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

by Helen Tursten

  “That’s fine.”

  “Your full name?”

  “Anna Gretta Svensson.”

  “Thanks. Your date of birth?”

  “October 19, 1921.”

  Irene quickly did the math and determined that the woman sitting in front of her was seventy-eight years old. Before she was able to ask another question, Gretta continued. “I was born a few houses down on this street, though that building was torn down many years ago. This house hadn’t been built yet. Pappa was a baker and Mamma sometimes helped in the bakery where he worked. It was them and the six of us kids in a two-room apartment. I’m the only sibling left of the bunch. I guess I was what you would call a late surprise.”

  “Have you always lived on this street?”

  “All my life. I’ve lived in this apartment for thirty-two years because it suits me so well. Before that I had a studio apartment in the house next door for many years.”

  “What did you work as?” It had nothing to do with the investigation, but Irene was curious.

  “A seamstress. The last few years I worked at Gillblad’s.”

  Gretta sat up straight in the little chintz-covered Emma recliner and kept her light blue eyes focused steadily on Irene as she slowly brushed a white wisp of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “But this isn’t about me. Where is Marcus?” she asked.

  “If we only knew,” Irene sighed.

  Gretta looked as though she was preparing to ask another question, but Irene quickly prevented her. “How long has Marcus been your neighbor?”

  “Ten and a half years. We celebrated our ten-year anniversary during Saint Lucia. He came over with a bottle of wine and I made some delicious sandwiches. We sat talking and had a wonderful time. That’s when he told me about Copenhagen and I promised to look after his apartment.”

  “Do you often get together over a bottle of wine?”

  “Sometimes. He comes over when he thinks I’m feeling lonely. That’s the way he is. Very sweet and thoughtful.”

  Gretta smiled unconsciously when she spoke about Marcus.

  “I know that Marcus moved to Copenhagen around New Year’s. How often did he call you from Copenhagen?”

  “Not very often. He had so much to do. There were always new jobs and . . .” She stopped herself and compressed her lips. Finally she said dully, “He called me twice.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Wait.”

  Gretta rose surprisingly quickly and disappeared into the bedroom. After a while she came back with a small blue pocket diary. She nervously skimmed back and forth, then triumphantly she announced, “Here. February 18.”

  She held out the page. “Marcus has called,” it said. The other days were blank.

  “I always write down important things.”

  “Do you remember what he said?”

  Gretta’s brow wrinkled as she concentrated. “He said that he was getting on very well in Copenhagen and he might come home at the beginning of March, but he would call me beforehand. He didn’t. But he may have called when I was in the hospital.”

  “When were you in the hospital?”

  “I was admitted the night of February 27 and came home on March 5. I’d had some intestinal bleeding and it turned out to be a large polyp, which they removed immediately. But I lost a lot of blood so they had to give me transfusions. I got seven bags of blood! Then there were a bunch of tests with—”

  “Could Marcus have been home during that time?” Irene brusquely interrupted the health story.

  “Yes. Because there was something . . .” Gretta fell silent and looked uncertain. “I went to the emergency room on Sunday night. I had gone in and watered the plants at Marcus’s on Friday. As soon as I got home, I went into his apartment because I expected that the flowers would be droopy, but they weren’t. They looked healthy. As if someone had watered them.”

  “Did they look like they had been watered recently? Was there water on the dishes? Was the soil moist?”

  “They hadn’t been watered that recently. Maybe three or four days earlier.”

  This was very interesting. If they could prove that Marcus had been home the first week in March, they might be able to pinpoint when he died.

  Irene chose her words carefully. “Do you know if Marcus had a girlfriend or another friend whom he often saw?”

  “Marcus lived such an active life. There wasn’t room for a girlfriend. He used to say that he didn’t need one because he had me.”

  What kind of man had this effect? Tom Tanaka and Gretta Svensson both seemed to feel specially chosen by Marcus.

  “Did he have a lot of buddies?”

  “Not all that many. Sometimes he would have small parties in his apartment. But never any rowdiness! All of the boys were polite and well behaved.”

  “Do you know any of their names?”

  “No.”

  Irene couldn’t come up with any more questions for the moment. She got up and said, “I’d like to thank you for your help. Is it all right for me to return if I come up with any more questions?”

  “It’s perfectly fine.”

  The little woman followed her out into the hall. When she had closed the door, Irene heard the lock rattling as the key was turned.

  Jonny had found a box that he carried down from the attic.

  “Magazines and films. Gay porn,” he announced.

  There was only an old bike in the basement. Hannu had returned to the apartment and was looking through the albums they were planning to take back to the station.

  “Names,” he said and pointed.

  A wedding invitation was glued to the top of one of the pages. It was a double card with two gold rings on the outside. On the inside it read:

  You are cordially invited to the wedding of Anders Gunnarsson and Hans Pahliss in the Göteborg City Hall on 5/29 1998 12:30. Wedding lunch at Fiskekrogen, 1:30. There will be a party in the evening at our home. Looking forward to seeing you!

  “Pahliss. A name that should be easy to look up,” said Irene.

  “A wedding. But, damn, it’s two guys,” Jonny said. The distaste was evident in his voice.

  There were several photos next to the invitation, which had evidently been taken during the partnership ceremony and at the lunch.

  The two men appeared to be in their thirties. One of them was tall and blond and the other was shorter and had dark hair. It was possible that he was a few years older than his blond partner. Both wore dark suits with bright red bow ties. The roses in their buttonholes were also red. They looked serious in the first picture, in which they were listening carefully to the officiator. Marcus’s handsome face could be seen behind the blond man. The next picture was taken from the side, and Marcus could be seen from behind. His light linen suit fit perfectly. The last picture from the City Hall ceremony showed the couple standing outside on the steps and being showered with rice by lots of people. Irene quickly counted forty-three, plus the photographer. She could see Marcus’s light-colored suit in the crowd.

  The pictures that followed were from the lunch: happy people, toasting and laughing. The newly wedded couple beamed at each other and their guests. Irene noticed that there seemed to be an equal number of men and women in the pictures. There were no photos from the party that evening.

  “We’ll take a closer look at the albums at the station. And maybe you can start looking for Gunnarsson and Pahliss,” she said.

  The latter was directed at Hannu, who nodded.

  “ITHINK it’s about time for me to meet Pappa Tosscander,” said Irene.

  She was standing leaning against the edge of Superintendent Andersson’s desk. Jonny was sitting on the visitor’s chair, sulking.

  “I’ve talked with the old man. And I don’t want to go through that gay porn myself.” He made a face at the box that was standing by the inside of the door.

  “You don’t need to pore over the magazines. Just look through the videos,” said Irene. She didn’t wan
t to admit even to herself that she felt uncomfortable about watching them. That’s why she quickly said, “The possibility that Marcus returned to the city in the first week of March needs to be confirmed. Maybe he contacted his father. We have to ask him. Maybe he has forgotten or he doesn’t want to remember.”

  “Has Hannu found those two guys from the album?” asked Superintendent Andersson.

  “No, but he’s still looking. And he will locate them,” Irene said confidently.

  “It’s after five. It’s almost time to leave,” said Jonny.

  The phone on Andersson’s desk rang. He answered and then looked in Irene’s direction.

  “Just a second. She’s here,” he said. He handed over the receiver and hissed, “A Dane, asking for you.”

  Irene took the receiver. “This is Irene Huss.”

  “Jens Metz here. We’ve found Isabell Lind. Dead.”

  Irene couldn’t utter a sound. Her colleagues watched in astonishment as she grew pale and tried to steady herself by grasping the edge of the desk.

  “Hello! Are you still there?” Jens Metz’s voice could he heard asking.

  With great effort, Irene croaked, “I’m here.”

  “Good. She was found murdered at the Hotel Aurora. The top floor is closed to guests due to renovations. The painters found her in one of the rooms. There are signs that point to our mutual murder-mutilator.”

  To her own astonishment, Irene felt her knees begin to shake. She leaned heavily against the superintendent’s desk and managed to rest her weight on the edge. It felt as if her legs wouldn’t hold her.

  “Is she . . . is she dismembered?” she finally managed to get out.

  “No. None of the parts are missing. But the murder method bears our murderer’s signature. She was strangled and abused, the same as Carmen Østergaard and the boy you found. The stomach was cut open but none of the contents were removed, according to Svend Blokk, who performed the autopsy.”

  “Oh my God!” was all Irene could say.

  “We want you to come back to Copenhagen. You know more than we do about Isabell and the investigation in Göteborg. I would also like to ask a big favor.”

  “What?”

  “That you notify the parents. It would be better than if we tried to convey this kind of message over the phone, and in Danish.”

  Irene knew that he was right but her stomach clenched. She didn’t want to face Monika Lind’s despair. But she had to.

  “OK, I’ll do it. But I have to talk to my boss about returning to Copenhagen.”

  Andersson’s expression told her that he also had a good deal he wanted to talk about. The color of his face was ominous, and his expression was grim.

  He exploded when she hung up the phone. “What the hell! Who’s been dismembered?”

  Irene had to go through the whole Isabell Lind story from the very beginning, starting with Monika’s phone call. She went to get the tourist guide she had taken from the hotel room with the picture of the girls from Scandinavian Models.

  Sven Andersson looked sternly at Irene. “And the only ones you showed the picture to were the three police officers you worked with on the murder-mutilation?”

  For a hundredth of a second, Tom Tanaka’s heavy image floated in front of her eyes but she decided to keep him out of this. Her instinct was to protect his identity.

  “Yes,” she said, looking Andersson in the eye.

  The superintendent gazed at her for a long time. Maybe he sensed that she was hiding information.

  “OK. You are going back to Copenhagen tomorrow. But you are taking Hannu with you.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Hannu.

  “Geez. You don’t have to stay the whole Whitsuntide,” said Andersson.

  “I’m getting married.”

  The others stared at him as though he had just revealed that he was the murderer. No one had anything to say.

  Irene tried to get her act together. “Oh. I mean . . . congratulations.” “Thanks.”

  “Who the hell are you marrying?” said Andersson.

  “Birgitta.”

  Of course. Irene’s brain finally started working again. She had spied on Hannu and seen him get into Birgitta’s car, had thought they might be dating, but in her wildest imagination she hadn’t dreamed that it would go as far as marriage.

  Andersson gasped for breath. After he managed to get some oxygen, he exclaimed, “Birgitta Moberg, here in the unit? Are you insane? A married couple can’t work together in the same unit!”

  Hannu met his boss’s tirade calmly. “It will only be for about half a year. Then she will be on maternity leave a while and we’ll have to think things over.”

  The silence was heavy. Irene sensed it was a good thing she was sitting. Andersson’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. She worried about his blood pressure, since she knew he didn’t always take his medicine.

  “Well. This is a pretty kettle of fish! My inspectors, going behind my back and keeping secrets from me. Irene is conducting her own investigations in Copenhagen, and Hannu and Birgitta are getting married—”

  He paused before he continued, “Of course, that doesn’t have anything to do with the job. But it still has to affect work when two inspectors are in a relationship. Not good at all!”

  “Have you noticed any effect on my work or Birgitta’s?” asked Hannu.

  A certain sharpness could be sensed in his voice. Andersson took note of it and didn’t answer. He just stared sourly in front of him. After a while he turned his chair around to face Jonny and said, “Well. And what kind of secret business do you have going on?”

  Jonny looked very puzzled. “None. Not that I know of. None,” he answered, stammering.

  No, you don’t have enough imagination Irene thought.

  “Good. Then you can go with Irene to Copenhagen tomorrow morning. We can’t let her loose on her own because then people start dying like flies!”

  It was an immature and unfair comment, thought Irene. But she understood that he was really stressed.

  “Actually, I can’t go anywhere tomorrow either. As you may recall, I asked for the day off. We are going to Stockholm. My wife’s niece is getting married on Whitsunday. A big wedding with a hundred guests and—”

  “This is unbelievable!” Andersson began, but he stopped himself. He rummaged around, pulled out the calendar, and found Whitsuntide with his index finger. With a wrinkled brow, he looked at the date. Finally, he came to a decision, saying, “OK. You and Irene will go to Copenhagen on Whitmonday. On Tuesday morning you will offer to assist our Danish colleagues.”

  “But we were planning on coming home on Whitmon—”

  “I don’t give a shit about that! You can come home whenever you want! But on Tuesday morning you are going to be in Copenhagen!”

  IRENE CALLED home to explain that she had to drive to Vänersborg. Jenny didn’t ask what she was going to do there, just noted that her mother would be late, as usual.

  The meeting with Monika Lind was just as traumatic as Irene had feared. Based on Irene’s expression, Monika must have known that the news could not be good. Or maybe it was just the fact that Irene showed up in person that warned her something serious had happened.

  Irene explained without going into detail. Realizing that her daughter had been murdered was terrible enough for Monika. In closing, Irene said, “The information we have at the moment is scanty. On Monday, I’m driving down with one of my colleagues to try and find out more.”

  Monika’s husband was at home and helped Irene comfort her. Unfortunately, the five-year-old daughter was also at home. She watched, wide eyed, as her mother cried. Pretty soon she started crying as well, mostly because her mother was.

  Irene contacted the parish priest. Her name was Eva Nesbo and her voice sounded young. Without hesitation she promised to come right away. The doorbell rang after fifteen minutes. Irene opened it and let in a blond woman in a pastor’s shirt and Levi’s. Sh
e apologized for her attire, but she had dropped what she was doing and come right away. Briefly, Irene brought the young minister up to speed on what had happened.

  On the way home, Irene felt as if a large black hole was opening up inside her. She had vented her sorrow and despair indirectly. Yet even though no one would ever blame her for Isabell’s death, she blamed herself. If she hadn’t clumsily gone around Copenhagen looking for Isabell at the same time she was chasing a terrifying killer, Isabell would still be alive. How had the murderer found out about her private investigation? Only the three Danish police officers knew of it. The murderer must have felt threatened, and decided to give Irene a warning, and singled out an innocent victim with a connection to Irene.

  Poor Isabell. What had the end of her life been like? Irene tortured herself with thoughts and images surrounding Isabell’s murder. It was a sheer miracle that she managed to get home in one piece. During the drive she decided to tell the twins and Krister as much as she could. It would be in the newspapers very soon anyway.

  Just after ten o’clock, Irene put her key into the lock of the door to her home. A heavenly smell of Jansson’s Temptation hit her when she opened it. Sammie whirled toward her and welcomed her. The rest of her family was seated in the kitchen.

  “Hi. It smells great,” she said. Surprised, she noticed her hunger. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. Then she saw the serious expression on the faces of Krister and the twins.

  “We know what’s happened,” said Krister.

  “Who has . . . ? How do you know?”

  “Jonny Blom called and asked for you. You were going to fix a time to drive down to Copenhagen on Whitmonday. When I asked what you were going to do there, he said that you were going to assist in the investigation of the murder of Isabell Lind. Then I understood what you were doing in Vänersborg. You were speaking with Monika.”

  Irene couldn’t keep her eyes from filling with tears; she had only the strength to nod. Krister took her in his arms. He held her close for a long time and Irene absorbed warmth and renewed energy. She freed herself in order to get a big piece of paper towel with which to dry her tears and blow her nose. Through the teary mist she saw her daughters’ pale and resolute faces.