The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2

by Helen Tursten

  Birgitta and Fredrik were still working on the investigation of the murder of Laban. Robert Larsson had come up with an alibi. Two of his girls working at Wonder Bar had assured them they had been in the Jacuzzi with their employer at exactly the time of Laban’s demise. Since no witness had turned up to contradict them, it would be difficult to hold Larsson.

  Jonny, Irene, and Hannu divided up the seven tattoo artists in Göteborg among themselves. Irene drew Tattoo Tim on Nordenskiöldsgatan and MC-tattoo on Sprängkullsgatan.

  Since MC-tattoo was the closest, Irene decided to start there. She found a parking spot by Hvitfeldtsplatsen. Without hurrying, Irene strolled across the bridge over Rosenlundskanalen. The big blossoms on the large chestnut trees stood straight up on the branches like unlit Christmas tree candles. A cascade of colorful bulbs were spread out underneath the tree. It struck her that she was only a stone’s throw away from Flora’s Hill. Laban had died when the area around the canal was at its most beautiful. But Irene doubted that was any comfort to him.

  Personally, she felt in great need of comfort as she closed in on MC-TATTOO. Two heavy motorcycles were parked outside. In the last few years she had developed a phobia. Not without good reason since she had had a very unpleasant run-in with the Hell’s Angels. It had put her in the hospital and left deep psychological wounds. She thought that she had gotten over her fear, but when she saw the shiny machines outside the tattoo parlor, she wanted to turn and run. It took great self-control to open the door and step inside.

  A fiery humming buzzed in the air. A thin man with a shaved head was sitting, concentrating, as he marked the shoulder of another man, whose upper body was bare, with a small color drill. The humming stopped in the same instant that the door slammed shut behind Irene.

  “Hey, there. Will it be a little rose on your ass or a butterfly on your tit?” said the skinny one.

  The subject laughed and his friend in the visitor’s chair joined in. Since the tattoo artist’s work area was illuminated by a strong lamp and the room was for the most part dark, Irene hadn’t seen the man in the corner when she came in. But when she heard his laugh she peered into the darkness, then let her gaze roam back to his friend. Her mouth became parched.

  Each of them could have kept a seasoned investigator awake all night just based on looks. They were heavy, bordering on fat. But under the fat, one could sense many hours of work with bars and weights. The one who was being furnished with a new tattoo had put his long hair into a ponytail, probably so that it wouldn’t be in the way of the tattoo artist. His shoulder must have been the last spot on his body that wasn’t yet tattooed, Irene thought. From his fingers, up his arms, and over his entire upper body, he was covered with tattoos, a variegated map of everything from graffiti to sophisticated pictures in different colors.

  The nicer tattoos interested Irene. She straightened and tried to sound official. “No, thanks. I’m not here to get tattooed.”

  She pulled out her police identification and waved it in front of the tattoo artist’s nose. “Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”

  The big man on the visitor’s chair said, “That name sounds familiar ...but I’ll be damned if I know from where.”

  “I don’t think so. We haven’t met,” she said shortly.

  Inside, her pulse was racing so fast her ears were buzzing. Quickly, she said, “I’m here to ask a favor. It’s about the murder-mutilation in Killevik. We don’t know who the victim is but he has this tattoo on his right shoulder. Do you know who might have made it? Or maybe who the man is?”

  Now all three of them were paying attention to her. She held out the picture of the dragon tattoo to the tattoo artist. He carefully took it by one corner. It wasn’t until then that Irene saw he was wearing plastic gloves. He studied the color copy for a long time without saying anything. Irene nervously let her gaze roam over the walls, which were wallpapered with different tattoo themes. Most of them seemed to feature eagles, skulls, and American flags.

  “A real master has done this one,” the tattoo artist finally said. “A damn good work of art!” he added. His voice revealed sincere admiration.

  “Who could have made it?” Irene asked.

  “No idea. I don’t think that it was done in Sweden.”

  “Why don’t you think so?”

  “The subject. The sign in the middle. It doesn’t look Swedish. The dragon is so . . . Asian. Is the guy Asian?”

  It took a second before Irene understood that he was talking about the victim. “No. A dark-haired European,” she answered.

  The tattoo artist took a thorough look at the picture before he handed it back with a shake of his head.

  “Sorry. The only thing I can say is that it takes time to complete a tattoo like that. It isn’t something you do during a coffee break.”

  “Like the shit you’re scratching on me?” asked the man in the tattoo chair.

  All three of them let out a roar of laughter. Irene took the opportunity to put away the picture and leave. Just as she opened the door and was about to step out onto the sidewalk, she heard the man in the visitor’s chair exclaim, “Damn! Now I know who she is! Do you remember that row out in Billdal for—”

  Quickly, Irene closed the door and hurried toward her car.

  Tattoo Tim was closed. The parlor never opened before one o’clock according to the piece of cardboard taped on the inside of the glass door. On the other hand, it didn’t close before nine. Irene decided to eat lunch before she met Tim.

  On Linnégatan there were all sorts of cozy restaurants. Irene decided on a little Italian pub. While she was waiting for the food at a table by the window she looked out at the heavy traffic on Linnégatan and the new houses built in Art Nouveau style on the other side of the street. Elegant shops were located on the ground floors.

  The fresh pasta came with a ham and cheese sauce that smelled wonderful. A crisp salad and an ice-cold light beer completed her meal. She had declined the waitress’s suggestion of a drink before the meal. She’d felt strongly tempted for just a second, but then thought better of it. An investigator couldn’t go around breathing alcohol fumes on the people she was trying to interrogate. It didn’t instill confidence.

  She had lingered over coffee and had several refills so it was almost one thirty when she arrived at Tim’s tattoo parlor again.

  A girl in her early teens was sitting with her mouth wide open. A young man with dyed black hair down to his waist had a firm grip on her tongue, which he’d wrapped in a piece of cloth. With a large tonglike instrument, he punched a hole in the tongue.

  “Aaggg,” said the girl.

  The man let go and gave the girl a hand mirror. She held it in front of her face and stuck out her tongue. A round glittering silver ball was located a little way in on it.

  “Aagsome,” the girl said, delighted.

  “Cool,” the young man agreed.

  A few bills were exchanged and the girl sailed out through the door. Now Tim noticed Irene, who had been watching him.

  He was short and skinny. On his feet he wore heavy black leather boots that must have added several inches to his height. His black leather pants were snug around his skinny thighs and held up with a wide belt. It was a good thing the pants were tight or they might have been pulled down by the weight of the belt. It was decorated with large pointy rivets and had a skull for a buckle. His leather vest was also heavily supplied with metal rivets. Under it, he was wearing a dirty T-shirt that bore the words “Fuck you.” His arms were covered in tattoos, and what could be seen of his neck was adorned by them. An Indian band in red and black was tattooed across his forehead. He wore at least ten rings in different sizes in each ear. At angles in his eyebrows he had inserted several silver rods that seemed to be held in place by small silver plates on either side of the insertion points.

  But it was his mouth area that took Irene’s breath away. It looked as though he had an extra mouth of sharp spikes surrounding his real mouth. Anyone who was tempted
to kiss him for the sake of adventure might have to reconsider.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Huss. I’d like to ask you something.”

  She started to take out the picture of the dragon and the character when his husky voice rose to a falsetto and he shouted, “Get out! This is my store. Out!”

  “Why? I just want to ask for your help.”

  In order to pique his curiosity, she added, “It has to do with a murder.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off her but he didn’t say anything. Encouraged, Irene said, “You’ve probably heard about the body parts we found at Killevik. We don’t know who the victim is, but it’s a man, and he has this tattoo on his right shoulder.”

  She held out the paper to Tim, who willingly accepted it. He was startled by the image. After a long inspection he said, “Damn fine work.”

  “Could anyone in Göteborg have made it?”

  He shook his head. “Hardly.”

  “I spoke to the guy at MC-tattoo. He said that the tattoo appears to be Asian. Do you think so, too?”

  “Exactly. Japanese.”

  Irene was surprised.

  “Not Chinese?”

  “No. It’s Japanese.”

  He handed the paper back and his body language said that the audience was over.

  “THE TATTOOis unusual and very well done. This kind takes several days to do and was probably not done in Sweden. The theme is Asian and one of the guys said probably Japanese. Have I forgotten anything?” Superintendent Andersson summed up.

  The superintendent, Irene, Jonny, and Hannu were sitting in Andersson’s office. It was almost five o’clock and they were going over what the day had provided in terms of new information.

  “The character is Japanese,” said Hannu.

  “Are you sure?” asked Jonny.

  The others looked at Jonny reproachfully. Only he would question Hannu’s information. If Hannu said that the character was Japanese, then it was.

  “Yes. It’s the sign for ‘man.’ ”

  “Man,” the superintendent repeated thoughtfully.

  “Why would you tattoo the sign for man?” asked Irene.

  “He might have been so feminine that he was forced to. Like product information. At least for Japanese.” Jonny grinned.

  Irene had grown very tired of Jonny’s ridiculous jokes a long time ago. She ignored his remark and continued, “But the dragon is special and well drawn. It should lead us to more information.”

  She felt elated. The tattoo could bring them a bit closer to discovering the victim’s identity. Or could it? When she thought about it she became uncertain. They didn’t know who the man was or his nationality. They didn’t know where the tattoo was made. They didn’t know where or how the victim had died. The thought of not wanting to know flew through her brain for a second, but naturally she did want to know. She was, after all, a police officer.

  “One of the parlors I went to thought that the dragon could have been drawn in Copenhagen or London,” said Jonny.

  “Otherwise, it was done somewhere in Asia,” the superintendent said gloomily.

  “But we know that the man wasn’t Asian. Maybe that points to its not having been made in Asia,” Irene objected.

  “The way people get around these days, we can’t rule anything out,” said Jonny.

  Andersson thought for a moment before he said, “I think it’s time to release the picture of the tattoo to the papers. They’ll get it tonight, so it will appear tomorrow. Someone may recognize it since it’s so unusual.”

  “It’s strange that no one has missed him. A young man in his prime,” Irene said.

  “He probably isn’t Swedish,” Jonny added.

  “We should send the dragon out via Interpol. He may have been reported missing in another country,” Andersson said. “I’ll contact Interpol tomorrow afternoon if the papers don’t draw a response.”

  Before Irene went home for the day she made a call to Tommy to see how he was doing. His ten-year-old daughter answered. “Persson.”

  “Hi, Sara. It’s Irene. Is your pappa home?”

  “No. He’s walking around the neighborhood to exercise a bit.”

  “Is he having a hard time walking?”

  “Yeah. He’s stiff. Oh! Is it true that Sammie’s a father?”

  “Of course. Three of them. One boy and two girls.”

  “Oooh! How old are they?”

  Irene had to think. At the same time an idea started to take shape. “The puppies are almost five weeks. They are sooooo adorable!” she replied.

  “Can I come and see them? Can I?”

  “Of course. Bring your father now that he’s off work and come over when you can. But telephone first. The puppies are with their mother so we have to call her family and see if they are home.”

  They said good-bye and hung up. Irene felt slightly guilty, since Tommy was her best friend. But she had to find good homes for the puppies, she told herself, in order to clear her conscience.

  “ I ACTUALLY think that Lenny will take one of the puppies,” said Krister.

  It was late at night, and they had already crawled into bed. Lenny was a cook at the restaurant where Krister was master chef.

  “Doesn’t Lenny already have a dog? A fox terrier?” Irene asked.

  “Yes. Or no. It died a month ago. The kids are having a difficult time. And it would be good for Lenny and his wife as well. They had decided to buy a new one and then I suggested one of Sammie’s puppies. It seems as though they are interested, and it isn’t a problem that they are mixed breed.”

  Irene was hesitant at first to tell about her attempt at finding a home for one of the puppies. In the end she decided to confess. “I, too, have planted a seed.”

  “Really? With whom?”

  “Sara. Tommy’s middle daughter.”

  “He’s always said he didn’t want a dog! Now he’ll be upset.”

  “Just wait till he sees them. They’re absolutely wonderful!”

  “Aren’t all puppies?”

  “Exactly. That’s why we need to get them here as soon as possible to see them while they’re so little.”

  Krister laughed and moved over to his wife’s side of the bed.

  Chapter 5

  THE PICTURE THE tattoo appeared on the front page of all the newspapers. Every time the phone rang, Irene’s pulse sped up.

  But at the end of the day not a single useful tip had come in. Just the usual array of idiots who always called as soon as the police asked for help through the media, had responded.

  “I was the one who dismembered the man. Oh, you recognize me? Of course, I was the one who shot Olof Palme!” or “My neighbor killed that poor man. He has drinking parties late into the night so no one in the building can sleep! Sometimes they fight in there. He dismembered one of his drinking buddies. Believe me. What am I basing my accusations on? He looks deceitful!”

  It became tiring to listen to this sort of report but everything had to be noted and checked out.

  Some members of the group ran into other obstacles. The witness who had reported Robert Larsson’s threats backed down. Suddenly, she hadn’t heard him express any threats toward Laban. The witness’s own injuries had occurred when she “fell down the stairs.” That was the same story she had given when she arrived at the emergency room. And she had made up the stuff about Robert taking the largest portion of her income from prostitution. She just wanted to get back at him because she was angry and jealous.

  Despite heavy pressure during the interrogation, she didn’t change her new story. No one doubted that she had been threatened, even though the police had tried to protect her within the limits of their resources. A messenger had gotten to her.

  The entire case against Robert Larsson burst like a popped balloon. Nothing could be proved without witnesses. And no new witnesses from the evening Laban was killed had surfaced. No one had seen a thing! Larsson was already out of jail and
now they had to drop the investigation of him and his business dealings.

  “You’ll have to take him like they took Capone,” said Superintendent Andersson.

  “Al Capone?” Fredrik asked stupidly.

  “Who else? He was convicted of tax evasion. That’s the problem for the bosses in the drug and sex business. Business is too good and brings in too much profit. It’s hard to launder all the money.”

  “The sex industry brings in more money than the drug trade in the USA. And the risk of jail time is a lot lower,” Birgitta put in.

  “Why is there less risk?” Irene asked.

  “No one wants to mess with it. Everyone has a skeleton in the closet, and we know how the Americans are as soon as it comes to sex. As soon as the smallest sex scandal involving some celebrity or politician comes out, they are horrified and go through the roof,” said Birgitta.

  “Everything should be nice and neat on the surface. Everyone pretends not to know what lies beneath,” Irene agreed.

  Fredrik had been sitting leaning back in his chair, blankly staring at the ceiling. Now he sat up and said with his usual energy, “I’m going to talk with Annika Nilzén in Narcotics again. We might be able to get some help from Financial Crimes if they’ll keep an eye on that slimy Robert’s finances. The money is laundered through the club.”

  “Definitely,” Andersson agreed. He sat absentmindedly folding an origami paper swallow. Irene noticed that the paper was one of the copies of the tattoo.

  “Should we contact Interpol now?” she asked.

  Andersson nodded. He tried to straighten out the paper again but the folds were too sharp. Luckily there were more copies.

  “I’ll send out a query about the tattoo. Then all we can do is wait.”

  “Tomorrow is a holiday, Ascension Day. Probably no one will call us. Friday is a working day between holidays and our colleagues in Europe are probably also on holiday. Then it’s the weekend. So it looks like nothing will happen before Monday,” said Birgitta.

  She turned out to be right. Nothing happened before Monday, but then everything happened at once.