“Yes.”
Irene ended the call. She quickly touched up her lipstick before she went out again to her male colleagues.
They were in the process of paying. Irene smiled apologetically. “You can’t be away from home one day without the whole house falling apart—at least it seems that way. Naturally, I’ll pay for myself.”
She pulled her wallet out of her pocket but Metz waved it off.
“Not at all. It’s on us. You can treat us when we come and visit Göteborg.”
“Of course. Thanks a lot.”
The police officers said good-bye to each other outside the pub. Irene and the men went in separate directions. She walked up Bernstorffsgade. She should have taken a right at the large intersection in order to get to her parked car on Studiestræde. Instead, she turned left and followed Vesterbrogade for about one hundred meters, and then turned onto the next cross street, which was Helgolandsgade.
The closer she got, the more hesitant she became. She would hardly be attacked in broad daylight, but the memory of the assault half a day earlier suddenly felt very tangible. She peered into the half darkness of the doorway before she sneaked into the courtyard. Everything was fine. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Tom’s number.
“Tom.”
“It’s Irene. I’m in the backyard.”
“OK. I’ll come down and open the door.”
Tanaka’s heavy, shuffling steps down the short half flight of stairs could be heard clearly. When he looked at her his massive upper body and face filled the entire glass pane of the door. With a faint smile he greeted her and opened the door.
“Thanks for taking the time to come,” he said.
“Good that you could meet with me,” Irene replied.
“No problem. I don’t start until six today. Ole, my real employee, is working now.”
Laboriously, Tom Tanaka started to climb the stairs. His labored breathing echoed in the stairwell. He politely held open the heavy door for Irene and she stepped into his bedroom. It looked the same as it had last time. The bed was neatly made with black silk sheets. Tom had changed into a dark blue silk outfit, pajamas like the black ones he had been wearing the day before.
He showed her into his office.
The sparsely decorated room was soothing. Irene sat on one of the cloth-covered chairs and Tom in his special chair behind the desk. Without asking if she wanted any, he bent and took two cold Hofs out of the minifridge. Just like last time, Irene got a glass while he drank directly from the bottle.
“Marcus designed this room for me. Like the kitchen. It was finished last month. He never got to see the finished product,” he said.
“Was he an interior designer?”
“Among other things. He designed most things. Window and shop displays, fabrics, and all kinds of things. The big job that brought him here to Copenhagen was furnishing a gay bar on one of the cross streets to Ströget. A new and very popular place. It was unbelievably successful and he quickly got new jobs.”
“I’ve informed my colleagues in Göteborg of your information without naming you as the source. Now the investigation at home will really get going thanks to you.”
“It’s the least I can do for Marcus.”
Irene thought through what she should say about Isabell. She decided to start from the beginning, with Monika Lind’s phone call. In her broken English she tried to explain as clearly as possible. Tom listened. Sometimes he nodded almost imperceptibly.
When she came to the previous day’s skinhead attack, Tom sat up straight in his chair and looked at her sharply. The next moment he relaxed, and, to Irene’s surprise, he started laughing. The laughter rolled up out of his broad chest and rumbled out of his mouth.
“You! That was you!”
When he had finished laughing, he said, “I heard about it this morning. A police officer found two beat-up skinheads on Helgolandsgade. They said that a transvestite had robbed and beaten them.”
Tom stopped again for a new round of laughing. Transvestite! Irene didn’t think that was so funny.
“I have to admit it didn’t cross my mind that it was you. Even though I knew you practice jujitsu. But this seemed more violent.”
“It was more violent. Jujitsu and a bit more,” Irene answered.
Tom shook his big head and chuckled to himself.
Irene felt time was running out and quickly returned to the subject of Isabell’s disappearance from the Hotel Aurora on the same street as Tom’s store. He became serious and thoughtful.
“It’s a strange coincidence. But Marcus’s murder and the terrible thing that has happened to him can’t have anything to do with the girl’s disappearance.”
“No. I don’t think so either. But the coincidence worries me.”
He let his gaze rest on her for some time. “There is a connection,” he said finally.
“What?”
“You.”
He said the very thing she had been thinking. Again she was gripped by the feeling that someone was standing in the wings and playing a game with her.
They sat quietly for a while looking at each other. Tom broke the silence. “I know someone at the Hotel Aurora.”
He pulled out his Rolodex and let his index finger slide over it. Irene hadn’t noticed until then that he had on blue nail polish. He definitely hadn’t worn it yesterday. Maybe he had put it on to match the blue silk outfit. Apparently he found the number he was looking for because he pushed a button and the machine dialed. Irene could hear several rings before anyone answered.
“Hi. Tom speaking.”
The voice on the other end broke out into a long tirade that Tom patiently let go for a while. Finally he interrupted brusquely. “I know. It’s been a while. But I’m calling to ask you for information. A friend of mine is concerned. Word has it that a young Swedish girl may have disappeared at the Aurora . . . yesterday around midnight . . . tall and blonde ...yes, an escort service . . . she’s called Bell.”
He pulled the receiver from his ear and asked, “What was the customer’s name?”
“Simon Steiner.”
“Apparently a German. Simon Steiner,” said Tom.
He sat quietly for almost two minutes before the jabbering started again on the other end of the line. Tom nodded a few times and hummed. Irene thought she heard a faintly surprised tone in his voice. After a few words of thanks and an assurance that they would see each other again soon, Tom put down the receiver.
“That’s remarkable. My contact says that there isn’t and hasn’t been any Simon Steiner at the hotel. But maybe he gave the escort service a false name. And it doesn’t seem as though anyone has seen Isabell either. He will ask the night porter when he comes in later tonight.”
“I can’t say that I’m relieved. Now I’m really worried. Where can she be?” said Irene.
“No idea. Could she have been led into a trap?”
“Possibly. But why?”
Tom looked at her. Slowly, he said, “We’ll have to go back to what we said a little while ago. The connection between the murder of Marcus and the girl’s disappearance. You.”
Irene’s throat became completely dry despite the fact that she had just taken a sip of beer. When she finally got a few words out, her tongue grated against her palate like sandpaper.
“Me? What do you mean?”
“The way I see it, little Isabell was alive and well until you showed up and started asking about her. Someone found out and decided to send you a warning. Kidnap her . . . maybe something worse. But I don’t think it’s because of Isabell or her profession. It has to do with the real reason you came to Copenhagen. The murder-mutilations.”
“There are only three people here in Copenhagen that I’ve spoken to about Isabell.”
“Three police officers.”
It wasn’t a question but a statement. Irene nodded. Tom fished a little notebook out of a desk drawer and said, “Can I have their names?”
Irene gave th
em to him. Tom wrote them down and then looked at the paper for a long time before he said, “No. The names don’t say anything to me. Except Bentsen, of course. Emil Bentsen’s mother!”
He snorted loudly, Something told Irene that Emil was going to get an earful next time he saw Tom.
“It seems as though ‘Simon Steiner’ has taken Isabell somewhere, and Copenhagen is enormous. I promised to contact her friend Petra at Scandinavian Models. The best thing is to convince her to report Isabell’s disappearance to the police,” said Irene.
She cast a glance at the clock and realized that it was time to go. She had almost five hours of driving and a ferry ride ahead of her. They each rose at the same time. Tom led her out of the workroom, through the short corridor, and into the bedroom. He stopped in front of the door with the safety locks. They took each other’s hands and Tom said, “We’ll stay in touch by cell phone.”
“Yes. Thanks for all the help.”
“No problem.”
THE CAR was parked outside the strip club where she had left it on arriving in Copenhagen. There were barely fifteen minutes left on her twenty-four-hour parking ticket. Had she really been gone only one day? It had been an intense and eventful one. Now she just wanted to get home.
It was easier to find one’s way out of Copenhagen than in, but somewhere before Hellerup she must have taken a wrong turn because the road suddenly became narrower. The big dirty brick houses disappeared and were replaced by low white rental houses made of stone-covered white plaster, interspersed with a well-cared-for-villa here and there. The rental houses disappeared and were replaced by larger and larger residences the farther north she drove. On the right side of the car she saw water and she understood that she had ended up on Strandvejen. High walls and hedges enclosed parklike yards. What could be seen of the stately houses was impressive, which was obviously the point.
After a few kilometers Irene realized that the road she was traveling on was a border, economically speaking. The houses on the right side of the road, the ones with beachfront property, were much more impressive than the ones on the left side. Something told Irene that were they to sell the row house in Fiskebäck, they wouldn’t have enough to buy even a cabin on the left side of Strandvejen.
She decreased her speed and enjoyed the ocean view and the floral splendor of the gardens. The scent of seaweed mixed with the first lilacs of the season streamed in through the lowered window.
THE CROSSINGwas quick and uneventful and Irene had time for two cups of coffee.
Before the ferry put in at Helsingborg, Irene called Scandinavian Models as she had promised. To her relief, Petra answered.
“Hi, Petra. It’s Irene Huss. Have you heard anything from Isabell?”
“No, but it’s so damn strange. . . . I called the hotel and they said that no one named Simon Steiner had stayed there. And no one has seen Bell either. But it says in the logbook—That’s what we call it, the logbook—it says Simon Steiner. Of course he could have made up a name.”
Petra sounded more angry than upset. She had probably been insulted when her information had been questioned by the Hotel Aurora.
Irene tried to sound friendly and firm. “That sounds odd. What if she’s been kidnapped? I think you should report her missing to the police. Or have you already done that?”
“No.”
“I think you should do that. For Isabell’s sake,” Irene urged.
“OK. I guess there isn’t anything else to do.” Petra sighed and hung up.
Worry creased Irene’s brow. Was it really possible that Isabell’s disappearance had been caused by her visit to Copenhagen? Or was Isabell hiding of her own free will because somehow she had found out that Irene was asking about her? She hoped that was the case. Then Isabell might show up at any time.
Just before eight that evening Irene turned into the row-house parking lot. When she stepped out of the car and stretched, her joints and muscles popped in protest.
As usual, Sammie was the first who threw himself at her in greeting. To her disappointment, he was also the only one. After having refreshed her memory at the calendar in the kitchen, Irene realized that Krister was working late and the twins had extra practice for basketball. But the girls should be home at any moment. And how could Katarina play basketball with her injured neck? Not to mention the Junior National Championship in jujitsu.
She discovered a note on the refrigerator door.
Hello, dear!
There is some vegetarian lasagna in the fridge. Just need to heat it. Do you remember our neighbor Monika Lind? She called around three and wanted to talk to you. She said that you have her number.
Your strategy worked! Tommy and Agneta (mostly Agneta) are taking one of the girl puppies. Lenny is taking the other girl. The lady is threatening to drop off the male puppy with us if we don’t find anyone who wants him.
XXXXXX
Krister
A sigh and a soft growl from the kitchen door made Irene turn around. Sammie was standing in the doorway, his head tilted a bit to the side. His brown eyes were expectant. Of course his mistress wanted to go on a really long and restorative walk, didn’t she?
Chapter 8
ISABELL WAS GONE. IRENE had searched the entire house. She had walked through all the dark and never-ending corridors and looked through all the dilapidated rooms. Dust and spiderwebs whirled up with every step she took. Her feet felt heavier and heavier but she forced herself to continue, pushed by the strength of her despair. It was up to her to find Isabell before it was too late. Because it was her fault that Isabell was gone. Bell was just a little child and now Irene had lost her. The temperature was rising in the gloomy house. Time was running out. Irene felt panic grow inside her. The ceiling started sinking and the walls of the corridor bent inward. Soon the whole house would implode. Everyone who was in the house would be crushed and die. Desperate, Irene tried to yell Isabell’s name but she couldn’t get out a sound. Suddenly she felt the floor moving and realized that it was too late.
IT WAS Sammie who had jumped up on the bed and made it move. Irene was bathed in sweat and she felt her heart pounding in panic after the dream. The numbers on the dark clock face showed 3:37. Krister was lying next to her, snoring peacefully. Sammie had laid down at the foot of the bed on his back, with his paws in the air. He was already asleep. At least he was pretending to be, in case his mistress tried to get him off the bed.
Irene went into the bathroom to drink some water and to try and slow down her heart rate. Her sweat felt sticky on her naked body. After a while she began to feel chilled. She went into the bedroom for her bathrobe and wrapped herself in the soft terry cloth, then padded to the kitchen barefoot, and sat down with a glass of cold milk.
The kitchen window faced east. On the horizon the sun was in the process of painting a beautiful dawn in pastel colors of pink and turquoise. The few moonbeams that remained glittered like golden ribbons. It was going to be a beautiful day.
Irene had a hard time forgetting her dream, which she didn’t have any difficulty analyzing. She had a guilty conscience and was worried about what might have happened to Isabell.
The telephone conversation with Monika Lind barely six hours earlier had been tough. It was difficult to say that she had located Isabell without having had the chance to meet her before she disappeared again. The worst had been talking about Isabell’s work. Monika was brokenhearted when she understood that Isabell was a prostitute. The thought had never crossed her mind. She had bought the idea hook, line, and sinker that her beautiful little daughter was struggling to become a famous photo model; she couldn’t accept the truth. Maybe she also felt ashamed. Toward the end of the phone call, Monika had become aggressive and started questioning Irene’s information. Maybe Irene had seen the wrong picture in the tourist guide? Maybe it wasn’t Bell after all! Even if the escort service was called Scandinavian Models, couldn’t there be other agencies with the same name? Why not a serious modeling agency? Yet in the end, I
rene made her see reality. The girl who had disappeared was Isabell and no other.
Irene hadn’t said a word about the suspicions she and Tom Tanaka had. She still had a hard time believing that her appearance in Copenhagen had started a domino effect that led to Isabell’s disappearance. It seemed too far-fetched.
She decided not to mention Tom’s identity to anyone. She trusted him completely but her boss and colleagues never would. They would make fun of him and question his credibility. But Irene had faith in him, because he had truly loved Marcus Tosscander. Now they had to find out who Marcus really had been. It appeared that he had had many dangerous acquaintances.
IRENE GOT to start Thursday’s morning prayers with a report of her doings in Copenhagen. A censored version.
“Good work in Copenhagen. It seems as though it could be some of Marcus Tosscander lying in the sacks,” said Superintendent Andersson.
Jonny interrupted him. “What’s this funny stuff about not being able to tell us how you got the information?”
He looked at Irene. She had known the question would come and she wasn’t all that surprised about who had asked it. “I have guaranteed complete confidentiality to my informant. No one but me knows his identity. Those were the conditions I agreed to in order to get the information. The main thing is that we finally have a name to start with,” she answered.
Jonny began to object but the superintendent was ahead of him.
“Exactly. Hannu and Jonny worked on it all day yesterday. Everything points to the torso really being Tosscander. Hannu can begin.”
Hannu nodded slightly and read from his notepad: “Marcus Emanuel Tosscander was born March 8, 1968, in Askim Parish. He would now be thirty-one years old. The mother died ten years ago. The father is a retired senior physician. No siblings. Educated at the College for Art and Design for five years. Started his own design firm as soon as his education was done. Moved the business to the offices at Kungsportsplatsen four years ago. According to his tax declarations for the last five years, his company has done very well. The company has declared profits in the millions, and personally he has taken out five hundred thousand in salary each year. Lives on Jenny Lindsgatan in Lunden. Unmarried. No children. Drives an imported red Pontiac, 1995 year model.”
The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 Page 12
