It was quiet in the room while they contemplated the likelihood of this theory. Irene decided that it sounded very logical.
Metz took a puffing breath and continued, “We traced the phone call from the young woman to Scandinavian Models, an escort service.”
Irene waited for the follow-up that never came. Now Metz should have talked about his visit to Scandinavian Models. He could have used the line that “It was a private investigation to help Irene,” or whatever, but he didn’t offer any explanation.
“The interrogations there have provided a good deal of information. The business is new and has only been up and running for a few months. All four of the girls have been there from the beginning. They share a large apartment in the same building in which the company is located.”
“Did they move from the address that Isabell’s mother had?” Irene jumped in.
“No. They’ve lived there the whole time.”
So Bell had given Monika the wrong address in Copenhagen on purpose. Of course, it had seemed odd that the girls didn’t have a phone in their apartment.
Irene remembered Bell’s inclination to run away when she was younger, how she had wanted to disappear so that her mother would worry. Had Bell chosen to be unreachable? Maybe it made her feel grown-up, free, and independent. She had had to pay a high price for her so-called freedom.
“Who owns Scandinavian Models?” asked Irene.
“An American. Robin Hillman. A nasty guy. This is the third bordello he’s started. He’s worked 24/7 from the get-go. The girls are paid fairly well but they really have to work hard.”
Metz winked and smiled knowingly after the last comment. Irene thought that he was disgusting. Why didn’t he say anything about his visit to the bordello?
Peter Møller took over. “When he thinks he has made a big enough profit, he shuts down the business, goes bankrupt, or sells. Of course, there’s no money left in the company. A colleague I spoke with says it’s estimated that he must owe a minimum of twenty million kronor in unpaid taxes. It may be a much higher sum, but no one knows. He has the best tax lawyers in the country working for him.”
“Have you spoken with Hillman?” Irene asked.
Møller shook his head. “No, he’s in the States. Left on Friday morning, after we found Isabell. Someone probably tipped him off, and he felt things were getting too hot to handle.”
“When is he coming back?”
“His wife didn’t know.”
“His wife?”
“Yes. Jytte Hillman. Danish. They have two small children and they live—very well off—in Charlottenlund.”
“Where is that?”
“North of Copenhagen, along Strandvejen.”
Irene remembered the fashionable neighborhood she had driven through on her way home the week before.
She looked at Møller’s blond hair with its sun-bleached strands, his short-sleeved light gray shirt in thin silk, and well-pressed chinos in a slightly darker shade of gray. He looked healthy with his suntan. Suddenly, it struck her that she didn’t know where he had gone to get his tan. Thailand? Also a question that had to be asked. But not right now; she would have to wait. Instead, she smiled and said casually, “Is the house located on the right side of the road?”
Møller raised his eyebrows and said ironically, “Of course. Own beach and dock. Hillman paid nine million kröner for the place. His occupation, as listed in the phone book, is businessman. Business seems to be going well.”
Birgitta Moberg had said the sex industry brings in more money than the drug trade in the USA today. It’s called an industry. Industries produce products for consumption. Women, men, children, animals ...all are sucked into this industry, enslaved, converted to money, broken down, and spit out as worthless industrial refuse.
In order to stop her thoughts, Irene asked, “What have you found out by questioning the other girls at the bordello?”
“Isabell was requested via phone by a man who called himself Simon Steiner. He called around ten o’clock on Wednesday night. He asked specifically for Isabell and wanted her immediately. She was free at eleven. Petra, the one who took the phone call, said that Isabell hailed a taxi and left just before eleven. We’ve found the taxi driver and the time matches. He dropped her off at the Hotel Aurora at five minutes to eleven. The driver doesn’t remember if there was a man waiting for her outside the hotel.”
“Have you found anyone with the name Simon Steiner?”
“No.”
Beate Bentsen suddenly cleared her throat and said, “The fact is, I knew someone named Simon Steiner. He lived here in Copenhagen but died four years ago. Lung cancer.” She put out her half-smoked cigarette.
Metz suddenly looked interested and asked, “Who was he? Could he have a relative with the same name who’s still alive?”
Bentsen shook her head. “No relatives with the same name, as far as I know. He was a retired real estate agent. Widowed.”
“No children?”
“No.”
Irene thought she heard a slight hesitation in Bentsen’s voice but she wasn’t completely certain. The superintendent’s face didn’t reveal anything. Since none of the other inspectors seemed willing to ask the question, Irene decided to do it. “How did you know Simon Steiner?”
“He was a good friend of my father’s. They were childhood friends.”
It was a simple explanation but Irene still felt uneasy. It seemed to be quite a coincidence that the superintendent had known a man with exactly the same name. Still, the explanation was credible. A dead man couldn’t possibly be the murderer they were looking for, but someone could have easily used his name. But why that name?
Irene had to interrupt her train of thought when Metz said, “Now I want to hear everything you know about Isabell Lind.”
Irene summed up everything she could remember about how Isabell had ended up in Copenhagen. She also told them about her own investigation at Scandinavian Models at about the same time Isabell’s murder must have taken place. Jens Metz gave a start and gave her a sharp look. She calmly looked back into his small light blue eyes whose almost white lashes gave the impression that he didn’t have any.
Surely now he will mention his visit she thought, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked away quickly.
She did not talk about her visit to Tom Tanaka. She wouldn’t breathe a word about his role in the investigation.
She finished by telling them about the postcard with its short message.
“The Little Mermaid is dead,” Metz repeated thoughtfully.
“But in English,” Irene clarified.
The three Danish colleagues looked grave. Møller was the one who said it. “To your home address. The murder of a girl you knew, here in Copenhagen. Murdered according to the rituals we recognize from two other murders. A warning can’t get much clearer.”
“But why me? Several police officers, both in Göteborg and in Copenhagen, are working on this investigation,” said Irene.
She could hear the fear in her own voice. Metz looked at her expressionlessly before saying, “You must know things that make the killer feel threatened. Maybe you can’t see how important these details are and that’s why you haven’t told us about them. But he thinks you’re a threat.”
A block of ice lodged itself in Irene’s stomach. What Metz had just said could be interpreted as a threat. It sounded like a well-intended warning, but it could just as easily be—Irene warned herself not to over-analyze. There was a risk of becoming paranoid. Yet she had to tread cautiously and think about every word she uttered when she was with these three people.
Hurried steps were heard in the corridor, and the door to the office was thrown open with a bang. Jonny Blom stood on the threshold, swaying. With bloodshot eyes he looked at his colleagues, each in turn, before saying, “Excuse me. I overslept. They said this was where you were meeting.”
Irene fervently wished that he would close his mouth. The stench of garlic and stale alcohol
mixed with the cigarette smoke in the room.
“This is my colleague, Jonny Blom,” she said stiffly.
Jonny politely shook hands when he was introduced to the Danish colleagues. Metz pounded him on the back and said, “Dear friend, you look like you need a big cup of coffee. What do you say about going to Adler’s?”
Everyone got up. Metz kept a firm grip on Jonny’s shoulders and led him through the corridor.
CAFÉ ADLER was located just around the corner from the police station. It had a strong turn-of-the-nineteenth-century feel to it, with dark heavy wood paneling and decorative Art Nouveau mirrors. The glass counter inside the entry door was loaded with delicious pastries. Irene decided to get a Danish with chocolate and her own pot of coffee. She felt a strong need for caffeine. One look at Jonny Blom almost made her ask the friendly woman behind the counter if it was possible to get the coffee intravenously. He looked like he needed it.
Jens Metz asked Jonny if he wanted a “little one.” Jonny said that he craved a Danish schnapps even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. When the dark schnapps came, Jens toasted with his coffee cup and Jonny with his shot glass, just like two old friends.
I wonder what the reaction would have been if I had been the one with the hangover and had arrived two hours late, thought Irene. She was quite certain that no one would have pounded her on the back and called her “dear friend” or offered her an eye-opener. The Danish colleagues would have thought that an intoxicated female police officer was an abomination, probably a drunk, and a bad cop.
Jonny stuffed himself with an éclair and a Danish pastry. His expression brightened after the schnapps, and he looked like he was enjoying himself in the smoky atmosphere. He smiled and raised his glass to Irene. “We should have these kinds of coffee breaks at home in Göteborg,” he said.
Irene smiled in response but she could feel her entire face tighten.
She suddenly became aware that Beate Bentsen wasn’t participating in the general conversation. The superintendent was sitting with her chin in one hand, staring blankly out the dirty café window. Her look was very far away. Irene decided to ask her the question that had been burning inside her.
“Did you tell anyone else I was looking for Isabell?”
Beate Bentsen gave a start and at first didn’t seem to understand what she had said. Irene repeated the question. The superintendent lowered her gaze before she answered. “Just after you left, Emil came into the restaurant. I had mentioned that you and I were going to eat dinner there. I was going to invite him for dinner, but he only wanted to have a beer because he had already made dinner plans.”
Emil had been chewing on a baguette when Irene had seen him around ten o’clock at night at Tom Tanaka’s. He hadn’t been eating in the little windowless employee lounge but right behind the store counter. Emil definitely hadn’t gone on for dinner later, anywhere.
Beate cleared her throat with difficulty and quickly gave Irene a sideways glance before continuing. “He asked what we had spoken about and I told him that you had a murder-mutilation case in Göteborg that was very similar to Carmen’s well-publicized murder. Then it struck me that Emil is out a lot and knows Copenhagen’s nightlife. I asked him if he’d heard of Scandinavian Models but he hadn’t.”
“So you told him that I was looking for a girl who worked at Scandinavian Models and that her name was Isabell Lind?”
The superintendent nodded.
Irene’s brain was humming. Emil, Emil.
Emil who knew about her contact with Tom Tanaka.
Emil was Beate Bentsen’s son and had found out from her that Irene was looking for Isabell in Copenhagen.
“Maybe I should speak with Emil. He may have asked other people about Scandinavian Models and about Isabell. Can I have his address and telephone number?” Irene said nonchalantly.
For the first time during their conversation the superintendent looked directly at her. The look was clearly hostile, though her voice didn’t show it. “Why do you want to speak with Emil? I can do that. I need to speak with him anyway. He hasn’t been in touch for a week.”
Irene nodded. She couldn’t get any farther with Beate Bentsen. Her reluctance to let Irene talk to her son was very clear.
Irene became aware that Peter Møller was watching her. She turned her head and their eyes met. He smiled faintly, his gaze one of admiration. Irene understood that he had overheard the conversation between her and the superintendent. Did he think that she was a clever police officer, willing to ask the right questions? Or was it appreciation for her as a person and a woman? To her vexation, she felt herself blushing. Peter Møller turned his blue glaze toward Jens Metz, who was speaking to him and the remainder of the group.
“No, this won’t do. Let’s go and look at the crime scene.”
He got up, puffing, and helped Jonny to his feet. They walked out the door, laughing, with Jonny pounding Jens on the back. Anyone seeing them would never guess that they had known each other for less than an hour.
THE SUPERINTENDENT didn’t go with them to the Hotel Aurora. Peter Møller drove the car and Irene sat next to him in the front passenger’s seat. They didn’t exchange a single word during the two-minute car ride. Jonny and Metz, in the backseat, jabbered all the more.
The painters had been complaining. They wanted to get into the murder room because it was the last one to be renovated. According to them, they couldn’t do anything else in the meantime, but the police hadn’t budged. The disgruntled painters had started on the hallway. The police officers had to step over buckets and wend their way between ladders in order to get to the room at the end of the hall.
Aside from the body, which was no longer lying on the bed, everything was as it had been in the photographs. The bloody mattress was still there and the nightstand and the floor lamp were still lying, knocked over, by the window. The room was small and the bathroom was minimal. It seemed to have been a double closet that had been turned into a toilet and shower.
“The question is, do you pee in the shower or shower in the toilet?” Irene commented.
Møller smiled but the other two didn’t hear her. They were talking by the bed.
Irene could hear Jonny ask a question but she couldn’t make it out. She did, however, hear Metz’s reply. “Not a single one. He probably used gloves the whole time. We haven’t found the keys to the handcuffs or the object that was used to mutilate the abdomen or the knife used to cut her open.”
“So no fingerprints or tools were left in the room,” Jonny remarked. He wrinkled his brow and tried to look thoughtful and intelligent. Irene was fed up with him.
The rust-colored stain on the mattress made her shiver. A large pool had coagulated under the bed and a footprint could clearly be seen at its edge. One of the officers, or a technician, had probably stepped in it. All of this blood had poured out of Isabell’s body. It wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t bled much from the incision. There wasn’t much blood left in her and no blood pressure to pump out the last few drops.
Irene had a deep feeling of discomfort and she wanted to get out of the room as quickly as possible. She didn’t think that the visit here had added anything to the investigation.
The whole time a name echoed in her head. Emil. How was she going to obtain his address? Maybe he was listed in the telephone book? Something told her that the telephone directory for Copenhagen had to be a hefty volume. It was just as well to wait until tomorrow and see if Bentsen had reached her son.
The next moment it struck her: Tom had to know Emil’s address and telephone number. Her skin tingled when she realized that she couldn’t call him right away. She would have to have patience and wait for a good opportunity.
THE OPPORTUNITY came when they were going to eat lunch. They went to the same restaurant as last time. Irene understood that it was Peter and Jens’s regular hangout. When she had placed her order she excused herself and headed toward the ladies’ room. She checked to make sure that th
ere wasn’t anyone in the other stall, then she dialed Tom’s number.
“Tom speaking.”
“Irene Huss calling.”
“Hey, my favorite cop. Are you coming to visit me?”
“I would love to, but it’s not possible. My colleague . . .”
“I understand. What did you want to talk about?”
“Beate Bentsen . . . Emil’s mother . . . told him that I was looking for Scandinavian Models and Isabell Lind. I need to get in touch with him.”
“Why?”
“To ask him if he told anyone else.”
Tom’s answer was a long silence. When he finally started speaking, a chilly undertone could be heard in his voice. “Our dear Emil certainly keeps on surprising us. Do you think he’s the one who leaked it?”
“Leaked . . . but I never said that it was a secret that I was looking for Isabell. I never thought it would be dangerous for her.”
“I haven’t seen Emil for a week. Not since the night you were here.”
“That’s exactly one week ago. Does he usually stay away that long?”
After a long pause, Tom said, “It’s happened. But usually he shows up every few days. Sometimes I’ve even asked him to come in when I’ve needed help in the store. Since he isn’t employed, he comes and goes as he wants.”
“Do you have his address and telephone number?”
“Yes, one second.”
Irene heard the desk drawer pulled out. She guessed that he was sitting in his office and had just reached for his Rolodex.
“He lives on Gothersgade. Near the Botanical Gardens.”
It sounded funny when Tom tried to pronounce Botanical Gardens in Danish. But Irene didn’t laugh. He gave her the street address and telephone number. Summing up, Irene asked, “What do you know about Emil?”
The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 Page 18
