The Torso dih-2

by Helene Tursten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  By lunchtime everything was done.

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

  Hannu and Irene nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  They could only agree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Are you looking after his apartment?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Has he sent you any letters?”

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

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

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

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

  “Ms.”

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

  “Yes.”

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

  “Of course.”

  “Good. We’ll stop by in a bit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Nice,” said Hannu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  In the beautiful apartment, Irene shivered.

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

  “OK, I’ll do it,” Irene volunteered.

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

  “Did you find anything?” asked Gretta Svensson.

  There was concern, not curiosity, in her voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That’s fine.”

  “Your full name?”

  “Anna Gretta Svensson.”

  “Thanks. Your date of birth?”

  “October 19, 1921
.”

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

  “Have you always lived on this street?”

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

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

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

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

  “If we only knew,” Irene sighed.

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

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

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

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

  Gretta smiled unconsciously when she spoke about Marcus.

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

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