“Shit. The menu is in a different language,” Jonny muttered.
“No. It’s in Italian, Danish, and English,” said Irene.
“Hell, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He ordered a calzone, “so you know what you’re getting.” Irene ordered passera mira mare, which turned out to be fried red snapper with mussels in a white wine sauce. Jonny needed two strong beers in order to wash down his pizza while Irene was content with one Hof. Tomorrow was another day.
When they got back to the hotel, the bar was overflowing. A big group of Swedes filled the room, making noise. There was a sign on the wall announcing that it was a “Jell-O shot evening.” The guests were trying the gelatin drinks with a great deal of enjoyment and enthusiasm and, based on the rate of consumption, the Jell-O shot was definitely approved. A man sitting on a bar stool had fallen asleep with his head and arms on the bar. No one was paying any attention to him, and the noise gradually increased with the rate of consumption.
“That looks like fun,” said Jonny.
Irene continued toward the reception desk. When she had gotten her room key from the smiling receptionist, she turned toward Jonny and said, “We’re supposed to be at Vesterbro at eight o’clock. I’m planning on eating breakfast at seven-fifteen. Should I call your room before-”
She stopped when she saw Jonny’s back disappear into the crowded bar.
In the room she took out her cell phone and dialed Tom Tanaka’s number. He answered immediately.
“Tom.”
“Hi. Irene here. I’m at my hotel now. The Hotel Alex.”
“The same as last time,” Tom noted.
“Yes. Has anything happened?”
“No. The newspapers haven’t printed any details about Isabell’s murder, just that she had been strangled and bound to the bed with handcuffs.”
The handcuffs were news to Irene but she didn’t admit it to Tom. Instead, she said, “Did Marcus tell you that he was going to go to Thailand with a. . friend? Or did he just say that he was going home to Göteborg?”
Tom sounded harsh when he finally replied, “He didn’t say anything about Thailand. Just that he was going home.”
“Not a word about Thailand?”
“No. Who’s said something about Thailand?”
“He called an old friend when he got home to Göteborg at the beginning of March. Marcus told him that he was on his way to Thailand with a friend.”
“Apparently our dear Marcus had quite a few friends whom he didn’t talk about.”
Irene could hear deep bitterness in Tom’s tone. “Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.
Irene dreaded having to ask the next question but she was forced to. “Tom. . this friend in Göteborg whom we spoke with implied that Marcus liked. . hard sex.”
She didn’t know if her meaning was clear in English, but it was the only thing she could come up with. Tom seemed to understand. “I don’t have the slightest intention of telling you about my sex life with Marcus. But of course. . he was keen on some variations.”
“Even. . dangerous variations?”
“Not so that he would get seriously injured. Not like that. Maybe a little. . spanking.”
Irene didn’t understand the word “spank,” but based on the almost amused tone Tom used, she drew the conclusion that it had to do with a softer type of force. For fun.
“I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, but we need to try and find out what happened to Marcus.”
“It’s OK. I still want his murderer to be caught and punished. It’s unfortunate that you don’t have the death penalty in Scandinavia.”
Irene trembled uncontrollably. Dear Tom still had a dark side. She hadn’t realized it at the beginning of their acquaintance, but she was starting to understand that Tom had hidden depths he wasn’t about to reveal to her. And why should he? Thanks to him, they had been able to determine the identity of the dismembered body in Killevik and that was the important thing.
A thought started growing in Irene’s head. Maybe Tom could bring them closer to Marcus’s killer. She asked, “Tom. . since you know Copenhagen. . do you know if there is a place for necrosadists?”
“Necrosad. .!”
He was surprised by the question. But after thinking a bit he said, “There are several places for sadomasochists. But necrophiles! No. But. .”
He stopped to think again. “There are videos that show necrophilia and some illegal films that show actual murders. But, of course, if someone wants them, they can get them.”
“Did Marcus ever show any interest-”
“In necrophilia? Absolutely not! He was so alive and absolutely not interested in death!”
“Thanks for letting me ask these questions,” she said.
“No problem.”
They wished each other good night and hung up.
She sat for a long time thinking in the growing darkness of the room. Somewhere there had to be a connection between the three murder victims. A common variable. The police officer? The doctor? Or both?
Sex. All three of them were particularly sexually active. Carmen Østergaard had been in the business quite a while and Isabell was new to prostitution. But both of them had worked with sex professionally.
Anders Gunnarsson had said that Marcus was always ready for sex and that he was drawn to dangerous types. Did he do it for money? Hardly, especially as he made a very good living from his work. Money wasn’t his problem. Did he buy sex? Not very likely either. With his looks he wouldn’t have needed to pay.
No matter how she twisted and turned, she couldn’t find a logical connection between the three victims. She gazed out through the mullioned windows. The lights of the big city were hard and artificial. The shadows between the sources of light were deep and black. Perfect for a killer.
IRENE FELT well rested after eight hours of deep sleep. She called Jonny’s room at a quarter past seven, and after ten rings she heard the receiver picked up. Then, with a crash, it fell to the floor and she could hear Jonny’s muffled “Damn it!” He finally managed to get the receiver to his ear.
“Jonny. . Jonny Blom,” a cracked voice bleated.
“Time for breakfast,” Irene chirped.
“Breakfas. . God damn-”
The receiver on the other end of the line was slammed down, and Irene felt both anger and dejection. Having to drag Jonny around Copenhagen was like having a ball and chain around her ankle. A hungover Jonny was a catastrophe. There were some good moments when he was sober, and he could even be useful. But if he felt half as bad as he had sounded on the phone, he was going to be worthless.
Irene went down and ate a delicious breakfast. She took her time. The sun outside was already shining brightly, and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.
Jonny never showed up in the breakfast room.
Back upstairs she changed into a short-sleeved light blue linen shirt. She kept the dark blue pants on but put on her black loafers. She took off her socks as a gesture to the summery feeling she had. She decided that the dark blue linen blazer would have to do as a coat. With her big canvas bag nonchalantly hanging over her shoulder, she looked more like a tourist on a shopping spree than a cop on the trail of a killer.
She called Jonny before she left the room, and after several rings he managed to answer the phone. Irene could only hear a guttural mumble, and then the receiver hit the cradle again.
With a sigh, Irene decided to let him sleep.
SHE WALKED down to the Vesterbro police station. It hadn’t even been a week since she was here last, but it felt like an entire year had passed. Maybe it was the change in the weather that gave her this feeling. Last week she had been cold and had shivered, and now she was enjoying the warm wind’s promise of summer.
Beate Bentsen, Peter Møller, and Jens Metz were already sitting in Bentsen’s office. The air was thick with smoke. Irene hesitated on the threshold before she stepped into the room. Møller seemed to sense why. He o
pened the window. Whether the air outside was any cleaner was debatable but at least it diluted the nicotine concentration in the room.
Everyone greeted her warmly and welcomed her back, even if the reason for her return might have been more pleasant.
“Weren’t there supposed to be two of you?” Beate Bentsen asked.
Irene had hoped to avoid that particular question but realized that was wishful thinking. “Yes. . but my colleague wasn’t feeling well this morning. I thought it would be best if he could sleep.”
“Does he need a doctor?”
“No. It will pass on its own. Eventually.”
“A hangover,” Jens Metz whispered theatrically.
He winked meaningfully at Irene. She was ashamed of Jonny’s behavior. Personally, he wouldn’t have the good sense to be ashamed, she thought, and her irritation grew.
“We’ll start without your colleague and you’ll have to try and bring him up to speed when he gets here. Both Jens and Peter were present at the Hotel Aurora when Isabell Lind was found.”
Beate Bentsen looked at the two inspectors over the rims of her French designer glasses.
Jens Metz leaned back in his chair and linked his sausage-like fingers over his belly. The backrest protested nervously but Metz didn’t seem to hear it. Or maybe he was used to chairs whining under his weight.
“We got the call on Thursday afternoon, May 20, that a dead woman had been found at the Hotel Aurora by some painters. Peter and I got there shortly after four thirty. The medical examiner had already arrived and was inspecting the corpse. Here you can see the pictures of what we were faced with.”
Metz bent forward, breathing heavily, and shook some photos out of a thick envelope.
Irene started with a picture of the room. It was taken from a high angle. The photographer must have been standing on a tall stool or a ladder.
Under the bare window, an overturned nightstand lay on the floor next to a lamp with a broken plastic shade. A bed could be seen in the rear next to the wall. Another bed had been placed in the center of the room. Isabell was lying on top of it.
Irene took out another photo. It was an enlargement of the bed with Isabell’s body spread out on top.
Her hands were chained with handcuffs to the high wooden bed-posts. She was lying on her back, completely naked, with her legs spread apart. There was a deep incision from the top of her collarbone all the way down to her pelvic bone. Mechanically, Irene noticed that the incision hadn’t bled very much. There was, however, a good deal of blood under her, from her waist down to her separated legs.
Irene switched to the next photo, which was a close-up of the head and neck area. Strangulation marks from a noose were evident on her throat. Isabell’s eyes were wide open, and her tongue hung out of her mouth, dark and swollen.
Irene was completely unprepared for her reaction. She was barely able to make it to her knees by the wastepaper basket before she threw up. The entirety of the delicious Danish breakfast came up.
When she was done, she got up on shaky legs and stammered, “Excuse me. . I’ll go and wash the basket. . but this girl was a friend of my daughters’ for many years. . lived next door. . and stayed over and ate with us. . ”
“We understand. It’s difficult when you know the victim,” Bentsen said soothingly.
Irene quickly grabbed the basket and slipped down the corridor. She knew where the bathroom was.
She cleaned the basket and blessed the fact that it was made of plastic. Woven rattan would have been worse. She bathed her face with ice-cold water and washed her mouth clean. Then she saw her pale face in the mirror and mumbled half inaudibly to her reflection, “It’s not just the fact that I knew you. It’s my fault that you died. I led the murderer to you. Oh, Bell!”
Her throat felt thick with suppressed sobs, but there wasn’t time for sorrow right now. For Bell’s sake she was forced to try to be professional and objective. And what would the Danes think? One Swedish police officer is lying in bed at the hotel with a hangover, and the other pukes when she sees pictures from the murder scene.
Her Danish colleagues were sitting in the same places, waiting for her arrival, each with a fresh cigarette. The smoke made her feel ill again, but she braced herself.
“I’m sorry. It’s OK now,” Irene said and sat down.
She didn’t pick up the close-up of Bell again, but turned to Jens Metz instead and asked, “What did the medical examiner say?”
“She had been dead more than twelve hours but less than twenty when she was found. He thought that fifteen to seventeen hours was a good guess. It matches the time she disappeared. She was strangled first. That’s the cause of death.”
“So she was dead when the trauma to her abdomen was inflicted?”
“Yes.”
Thank God, thought Irene.
Metz picked up the enlargement of the photo of Isabell on the bed. He said, “The medical examiner thinks that she was chained with the handcuffs first. There are marks on the wrists that indicate she struggled to get free. Then she was strangled. As soon as she was dead, the murderer started striking her pubic bone with a heavy object. The bone was completely crushed, just like with Carmen Østergaard and your guy. . what’s his name.”
“Marcus Tosscander,” Irene added.
“Marcus. Both he and Carmen display exactly the same type of injuries. The object was also driven into her vagina and rectum. They were heavily damaged. Finally, he slit her open. According to Professor Blokk, he used the same incision that Østergaard and your guy had. Notice how careful he has been not to cut through the navel. The words are Blokk’s, not mine.” Metz made an ironic face.
“The object was not left in the room?” Irene asked.
“No. Blokk estimates that it was a sturdy, short clublike object.”
“Could it be a large baton?”
Irene could hear that her voice sounded unsteady when she asked the question.
Metz looked surprised when he answered. “That’s actually what Blokk guessed, but we really don’t know.”
A baton. The police officer, she thought. And she was sitting in a room with three officers who had known about her private search for Isabell.
Metz picked up the photo of Isabell on the bed. He studied the scene thoughtfully before he said, “The knife that was used was powerful, a hunting knife or an autopsy scalpel. According to Blokk, the murderer would have had a heck of a time with the breastbone even if he had had a proper knife. With the other two victims, the breastbone was sawed through with a circular saw, but here he must have decided not to worry about opening the chest.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t it have been easy to bring along a circular saw?” said Irene.
For the first time, Peter Møller responded. “Maybe he didn’t have access to the saw this particular night. But it’s probably because a circular saw makes a lot of noise. Even at the Hotel Aurora they would have reacted to the sound of a circular saw in the middle of the night.”
It sounded like a plausible explanation. Metz nodded in agreement before he cleared his throat and continued. “We found out from the staff at the hotel that a woman had called and asked about Isabell. First she had asked for a guest who was called Simon Steiner but when the porter said that there wasn’t a guest with that name, she got worried. That’s when she asked about Isabell.”
“Did any of the employees at the hotel see Isabell?”
“No, but we know why. The top floor was closed due to renovation. The room that Isabell was found in was one of the last ones to be fixed. The other rooms were still empty because they had just glued the carpets down and the smell was horrible. No one will be able to stay in those rooms for quite some time. We found marks on the emergency exit door that leads to the back lot behind the hotel. Someone picked that lock as well as the lock on the door of the hotel room. Our theory is that the murderer met Isabell outside the hotel and took her up to the top floor via the back stairs. He probably fixed the locks ahead of ti
me.”
It was quiet in the room while they contemplated the likelihood of this theory. Irene decided that it sounded very logical.
Metz took a puffing breath and continued, “We traced the phone call from the young woman to Scandinavian Models, an escort service.”
Irene waited for the follow-up that never came. Now Metz should have talked about his visit to Scandinavian Models. He could have used the line that “It was a private investigation to help Irene,” or whatever, but he didn’t offer any explanation.
“The interrogations there have provided a good deal of information. The business is new and has only been up and running for a few months. All four of the girls have been there from the beginning. They share a large apartment in the same building in which the company is located.”
“Did they move from the address that Isabell’s mother had?” Irene jumped in.
“No. They’ve lived there the whole time.”
So Bell had given Monika the wrong address in Copenhagen on purpose. Of course, it had seemed odd that the girls didn’t have a phone in their apartment.
Irene remembered Bell’s inclination to run away when she was younger, how she had wanted to disappear so that her mother would worry. Had Bell chosen to be unreachable? Maybe it made her feel grown-up, free, and independent. She had had to pay a high price for her so-called freedom.
“Who owns Scandinavian Models?” asked Irene.
“An American. Robin Hillman. A nasty guy. This is the third bordello he’s started. He’s worked 24/7 from the get-go. The girls are paid fairly well but they really have to work hard.”
Metz winked and smiled knowingly after the last comment. Irene thought that he was disgusting. Why didn’t he say anything about his visit to the bordello?
Peter Møller took over. “When he thinks he has made a big enough profit, he shuts down the business, goes bankrupt, or sells. Of course, there’s no money left in the company. A colleague I spoke with says it’s estimated that he must owe a minimum of twenty million kronor in unpaid taxes. It may be a much higher sum, but no one knows. He has the best tax lawyers in the country working for him.”
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