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

by Helen Tursten

  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 an
d 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 uncomfor
table.

  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?