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

by Helen Tursten

  NO MORE sacks were found along the coast. The decision was made to continue looking for another two days before the search was called off. Two weeks would have to do. Andersson had absolutely nothing new on the Monday morning after the Ascension Day weekend. He sent everyone off to work on their own.

  Irene was happy that Tommy was back at work even though he still walked stiffly. When he arrived at the office they shared he said, “Sara apparently talked with you about Sammie’s puppies.”

  Irene tried to sound innocent. “She asked if it was true that Sammie has become a father and . . .”

  “And you immediately invited her to come and look at them.” Irene didn’t answer. He knew her all too well.

  “We actually had a family meeting about it. With four votes to one, the Persson family has decided to come over to your place and look at puppies.”

  Irene could hardly believe her ears. With four votes to one, the Perssons were practically dog owners already! She tried not to show her excitement and instead said in a neutral tone, “When do you want to look at them?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll call the dog’s owner and see. There’s actually a friend of Krister’s from work who’s also interested. . . .”

  “I just want to point out that your friend from work is not interested. Due to pressure from young children, you have made his family interested. There’s a big difference.”

  Boy, did he sound sour, but not without good reason, Irene admitted to herself. She was saved by the ring of the telephone. She barely had time to lift the receiver before she heard Yvonne Stridner’s sharp voice. “This is Professor Stridner. I obtained some interesting information in London.”

  It took a few seconds before Irene remembered that Stridner had mentioned a symposium in London during their last meeting.

  “Good. Nothing has happened here.”

  “I know. But I have a good lead. I made a presentation at the symposium about signs that reveal whether the cause of a death is murder or suicide. A very much appreciated and well-attended presentation and . . . in any case, I asked if I could take a few more minutes of their time and took the opportunity to describe what our torso has been subjected to. Of course, most of the colleagues had heard about this type of murder but very few of them had seen such a complete removal of organs and desecration of the body. Everyone thought it was very interesting. Afterward, an old friend and colleague came up to me. His name is Svend Blokk, and he is a professor of forensic medicine. He works in Copenhagen at the state hospital.”

  At this point, Stridner was forced to catch her breath, and Irene squeezed in a question. “Excuse me, but what is a torso exactly?”

  “You don’t know?! It’s the body without arms, legs, or a head. Just the trunk. In any case, Svend said that they had had a very similar case two years ago. I say similar, but there is one difference. Their victim was a female prostitute.”

  “Did he mean that the dismemberment process was the same?”

  “Identical.”

  Irene thought feverishly before she asked, “Did they find all of the parts of that corpse?”

  “No, but Svend was a little vague. He wasn’t in charge of the forensic investigation. He also said that despite a massive search effort they never found the murderer.”

  Stridner gave Irene Blokk’s address and telephone number. After hanging up, Irene started telling Tommy about her conversation, but he interrupted her. “Save it for the others. Andersson has put me on the Jack the Ripper case. He’s been at it again. The fourth victim is in central Göteborg. This woman is also young. She was going to stay at her parents’ after a party. The assault occurred in the stairwell leading to their apartment on Vasagatan.”

  “I didn’t know that. When?”

  “Around 2:00 a.m. on Saturday night.”

  “Was the victim able to provide a description?”

  “Yes, and it’s close to the three previous ones. Swedish-speaking man of medium height with a nylon stocking over his face. Two of the women have described him as having a slender build, and the other two said he was of a normal build.”

  “The same method?”

  “Yup. Rape, under threat from a knife. Afterward he cuts the woman on the stomach and thighs. Not life-threatening injuries but she’s scarred for life.”

  “Why wasn’t there anything in the papers?” Irene wondered.

  “The psychologist thinks that that is why Jack does what he does. In order to get attention.”

  “But if they don’t write about him, there is a risk that he’ll become more violent and maybe kill his next victim. I think we need to send out a warning to all women who are out and about in Vasastan around midnight on the weekends.”

  “The powers that be are making a decision about that. Meanwhile, I’ll hack away at the investigation.”

  “Do you think he would be capable of something like the murder-mutilation out by Killevik?”

  Tommy thought about it.

  “No. I think he has a block that keeps him from killing his victims. He only wants them to suffer and be marked. If he kills them, they won’t be able to tell anyone what a horrible thing they’ve experienced.”

  Irene rolled her eyes. Just suffer . . .

  The tattooed torso couldn’t speak but the remains bore witness to a rare, dangerous, and macabre murderer who was waiting to strike again. The message was clear.

  THE DAYwas filled with routine duties. Irene was able to contact the puppies’ owner and arranged with her to see the small creatures the next evening around six.

  Irene had just started putting on her coat when the superintendent came steaming into the room. His face was blotchy from excitement. “Copenhagen has called!” he puffed excitedly.

  “Has Stridner’s professor friend come up with something new?” Irene asked.

  “No! Not the professor. The police! Our colleagues have called us!”

  “What did they say?”

  “The dragon isn’t a tattoo! It’s a sign!”

  Irene met her boss’s eyes. Did he look a bit confused?

  Andersson saw what Irene was thinking and he tried to collect himself. “So then. Criminal Superintendent Beate Bentsen called from Copenhagen. She said that she recognized the image in the picture we sent out. It’s a shop sign.”

  Irene felt a tingle inside. This finally felt like an opening.

  “What kind of store is it? An Asian food store?”

  Andersson blushed with embarrassment. “It . . . I don’t know. I have a hard time understanding Danish over the phone but this is what I did get.” He was thinking. “Someone should head down to Copenhagen. We should talk with the coroner in Denmark who examined the dismembered corpse of the prostitute and with Bentsen. And of course take a look at the sign. Maybe it will provide a clue to our torso’s identity.”

  Irene nodded.

  “Good. You leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! But—”

  “You don’t need a passport to go to Denmark. Why don’t you give Bentsen a call.” Andersson pulled a wrinkled note out of his pants pocket and held it out to Irene.

  She took it with the feeling that she had just walked into a trap.

  BEATE BENTSENsounded very obliging though a bit stressed. She excused herself by saying that she was participating in a training course for police commanders that would last the rest of the week. The classes met until four o’clock; after that she could see Irene. It suited Irene perfectly. She had some things she wanted to do before she left.

  First she called Monika Lind in Vänersborg.

  “Hi, Monika. This is Irene Huss.”

  “Have you found anything?”

  “No, we haven’t found her. But I’m going to Copenhagen tomorrow on a different case. I thought I would take a look around. Do you have a recent picture of Isabell?”

  “Several. They were taken six months ago.”

  “Does Janne still have his computer company?”

  “Yes.
”

  “Can you send a picture over to me?”

  “No problem.”

  It would take about half an hour before Irene had the picture. She used the time to make some phone calls and take care of practical matters. She printed out a map of Copenhagen and booked a hotel on the Internet. It turned out to be the Hotel Alex on H. C. Andersen Boulevard. According to the map, it was centrally located and not far from Vesterbro, where Superintendent Bentsen worked.

  Everything was ready when the soft-toned studio picture from Vänersborg arrived. Isabell’s hair was shoulder length and thick but blonder than Irene remembered. There was a lot of makeup around the eyes as well as on the pouting mouth. The facial features were clean with a slight hint of a snub nose. Isabell was cute in a Barbie doll-type way. Irene printed out the photo. She was impressed by the focus and the good reproduction of the picture.

  There was a short message from Monika:

  Bell was born on February 7, 1982. She is 172 centimeters tall and weighs about 56 kilos. She got braces when we moved to Vänersborg. That’s why she doesn’t have the gap in her front teeth anymore. The picture was taken just before Christmas. I think it is a good likeness.

  Please, Irene, find her!

  Many greetings,

  Monika L.

  Irene felt a twinge. She hadn’t meant to give Monika false hope that she would actually find Isabell, but she would try.

  “ COPENHAGEN?O K . I’ll take care of the puppy showing,” Krister sighed.

  They were sitting in the living room, drinking coffee after dinner. Irene had curled up at the end of the sofa with her knees tucked under her. She had already packed the things she would need for an overnight stay. Everything had easily fit in her dark blue police bag.

  “How are you getting there then?” her husband asked.

  “I’m borrowing one of the cars from work and driving down to Helsingborg. Then I’ll take the ferry over to Helsingör. I’m counting on it taking about four hours to Copenhagen. It might be five because there may be a delay if I have to wait for the ferry.”

  “Will just you be enough?”

  “Yes. I’m just going to talk with Danish colleagues and a medical examiner. This is the first concrete lead we’ve had to the victim’s identity. And maybe the murderer’s as well.”

  “Are either of them Danish? Or both?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe.”

  “About the puppy showing . . . I’ll talk with Lenny and see if his family can also come and look tomorrow. I think it would be practical considering how crabby the lady is. One has to say in Sammie’s defense that you don’t pick your in-laws. It was the black beauty he fell for, not her owner.”

  “In-laws! I haven’t called your mother-in-law for a week!”

  Irene hopped off the couch in order to repair her daughterly negligence.

  Mamma Gerd didn’t answer. Irene let the phone ring about ten times before she gave up. She went out to Krister filled with concern.

  “Mamma isn’t answering. Do you think something’s happened? She is almost seventy-three. . . .”

  Krister thought for a moment before he said, “But wasn’t this the week she and Sture were going to go on a wine trip to the Moselle Valley?”

  Irene had totally forgotten about it. Mamma and her significant other had been planning the trip all winter. A group from the association for retired persons they both belonged to were going.

  Maybe someday trips as a retiree would be her chance to see a little of the world. Until then, a trip to Copenhagen for work would have to do.

  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 Copenhag
en. 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.