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

by Helen Tursten

  “Do you think it will add anything? We have already questioned the girls several times,” Peter objected.

  “I know, but I want to make one last attempt.”

  Peter shrugged to show what he thought of the idea. To Irene’s relief, the three men started talking about soccer. She sat quietly and pretended not to know anything about the group matches for the European Championship.

  When she had finished her last cup of coffee, she smiled apologetically and said, “I think I’ll head out. So long.”

  “I’ll pick you up next to the entrance to Vor Frue Kirke at 2:45,” said Peter.

  “Fine.”

  Irene faintly recalled that this meeting place was in the immediate neighborhood. She realized that it was going to be difficult to get to Vesterbro and back in time. She would have to take a taxi.

  Irene called Tom from the taxi. The driver turned in on Helgolandsgade and Irene paid. Without hurrying, she went through the entrance door. Even though it was broad daylight, she looked around the courtyard carefully. The run-in with the skinheads was still fresh in her mind.

  Tom was already standing at the window. He opened the door, welcomed her, and shuffled up the stairs. Irene shivered when she heard his strained breathing. He sounded like a mountain climber without his oxygen at the top of Mount Everest. Tom was dressed in a silver-colored satin outfit for the day and he had wound small silver threads around his knots of hair.

  With a chivalrous gesture he held open the door to his bedroom and invited Irene to step in. The room looked just the same. If Tom had been entertaining someone there, he had had enough time to put things in order again. When he started to walk toward the door that led to the corridor, Irene said, “Tom. Could we please stay here in the bedroom?”

  Tom raised his eyebrows ironically. “In the bedroom?”

  When he saw the serious look on Irene’s face he hurried to add, “Sorry. Bad joke.”

  “It’s OK. Why don’t you sit on the bed?”

  Without arguing, Tom lowered himself heavily onto the edge of the bed.

  “Tom. Prepare yourself for horrible news. Emil Bentsen was found dead in his apartment last night. Murdered. Based on the evidence so far, he was killed a week ago. His body carries the signature of our killer. The signature of Marcus and Isabell’s killer.”

  She watched for Tom’s reaction. At first nothing happened; he sat immobile, like a massive gray stone. Slowly, a dull moaning sound rose toward the ceiling. Even though Irene had expected a reaction, she was still surprised. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Tom’s plaint sounded wordlessly and terribly through the room, traveled desperately out into the hall, and died away in the far reaches of the apartment. He began rocking his large body back and forth. His moaning decreased in intensity until finally it ended. But he continued to rock his enormous body back and forth.

  Irene was about to continue when he hissed, “That devil! You have to catch him!”

  “I’m going to try but I need your help.”

  Tom nodded. Irene pointed at the framed photographs on the wall and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that these are photos of Marcus?”

  Tom looked sincerely surprised. “I didn’t think about it actually. And he’s only in one of the photographs. The other model is a friend of his.”

  Irene took a closer look at the two pictures and realized that he was right.

  Marcus was sitting right at the edge of the water. The sun glistened on the droplets on his young sunburned body. He was smiling into the camera. The wind was playfully blowing the hair above his forehead. He was resting his hands on his knees, which were slightly bent and very wide apart. His condition was amazing. The photo had been taken from the water’s edge, looking up, and the whole picture breathed sensual joy and acceptance of one’s own sexuality. Irene had to admit to herself that it was one of the most exciting pictures of a naked person she had ever seen.

  The other model was standing in profile, leaning against a rugged stone wall, which seemed to be part of a building. He appeared to be muscular and well built. The picture was taken against the sun so it was impossible to make out his face. Irene could see that his long hair was combed back and had been put in a thick ponytail. The photographer had managed to create the illusion that the sunbeams originated from the top of his erect penis.

  Irene had to admit that the photographer was talented.

  Suddenly, she had a strong feeling that she recognized the man. She stepped closer but her memory failed her. The direct light pulled his face into darkness, yet she definitely recognized the man. But where had she seen him?

  “Do you know who the friend is?”

  “No, he never said.”

  “You’ve never met him?”

  “No.”

  “Did Marcus give you these photos?”

  “Yes, right before he left. Framed and ready. I just needed to hang them up.”

  “Do you know who took them?”

  “A photographer in Göteborg, but I don’t know his name.”

  “Did you know that Emil also had this same kind of photo of Marcus over his bed? Not the same pose, but it is Marcus.”

  Tom gave a start. “No. I didn’t even know that they were that well aquainted.”

  “But you knew that they knew each other?”

  “Yes. The first time I saw Marcus, he came into the store with Emil. Marcus came up to me right away and started talking. Emil bought some things and didn’t participate in our conversation. I never got the feeling that they were . . . together. They seemed more like friends. That’s the only time I saw them together.”

  “Marcus never spoke about Emil?”

  “No.”

  “And you never asked?”

  “No.”

  “Did Emil ever speak about Marcus?”

  “No. Never.”

  “You don’t know very much about the personal lives of either Emil or Marcus? You never asked?”

  For the first time, Irene felt a reserve on Tom’s part. His tone of voice was icily neutral when he replied, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you don’t ask any questions, then you don’t have to answer any.” That was as close to the truth as you could get; Irene realized that she wasn’t going to get any personal information out of Tom.

  “But Marcus spoke of ‘my police officer’ and said that he lived with a police officer, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We found two police uniforms at Emil’s place. And Emil had a rental unit that was part of his apartment. Do you think Emil could have been the policeman Marcus was staying with?”

  Tom sighed. “Good God . . . Emil! It could have been Emil. I sold him a police uniform about a year ago.”

  “Do you remember when?”

  “It was right in the beginning when I had just taken over the store. Almost two years ago. It was the first time we met.”

  “He only bought one? Not two?”

  “One.”

  Irene said, after some hesitation, “Emil found out from his mother that I was looking for Isabell Lind. When I left Beate Bentsen at the restaurant, it was eight thirty. Emil came in just after that. He couldn’t have known, then, until eight thirty. I saw him here with you around ten o’clock. At about the same time, a man named Simon Steiner called Scandinavian Models and requested Isabell Lind be sent to the Hotel Aurora, a stone’s throw from your store. Who would Emil have had time to tell that I was looking for Isabell?”

  A loaded silence ensued. Finally, Tom answered, “He must have called the killer from his cell phone. Can’t you trace calls from cell phones as well?”

  “I don’t know if it’s possible at this point. I don’t even know if they found his cell phone. Do you have his number?”

  Tom shook his head. “No.”

  A thought struck Irene. “Did Emil have your number?”

  “No.”

  “Did Marcus?” A hint of a smile could be seen in one of the corners of Tom’s mou
th, when he answered. “Of course.”

  “And you gave it to me.”

  Tom raised his massive head and looked her straight in the eye. “I trust you,” he said.

  An unspoken question lingered above their heads: did she trust him? Irene looked at the massive figure in front of her, seated on the edge of the bed. He had known both Marcus and Emil. As a police officer, this fact should cause her to be on her guard. He was a grotesque figure in the eyes of many people: frightening and at the same time inviting ridicule. But Irene had felt his sincere grief over Marcus’s murder. She had also seen his lust for vengeance and realized that he was dangerous. He had meant what he’d said when he’d asked her to catch Marcus’s killer.

  “I trust you, too. Without you we wouldn’t have identified Marcus as quickly, and you have always answered my . . . close questions truthfully.”

  Tom hid his smile when he heard Irene search for the English word for “intrusive”; it became instead “close questions.” Irene understood English much better than she spoke it. He knew what she meant and he hadn’t corrected her. He hadn’t done that a single time during their sometimes stumbling conversations.

  “I’m doing everything I can to help you,” he said.

  Irene looked at the clock and saw that it was high time she went on her way.

  “Can you call me a cab?”

  “Sure.”

  Tom reached for the telephone on the nightstand and pushed a speed-dial button. He instantly got an answer and ordered the car to the street behind the back lot.

  He rose from the bed in a cumbersome fashion and went to the door that led to the stairwell. Before he opened it, he turned toward Irene and said, “We’ll keep in touch, like before. But be on your guard. Keep a good lookout.”

  “The same goes for you.”

  Tom nodded. “I understand.”

  She called Scandinavian Models from the taxi. Petra didn’t answer. Instead, a hoarse, sexy voice introduced herself in Danish as Heidi. Irene explained who she was and asked for Petra but was told that she was unavailable. Irene quickly decided to take a chance. In an official, neutral tone she said, “Petra told me what time Jens Metz arrived on Wednesday the nineteenth. But I happened to write it down sloppily and I can’t see if it says eleven thirty or eleven forty.”

  Irene could hear Heidi flipping through the logbook. Her smoky, dark voice said, “Eleven thirty.”

  Irene was overjoyed. But her voice didn’t reveal a thing when she thanked Heidi for her help.

  Irene saw Peter Møller outside the entrance to the church before he saw her. He was standing on the top step next to the entrance, peering out at the people passing by. She knew that she was late and she quickened her steps. Peter caught sight of her and raised his hand to wave. Without haste, he sauntered down the steps toward her.

  “Sorry, Peter. I went into a store and forgot the time.”

  She smiled apologetically and tried to look female and scatterbrained. Peter nodded, but she felt him subject her to careful scrutiny. Without wasting unnecessary words, he piloted her over to the parked BMW. As usual, he held open the passenger-side door for her.

  He slid smoothly into the heavy stream of traffic.

  “Did you find out anything new?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t get Petra. She wasn’t there. But I got confirmation for something I had been wondering about.”

  She explained that she had been outside Scandinavian Models at about the same time Isabell was murdered and that she had seen a man who looked strikingly like Jens Metz go into the bordello. After forty-five minutes he still hadn’t come out. Heidi had admitted that it really had been Jens Metz.

  “How should we deal with this information?” she asked.

  Peter sat quietly for some time.

  “Don’t say anything to Jens. His visit to a bordello doesn’t have anything to do with Isabell’s murder.”

  “But don’t you think it’s an amazing coincidence?”

  “Maybe not. Jens could have become curious about Scandinavian Models after you mentioned it. Maybe he went there to get a closer look. And then he thought about other things when he was there. . . .”

  “You don’t think it’s the least bit suspicious?” Irene persisted.

  Peter gave her an amused look before he said, “As I see it, he has a perfect alibi. You were standing outside keeping an eye on him.”

  He had a point there.

  They turned onto a wide avenue with impressive beech trees lining both sides. The immense network of branches met in the middle and had braided themselves together like an enormous vaulted ceiling. The half-light of the avenue contrasted sharply with the sun-drenched surroundings.

  An arrow pointed toward a parking lot. Peter turned in and stopped inside a white marked box.

  Tall oaks shadowed the well-tended flower beds in the hospital garden. The hospital itself was a low yellow stucco building. Even though the building looked idyllic and romantically old-fashioned, the barred windows on the bottom floor dispelled this impression.

  A discreet brass sign next to the entrance informed visitors that they had come to Queen Anne’s Hospital.

  “This is a psychiatric hospital,” Peter informed her.

  “I’d assumed that.” Irene had to try not to sound sarcastic.

  The heavy entrance door was open and led to a spacious hall with pillars in a Roman style supporting the white painted ceiling. It looked fresh and newly decorated.

  “She’s in Ward Three,” said Peter.

  The door on the left bore the number one, and that on the right, number two. Consequently, Beate Bentsen should be located one floor up.

  There weren’t any bars on the windows of the second floor, but the door to the ward was locked. They had to ring the bell and wait for a nurse.

  One of the largest men Irene had ever seen—even compared with Tom Tanaka—filled the doorway when the door was finally opened. Under his curly blond beard and tangled head of hair, which seemed to be joined, a deep voice emerged. “Who are you looking for?”

  Neither Peter nor Irene managed to reply. The giant was used to this reaction.

  “I’m Erland. One hundred and sixty kilos, two meters ten. An old basketball player who has gained a few kilos.”

  Irene heard a hint of a titter in his bass voice. Peter had finally managed to get his act together and said, “Crime police. We’ve been given permission to visit Beate Bentsen.”

  The superintendent was half sitting in a raised hospital bed. Her hair lay, uncombed, over the pillow like a mass of copper red steel wool. Her eyes were closed when they came in, but when she heard them she turned her head and looked at them.

  Beate Bentsen had aged several years in the past day. Her skin was gray, and her face, free of makeup, had a sunken look to it. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought she was suffering from a fatal disease. But in reality her soul and her mind had received a deadly blow, thought Irene. No parent should have to see his or her child in the condition Emil had been in when they’d found him.

  Beate’s gaze cleared when she saw who it was. She raised herself up on one elbow with difficulty and nodded to them. “Good of you to come. I thought about calling you.”

  Her lips were cracked and dry and her hand shook when she reached for the water glass on the nightstand. She took a greedy gulp. She put the glass back, coughing.

  “We should have brought flowers,” Irene said apologetically.

  The superintendent waved off the idea with her hand as she finished coughing.

  “Not necessary. I’m going home tomorrow.”

  Was that really possible? She didn’t look like she was in any condition to be released. As if she had read their thoughts, Beate continued, “I had an acute psychological crisis. But my doctor was here after lunch and he says that it’s over. I’ll have to continue with the medicine but I’m not sick anymore so I don’t need to be in the hospital. But I’ll be on sick leave for a while.”

>   The long speech seemed to wear her out. She sank back onto the pillow.

  Peter inhaled as if he was about to say something but Beate was ahead of him. “I thought about calling you because there is something important I haven’t told you.”

  She looked Peter straight in the eye. “You will remember that I told you about the real estate agent Simon Steiner. He was my father’s best friend and died of lung cancer four years ago. All of that is true but there is something else. He was Emil’s father.”

  Last week someone who claimed to be Emil’s dead father called and requested that Isabell go to the Hotel Aurora. The killer must have known who Emil’s father was, thought Irene.

  “Who knew that Simon Steiner was Emil’s father?” she asked.

  “No one. It says ‘father unknown’ on his birth certificate. I never even told my parents that it was Simon.”

  “Did Emil know who his father was?”

  “Yes. He inherited the apartment and a good deal of money when Simon died.”

  Beate sighed before she continued. “I might as well start from the beginning. I had known Simon all of my life. He was a few years younger than my father but they had been friends since they were kids. My father met my mother and married her. Simon married my mother’s sister Susanne a few years later. Susanne was diagnosed with MS the same year they were married. They didn’t have any children. My aunt was very sick off and on.”

  Beate stopped in order to take a drink of water.

  “There was a twenty-one-year age difference between Simon and me. I was twenty when our relationship started and twenty-two when Emil was born. I knew then that Simon would never leave Susanne. The poor thing was paralyzed and wheelchair bound—”

  She stopped abruptly. Maybe she could hear the bitterness in her voice as she uttered the last sentence. In a more controlled tone, she continued, “He took good care of me and Emil. He was the one who bought me the apartment where I still live. It’s worth a great deal today. He paid child support the whole time up until his death.”

  “How could he be ordered to pay child support if he never admitted to being the father?” Irene asked.