost eight thirty when they finished. Irene excused herself by saying that she needed to call home.

Beate remained sitting there, smoking a newly lit cigarette, as Irene walked out into the drizzle.

“IT’S BEENtaken care of. Mrs. Karlsson across the street is going to take him on a walk around lunchtime. The kids have chicken pox and are at home,” said Jenny.

“Can she leave them to go out with Sammie then?”

“It’s fine. The kids are doing pretty well now. When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow night. How are things with Katarina?”

“She has pain in her neck and is stiff. But she has an appointment tomorrow at the clinic.”

“Good. I’m turning off the cell phone tonight. If there is an emergency you can call the hotel.”

After sending extra hugs and kisses, Irene hung up. At least things were sorted out with Sammie. Now her own evening rounds would start.

“COPENHAGEN THISWeek-May 1999,” it said on the thick tourist guide on the desk. The cover was illustrated with a badminton player against a lime green background: healthy and sporty. Irene quickly flipped past the museums and cultural attractions to the pages farthest back. A black page with some stars and a half-moon announced, “Copenhagen After Dark.”

Color pictures of naked young girls were lures to tourists. The businesses were called go-go bars, nightclubs, sauna clubs, escort services, and other creative euphemisms but it was obvious that young girls were for sale and, in some of the ads, boys. None of the pictures showed girls who looked older than twenty-two. They stood sticking out their breasts and tilting their hips, either wearing thongs or, in some cases, totally nude.

She found the advertisement for Scandinavian Models on the last page. The illustration was in black and white and showed a group of four girls standing tightly together with their arms around each other. They smiled invitingly at the camera with pouting lips, wearing only thongs and short T-shirts on their upper bodies that barely covered their nipples. Their names appeared above their heads: Petra, Linn, Bell, and Heidi. Bell was Isabell Lind.

“This is an actual photo of our models you will meet here in Copenhagen-guaranteed or your money back!” the advertisement proclaimed.

Irene felt her stomach knot. The pouting girl in the picture who was selling herself had been her daughters’ playmate.

With great effort she forced herself to continue reading. “We are always ready to visit you. Or, alternatively, you are welcome to visit us at our luxurious, newly built, one hundred percent safe and discreet studio. We are located in the beautiful central Nyhavn area of the city.” The address was Store Kongensgade.

After searching for a long time on the small map in the tourist guide folder she found the street. The letters were tiny and blurred. Could it possibly be time to get reading glasses? Nope, that was for old ladies. But Irene had to turn on the desk lamp and hold the map close to the light with arms outstretched in order to make it out.

Store Kongensgade was located past Kongens Nytorv. It was in exactly the opposite direction from Vesterbro if one walked from the hotel. She would have to go to Tom Tanaka’s first and then visit Scandinavian Models. It was difficult to say which of the visits would be most uncomfortable.

First, she needed to be able to move around unnoticed in the Copenhagen night. That’s easier said than done when you’re a woman who is nearly six feet tall.

Irene removed all of her makeup. A few passes through her hair with a wet comb gave her an androgynous hairstyle. She changed to jeans and tennis shoes and decided to put on the trench coat instead of her short jacket, partly because it was a unisex model and also because it was still raining outside. The weather was perfect for her hair, which was supposed to look flat and boring. She inspected herself in the mirror on the inside of the closet door. No one was going to notice her.

She left the hotel and disappeared into Copenhagen after dark.

It had stopped raining. Instead, a cold, raw wind swept in from the ocean. Irene wished that she had brought along a pair of gloves, but that wasn’t something you thought about when you were packing your luggage in the middle of May. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and turned up her collar for protection. There were a lot of people out and about near Tivoli, Copenhagen’s world-renowned pleasure garden. The many bars and restaurants were already full and looked inviting to one who happened to be walking outside in the grim weather.

The closer to Colbjørnsensgade she came, the less she felt tempted to go inside one of the establishments. The signs now offered go-go girls, stripteases, and “the best sex show in town.” It wasn’t that she was a prude or had never been exposed to what the sex industry had to offer. After almost twenty years as a police officer she had seen everything, but not all at once. That was what nauseated her about this area, not least the hard-boiled marketing and the contempt it showed for mankind.

The red-faced men who bellowed and pranced through the doors, or slipped in, in an attempt not to be noticed-what was their view of women? And how did these women see themselves? Did this exploitation affect the self-esteem of other women? Was she affected?

She stopped and thought about that last question. Yes, she felt violated and degraded as a woman. The feeling actually surprised her, but that was what she really felt. She thought about her two beautiful and headstrong daughters. Was this what they would be reduced to in the eyes of many men: fuck objects?

Irene felt anger rise inside her; the last steps she took to Tom Tanaka’s gay sex shop had extra length and force due to her anger.

Maybe it was the power of that rage that made her yank open the shop door more vehemently than she had intended. Everyone in the store turned in her direction. More customers were there now than had been earlier. Tom Tanaka stood behind the counter with Emil at his side. She walked across the floor of the shop and said hello to them. The young man quickly looked away. Nervously, he rubbed his goatee and mouth with his forearm. In one hand he was holding a ham sandwich and in the other a can of Coca-Cola. Irene saw him try to chew and swallow at the same time.

Irene and Tanaka went through the employee lounge. He opened the door to the apartment and gestured for Irene to enter. Without saying a word, he walked toward his office, then invited her to sit on one of the chairs. The good cigar smell felt almost home like.

“A beer or a whiskey?” he asked.

Irene hesitated at first, but then said, “A beer, thanks.”

He bent and, to Irene’s surprise, took two chilled beers out of a little minibar in his desk. There were glasses there as well. He filled one and pushed it toward her. Tanaka raised his open bottle and clinked it against hers in a toast. The beer was amazingly refreshing and she agreed with the slogan that a Tuborg tastes best “every time.”

Tanaka set his bottle down on the desk and focused his black eyes on her. “Inspector Huss. I must be able to trust someone. You aren’t a police officer in Copenhagen and that’s why I’m willing to trust you.”

Irene lowered her head but didn’t say anything for the simple reason that she didn’t know what she should say.

“I’m pretty sure I know who the murdered man in Göteborg is. His name is Marcus Tosscander.”

Tanaka had difficulty pronouncing the last name. He held out a business card to Irene, which read:

Tosca’s Design

Marcus Tosscander, Designerin dark blue letters on a card of linen-paper. Simple, nice, and of the highest quality. The address and telephone number for Tosca’s Design were listed farther down on the card.

“Kungsportsplatsen in Göteborg,” Irene said aloud.

She looked up from the card and met Tom’s gaze.

“Why do you think it’s his body we found?”

“The tattoo. He was allowed to borrow the painting from me and take it to Copenhagen’s most skilled tattoo artist, whom I recommended.”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s a she. Woon Khien Chang. Her father is a Chinese tattoo artist in Hong Kong. Woon was trained by her father.”

“Can you give me her address?”

“Of course. It’s no secret. But you can’t tell your Danish colleagues that you learned about her from me.”

“Why not?”

Tanaka hesitated before he started to tell her the story. “Marcus came into my shop for the first time at the end of January. It was. . I don’t know how I’m going to explain. . it was like the whole store lit up. He was so beautiful and radiated warmth around him. He came up to me and said, ‘Hi, Tom Tanaka, I’d like to speak to you.’ He knew my name before he came into the store. I didn’t think much about it, but after the visit from you and the Danish policeman yesterday, I started thinking and I then remembered.”

Tanaka paused and watched Irene as she took notes on a wrinkled pad of paper. Marcus Tosscander. Finally they had a name to go with-the torso.

“I was both happy and surprised that he wanted to meet me. We came in here. It was easy to talk with him. His English was perfect. Suddenly he asked if he could borrow my silk painting because he wanted an unusual tattoo as a souvenir of Copenhagen. Apparently he had seen the sign outside the shop and fallen for it. I still don’t know why I agreed to lend it to him but I did. And I gave him Woon’s address.”

He fell silent. When he started speaking again, Irene heard a sorrowful undertone in his voice.

“After every visit to Woon he would return the painting. It took two weeks to complete the tattoo. He couldn’t go to her every day because he didn’t have time since he had several large projects here in Copenhagen. He continued to come to see me even after the tattoo was finished. He would always come and go by the back way. I’ll show it to you later because you’re also going to use it.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“February 28. It was a Sunday. We ate dinner here in my kitchen and he told me that he was going back to Göteborg to get his summer clothes. It seemed as though he was seriously considered moving here. He said that it was mainly for my sake.”

His voice broke after the last sentence. Tanaka lowered his heavy head to hide his tears and sat in that position for a long time. Then lifted his head and looked at Irene with a furious glare.

“He left on Monday, March 1, and since then I haven’t heard from him. Now I know why. That’s why I’m telling you, a Swedish police officer whom I trust. You have to catch the murderer!”

“Why don’t you want to talk to the Danish police?”

“Marcus moved to Copenhagen just after New Year’s. He was living with a. . friend. This friend was a police officer. Marcus was always talking about my little policeman. The officer wasn’t allowed to know anything about us as long as Marcus was living with him. Sometimes I got the feeling that he was afraid of that officer. He often said, ‘He’s almost worse than my doctor in Göteborg.’ ”

“Wait a second! Did he really say ‘worse than my doctor in Göteborg’?”

“Yes. Word for word and on several occasions. I read it as though the officer and the doctor were jealous. Maybe of each other. But maybe Marcus meant something else.”

The officer and the doctor had shown up again. But Carmen Østergaard was a woman and Marcus a man. Was it the same officer and doctor? A coincidence? How did all of this fit together?

“Do you know the officer’s name?” Irene asked.

“No. He didn’t want to tell me. ‘You would be surprised. It’s best that you don’t know,’ he said when I asked. But one time it slipped out that the officer had a connection to Vesterbro. ‘We have to be cautious,’ he said.”

“You got the impression that the officer worked in this district?”

Tanaka considered. “I don’t remember every word. But that he had some connection here was very clear.”

“Do you know where the officer lives?”

“No. Just that it was somewhere around the Botanical Gardens.”

“Do you know how old Marcus was?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Do you know anything about his family and friends in Göteborg?”

“No. Nothing. We talked about almost everything but that.”

“What did you talk about?”

“We had a lot of things in common. Trips, for example. Marcus loved to travel. We had talked about going to Japan in the fall. . ”

Tanaka interrupted himself and stood abruptly. He said, “Here is my cell phone number. Only a handful of people have this number. You can reach me around the clock. Call immediately if there’s anything you can tell me.”

Irene took the note. Tanaka bowed to her and she bowed back. She appreciated the respect and trust Tom Tanaka was showing her.

He led her though the small corridor and into a huge bedroom. The scent of expensive male cologne was prevalent. The room was dominated by a huge bed without covers, made up with black silk sheets. The walls were white plastered and displayed two large framed photographs. Both were studies in black and white of naked young men. On one of the walls there was a door. Irene noticed that it was supplied with both a keypad lock and a heavy-duty burglarproof lock. Tanaka unlocked both locks and opened the door. Behind it there was a little landing and a flight of narrow stone steps.

“If you need to meet with me, call me. We’ll make an appointment and I’ll open the door for you.”

Again they bowed to each other. Irene pushed the glowing button for the stairwell lighting and went down the little half flight of stairs. She opened a door to a small, dark courtyard. The smell of food from a restaurant on the other side of it was nauseating, as was the odor rising from the piles of trash lying against the wall. The scratching and rustling from inside the piles implied that there were inhabitants of the trash pile who were happily living the good life.

As Irene hurried across the courtyard toward the entrance to the street, she saw ashes from a cigarette float to the ground.

Someone was standing just inside the doorway.

She turned around but the door she had used to enter the courtyard had locked behind her. The restaurant didn’t have a back door. She would have to confront the person who was waiting in the darkness. She didn’t know if the person was armed, but would have to assume so.

She started toward the street entrance. She was close enough to hear suppressed breathing as she passed someone in the shadows. When she was about to take the last step into the street, a man jumped out and stood in front of her, blocking her path. The streetlight outside reflected on a knife blade and glimmered faintly on his shaved head. He had been standing outside; that meant there were two of them.

Without turning her head, Irene shot her arm out to the right like lightning, straight to where she knew the other one had to be standing. She got hold of a thick jacket and pulled so hard that her assailant stumbled in front of her. With a thump, his club hit the wall instead of landing on her head. She quickly changed her hold and took a firm grasp of his neck. She could feel more than see that he also had shaved his head. She rammed it into the stone wall with a hollow thud. He crumpled to the ground with a faint grunt.

The man with the knife stepped over his fallen accomplice. He stood in the dimly lit doorway and made a jab at her stomach with the knife. She blocked this attack and grabbed his wrist. Quickly, she stretched out his right arm and moved in a half circle to the right. With an iron grip she held the arm with the knife straight up and at the same time she aimed a kick at his stomach. Mae-geri. All the air went out of him. Before he had the chance to catch his breath she put her left arm around his throat and twisted while still holding his right arm straight out. When he was lying on the ground it was easy to push her lower leg against his throat and bend his elbow backward over her thigh. It must have been unbearably painful. He let go of the knife.

So that he wouldn’t recover his courage and decide to come after her, she aimed a hard kick at his ribs, not to break them but to inflict pain. Based on his scream, he wouldn’t have an interest in pursuing her any time soon. She took the knife with her when she hurried from the scene. The last she heard was one of them wailing in a broad southern Swedish accent, “That was no damn fag!”

“What was it then?” the friend whined.

“Damned if I know!”

Apparently they were two thugs who had ridden the ferry from Sweden to take part in the popular sport of gay bashing. Irene had investigated similar cases a few years before. Some of the victims still had deep scars. She felt satisfied. The knife she had taken from the skinhead turned out to be a stiletto. With a soft click the knife blade slid into the shaft. The weapon fit easily into her pocket.

She jogged up toward Istedgade. If she was going to make it over to Store Kongensgade and visit the girls at Scandinavian Models she was probably best off taking a taxi.

After just a minute or two she found a cab, got in, and caught her breath. When she gave the older taxi driver the address he said, “A whole night out on the town by yourself?”

He could think what he wanted. She looked out the window and pretended not to understand.

It was unbelievably tiring always having to strain to understand Danish, not to mention Tom Tanaka, who spoke to her in English. Until now she had managed pretty well, but it wasn’t always easy. Especially when people spoke Danish quickly.

But Tom Tanaka spoke very good, clear English. Maybe he was extra pedagogic when he was speaking with her. How was it that he, a Japanese, was so fluent in English? At least he seemed to be, to her. Had he lived in the USA? She would have thought someone in his field would have stayed in Japan, where sumo wrestlers were practically treated like gods. Did his leaving there have to do with his sexuality? Possibly.

Finally they had a probable name for the poor victim at Killevik. Marcus Tosscander, thirty-one years old and a designer. It struck her that she had forgotten to ask what he designed, but that would be answered now that they knew his identity.

The two who had attacked her by the doorway-could they have something to do with the investigation? When she thought about it in the peace and quiet of the backseat of the taxi she ruled out that possibility. It was probably a coincidence.

They drove along the wide boulevards, passing brightly lit houses. Her eyelids felt heavy and she realized how tired she was.

The taxi driver signaled and turned over toward the sidewalk. “There. So here we are at the next bit of entertainment,” he said.

“Would you mind waiting with the car? I’m just going in to ask after someone.”

“Yes, but you’ll have to pay for this ride first.”

Irene paid, and the taxi driver promised to wait for five minutes. If she didn’t return by that time, he would leave.

She opened the car door and was just about to step out when she stopped herself and slowly sank back into the half darkness of the car. A man came by, walking briskly and stopped in front of the door to the building where the Scandinavian Models office was located. With his index finger he followed the list of the building’s tenants. Apparently, he found what he was looking for. Without the slightest hesitation, Detective Inspector Jens Metz went up the half flight of stairs. Irene saw his broad back disappearing through the landing door.

She sat in the taxi for a good ten minutes. Finally she had had enough of the taxi driver’s knowing mutter. “Oh. We were shadowing the unfaithful husband. That’s what we were doing!”

She got out of the cab and walked to the entrance to the building. On the list of tenants, Scandinavian Models was located on the first floor. She pushed the brass button next to the little sign. The lock buzzed and then she opened the heavy door.

On the middle of the first-floor landing there was a door with a shiny brass plate saying WELCOME TO SCANDINAVIAN MODELS. At a quick glance it could just as easily have been the entrance to a lawyer’s office.

After Irene’s second ring the door was opened by a girl who, according to the picture in the tourist guide, was Petra. She was blonde and had on heavy makeup, but still barely looked twenty. Even though she didn’t have the super-short T-shirt on, her sheer see-through blouse was just as revealing. Her black leather miniskirt was a centimeter away from being just a wide belt.

She jumped when she saw Irene. A quick look of fear came into her eyes. Irene understood. What strange requests and desires might this tall woman have? Before Irene had time to introduce herself, Petra said curtly, “Have you made an appointment?”

She spoke broad southern Swedish.

“No. I’m a Swedish police officer and I’m looking for Isabell Lind. She’s also known as Bell.”

Petra grew pale under her makeup and pressed her lips together. Her gaze wandered around the newly painted stairway, which was marbelized in a sober light gray. There was no one there who could help, and her nervous gaze returned to Irene.

“Bell. . Isabell isn’t here,” she finally said.

“No? Where is she?”

“Out. With a client.”

If they had been at home in Göteborg, Irene could have asked to come in to search the office. Now she was in Copenhagen, where she didn’t have any authority. But Jens Metz did. She hadn’t seen a trace of him since he’d entered these the premises. He must be inside somewhere. What was he doing? Was he helping her inquire after Isabell? Or had he decided to become a customer?

“Do you know when Isabell will be back?”

Petra shrugged. Irene decided to push a little harder.

“I’m not here on police business. I’m an old friend of Isabell’s and of her family, and it’s the family that needs to get in touch with her for important private reasons, you understand.”

With the last sentence she lowered her voice and sent Petra an imploring look. The girl looked confused and seemed not to know what to say. Irene took out her wallet and fished out a calling card. Under her name she wrote:

Hi Bell! Contact me at Hotel Alex or call my cell phone number, which is on the card. It’s important that we speak with each other.

Irene

She handed the card to Petra, who took it reluctantly.

“Could you please give this card to Isabell?”

Petra nodded sulkily and closed the door.

Irene stepped into the shadow of a parked truck and kept an eye on the entrance to the building for another half hour. Jens Metz didn’t emerge.