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

by Helen Tursten

  One of the pictures represented a young woman sitting on a chair with two small children. The smallest child appeared to be almost a newborn and slumbered, leaning against her chest. The older child stood with his head leaning against her knee and looked directly into the camera. At the most, he was two years old. All three were naked. The woman was a stunning beauty with Asian features. Her long black hair billowed around her and the children. Without doubt she could sit on her hair. The whole picture breathed love and warmth.

  “My family,” Erik said with pride in his voice.

  Irene’s chin dropped. She had thought that Bolin was gay. But now, if the woman and the children were his family—! She asked, “Is that really your wife and children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she know about . . . you and Marcus?”

  Erik Bolin suddenly looked serious.

  “She knew that I was bisexual when we got married. With Marcus it was a short-lived passion. Though he and I kept in touch afterward.”

  Irene would have loved to have continued to dig into their relationship but she suspected that his answers wouldn’t be completely truthful. Instead, she concentrated on the picture of the backlit man. It was the same photo that had hung on Tom’s wall.

  “Did you take several pictures of this man?” Irene asked.

  “Yes. But there wasn’t much time. This was the best picture. It’s the kind of picture you dream about being able to time just right. With the sun rays spreading out from his glans. Wonderfully sexy! I named it Penis Power but the gallery didn’t think it could be called that, so it was changed to Manpower.”

  “Tell me about the meeting with Basta.”

  Bolin seemed to be searching his memory before he spoke. “Marcus’s cell phone rang. He answered and seemed really happy when he understood that Basta wanted to get together. Marcus explained where we were. It was easy to find us because there was an old lighthouse right next to where we were hanging out. After about an hour, I saw a jeep approaching on the beach. It turned out to be Basta.”

  “Weren’t there a lot of curious people standing around and watching what you were shooting? Marcus was naked after all.”

  “We were working a bit toward the north where there aren’t all that many people. And it was quite late in the afternoon. I started taking the first pictures of Marcus around five o’clock.”

  “And Basta came later?”

  “Yes, around seven. I finished the last roll of Marcus, and when that was done he suggested that I should photograph Basta. He was a good-looking guy so I agreed. It was actually Basta himself who came up with the idea of leaning with his back against the stone wall at the base of the lighthouse tower with his dick in the air. It turned out really well.”

  “How long did Basta stay?”

  “Max, two hours. He watched when I shot Marcus and then I took the pictures of him. Then he left.”

  “Did it seem like they had a relationship?”

  At first Bolin looked uncertain, but then he shrugged. His voice sounded rough when he said, “Before Basta left they had a go behind the lighthouse.”

  Again Irene felt a strong desire to press him about his relationship with Marcus, but she stopped herself. That wasn’t what was most important right then. What was urgent was trying to figure out Basta’s identity.

  “Marcus never called him anything but Basta?”

  “No.”

  “Describe Basta.”

  “The same age as Marcus and me. Tall. Over six feet. In good shape. Probably lifts weights. Shoulder-length hair, relatively blond. Yellowish blond, you would probably call it. He had it pulled back in a ponytail.”

  “Did he speak Swedish or Danish?”

  “Swedish.”

  “Dialect?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but I think he was from Göteborg. Yet he didn’t have the typical thick dialect. I would have remembered if that had been the case.”

  “Were his license plates Swedish or Danish?”

  “No idea. He parked the jeep on the beach, maybe a hundred meters away.”

  “Eye color?”

  “Blue. I think.”

  “Could I borrow this one from you?” Irene said and held up Manpower.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you still have the other pictures you took of him?”

  There was a chance that Basta’s face might be clearer on one of the other pictures.

  “Yeah . . . somewhere. But I only took one roll of him.”

  “How many pictures are there on one roll?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Can you try and find the pictures for me?”

  “Certainly. But a major client is coming here in a while. I’ll have to look after he’s left.”

  “If you find them, maybe you can leave them in reception at the police station. Put them in an envelope and write my name on it.”

  Irene held out her card. Erik Bolin took it and put it in the pocket of his jeans.

  “A WHOLE day wasted! Couldn’t you have found him earlier?” Jonny grunted.

  Was he serious? Irene gave him a sharp look and determined that he was. It was late and her blood sugar was low and she was tired. Her anger rose and she snapped, “Be happy I found him. Otherwise you would have had to trot around town tomorrow, too!”

  “About tomorrow. How are we going to organize it?” Birgitta interrupted in order to break up the quarrel.

  Strange, she was usually the one who became most upset at Jonny and his comments. Maybe things were different now that she had become Mrs. Rauhala. But of course she was thinking about keeping her last name and continuing to be called Moberg. Nothing could be seen yet of her pregnancy, even though she had purchased new pants in a slightly looser style than the jeans she usually wore.

  “Are you going to get the other pictures of that Bastu guy? What did the photographer say?” Andersson asked.

  “Basta. Yes. Bolin is going to leave them at reception tomorrow.”

  “Then we’ll have to hit the street looking for Basta. Strange name,” the superintendent muttered.

  “Has anyone managed to access Marcus’s computer yet?” Birgitta wondered.

  “No. We haven’t found anyone who is good enough with computers,” said Andersson.

  “I can give it a try,” Birgitta offered.

  Irene made a note to herself that she should try to reach Pontus Zander. Maybe the feeler put out at the meeting for gays in the health-care field had yielded some profit.

  IRENE MADone last attempt just after eleven o’clock, right before she was going to go to bed. Pontus answered at his home number.

  “Did you get any information?” Irene asked straight out.

  “No. But, God, what a discussion we had!” he exclaimed.

  “Start from the beginning.”

  “OK. I pretended to be upset after being questioned by you. ‘As if there were gays in the health-care field who devoted themselves to necrosadism,’ I said in a loud voice. There really was a hot discussion, just as you’d hoped. You should have heard it! But no one said anything about necrophilia or other horrid things. Everyone agreed that this was a result of the police’s general homophobia. Ha ha!”

  Irene didn’t feel that she was particularly homophobic and didn’t really understand what was so funny. She giggled politely into the receiver so that he would continue.

  “We usually wrap things up around ten o’clock. No one had any interesting gossip. At least none that I could hear. But now the hook is baited and lowered. It’s not too late to get a bite. Goodness! This is really exciting!”

  Exciting wasn’t the word Irene would have used when she thought of the murderer and his victims. She thanked Pontus for his help and asked him to be in touch if he heard anything interesting.

  She set down the receiver and she crawled into bed. An irritating thought was gnawing at her that made it impossible for her to sleep.

  It was something she had overlooked. Something she should have t
hought of during the day. But she couldn’t come up with what it was.

  It was nearly twelve thirty when she fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. “IS THERE anything for me?” Irene asked.

  She leaned forward toward the window in reception and was so prepared for a positive answer, she already had her hand stretched out to take the envelope.

  “Let’s see . . . Huss . . . Irene Huss. . . . No. There’s nothing here.”

  The friendly brunette behind the glass windowpane smiled apologetically. Irene was incredulous.

  “Are you sure? A photographer by the name of Bolin was supposed to leave an envelope for me here during the morning.”

  “Sorry.”

  Irene was crestfallen, but had to pad away empty-handed. Maybe Bolin hadn’t found the roll of film? She decided to call the photographer and find out what had happened. She would have time; five minutes remained before morning prayers.

  While she was dialing, her eyes rested on the framed photo of the man in the backlit picture. She knew she should recognize him. If only he had shown a little more of his face, and if only the picture hadn’t been taken in direct sunlight, then . . . She sighed and gave up. The picture, which stood against the wall, had already been the source of many witty comments from people who had been in the room.

  Irene let the phone ring ten times before she hung up. Seven thirty was probably too early for the advertising business. She would have to wait until after morning prayers.

  SUPERINTENDENT ANDERSSON held a short morning review. The bright sun flooded the room. A premonition of the approaching end of the school term hung in the air. The superintendent didn’t seem to notice the beautiful weather outside the window. He was deeply engrossed in some papers lying in front of him on the table. He looked up from them and searched for someone with his eyes, peering from behind lowered reading glasses. He stopped at Irene.

  “The technicians send greetings. The investigation of the postcard from Copenhagen hasn’t provided anything more than an interesting thumbprint on the stamp. The other fingerprints on the card probably came from you and the mailman. But they’ll keep the card in case we find other fingerprints or other written messages that we want to compare. Our colleagues in Copenhagen are going through Tosscander’s car. They’ll be in touch when they have something interesting to say.”

  “Did they say anything about how Tom Tanaka is doing?” Irene asked.

  “No,” the superintendent said shortly.

  Tom was apparently still a sensitive topic for Andersson. Irene decided to try and call Copenhagen to inquire as to Tom’s condition.

  “Today Birgitta is going to attempt to get into Tosscander’s computer. Irene is in touch with the photographer Bolin and is trying to get pictures of that guy with . . . well, you know . . . in the air. Jonny is going through the last of Marcus Tosscander’s videos—”

  The superintendent was interrupted by Jonny’s irritated mumble. “What is it?” Andersson said, irritated.

  “Those films are damn difficult! A lot of queers jumping each other! Damn!”

  “I realize that you don’t think they’re terribly amusing to watch. But you have to. We can’t miss a single film. Think about the movies we found in Copenhagen!”

  “Yes, but all of Tosscander’s movies are commercial videos. Not home movies,” Jonny tried to protest.

  “Watch them! All of them!” Andersson ended the discussion.

  Jonny continued to mumble discontentedly, though in a somewhat lower tone.

  “Hannu will have to help Irene look for that Basta guy. And Tommy has informed me that there are some developments in the search for Jack the Ripper,” Andersson continued.

  Irene sent a questioning look at Tommy, who responded with a thumbs-up. It would be great if they could catch that idiot. He hadn’t been out on the prowl the previous weekend. Maybe the young women in Vasastan had become more careful. Or maybe something else was keeping him off the streets.

  “Fredrik is at Financial Crimes. Apparently there’s a good chance of pulling in Robert Larsson for economic fraud. Since we don’t have witnesses anymore we’ll never get him for murdering Laban,” Andersson informed them before they rose from morning prayers.

  THE FIRST thing Irene did when she returned to her office was to dial Erik Bolin’s number. There was still no answer. She remembered that he had a family. He might still be at home. After a brief search in the phone book she found Erik, photographer, and Sara Bolin, dental technician, at an address very close to where she lived.

  Irene only heard one ring before the phone was answered.

  “Sara Bolin,” a strained woman’s voice said in a proper Göteborg dialect.

  “Good morning. My name is Irene Huss. I’m looking for Erik Bolin.”

  “Who are you?”

  Irene was surprised by the question but answered, “I’m an Inspector with the Crime Police and I’ve been in touch with Erik about a case and . . .”

  “For goodness’ sake! Don’t be so long-winded! Have you found him?”

  Irene was dumbstruck and couldn’t come up with anything more intelligent than “Who?”

  “Erik, of course! I called early this morning!”

  “Wait a second. Has Erik Bolin disappeared?”

  It became quiet for a moment before Sara Bolin’s shaking voice could be heard again. “Yes. Didn’t you know?”

  “No. I’m looking for him with respect to a case . . . a person he knew.”

  Now Sara’s voice became guarded. “I understand. Marcus.”

  “Exactly. Did you know him?”

  “No. I’ve never met him. He was . . . Erik’s.”

  There was a pause.

  “Did I understand you correctly? You have reported Erik missing?” she asked carefully.

  “Yes. When I woke up this morning, his bed was empty. He didn’t come home last night.”

  “Is he gone overnight occasionally?”

  “Yes. But he always calls. And he always calls if he’s going to be late. He often is, at his job.”

  “Didn’t you miss him last night?”

  “Yes. But he called earlier yesterday afternoon and said that he would be late. So I wasn’t all that worried when it was nine o’clock and he hadn’t come home. I was mostly irritated. I called the studio but he wasn’t there. So I went to bed. I was very tired and must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

  Irene agreed it was worrisome that Erik Bolin was missing. “Do you have a key to the studio?”

  “No. Erik has the only key.”

  Irene was about to ask why they didn’t have an extra key at home, but realized that was a question she should ask Erik and not his wife.

  She made up her mind. “I’ll go to the studio and see if I can get inside.”

  “Thanks.”

  She almost collided with Hannu on the way out.

  “Come on. Erik Bolin has disappeared,” she said quickly.

  Without asking any questions, Hannu went to get his jacket.

  DURING THE car ride to Kastellgatan, Irene briefly went over what she knew about Erik’s disappearance, which wasn’t all that much.

  “He quite simply never came home last night,” she concluded.

  “So, according to the wife, he’s often late but always calls home,” Hannu ascertained.

  “Exactly.”

  “So he has time to meet boyfriends.”

  “You mean in the evenings? Before he goes home to his family?”

  “Yes.”

  Hannu was right. The previous day, Irene had had a strong feeling that she should have dug deeper into Erik Bolin’s relationship with Marcus and Basta. Now she regretted her omission.

  “Could it be a triangle drama?” she asked.

  Hannu asked, “How so?”

  “If Marcus loved Basta and Erik loved Marcus and Basta loved Erik . . .”

  She stopped and thought the sequence through to see if she had said it correctly. She had. Resolutely, she c
ontinued, “. . . then maybe Basta murdered Marcus. In order to get Erik.”

  Hannu said, “Hardly. Remember Carmen Østergaard. And Isabell and Emil. It doesn’t fit.”

  Irene had to admit that he was right. But there was something in the thought that she didn’t want to let go. Would Erik and Marcus have continued their relationship on a friendship basis for several years?

  The pictures of Marcus were taken through the eyes of a man in love. And would the man in love let his lover go to have sex with another man behind an old lighthouse? Not on your life. Even if, according to Anders Gunnarsson, homosexuals could sometimes have a more relaxed view of unfaithfulness, they still weren’t immune to jealousy.

  Something in Erik Bolin’s story didn’t add up. She had sensed it yesterday but hadn’t really realized it until now. Now she was more concerned and unconsciously increased her speed, despite the heavy traffic.

  “Fifty,” Hannu pointed out.

  A glance at the speedometer showed sixty-five. Embarrassed, she eased off the gas pedal.

  THE OUTER door of the studio was just as it had been the day before. Irene knocked hard and long without any response. Hannu opened the metal lid of the mail slot and peered into the hall. He stood for a long time and looked without saying anything. When he turned toward Irene, he looked very serious.

  “We have to call a locksmith,” he said.

  Irene pulled out her cell phone and did as he had said. The locksmith would come within half an hour. She ended the conversation and leaned forward in order to see what Hannu had seen.

  Inside the door were a lot of newspapers and mail. Glass shards and a piece of a broken silver-coated wooden frame could be seen at the periphery of her field of vision. Several large rust brown stains were visible on the light pinkish-colored floor.

  “There’s been a violent struggle in there. It looks like dried bloodstains on the floor. There weren’t any pieces of glass or a broken frame on the floor when I left yesterday around four thirty,” said Irene.

  Hannu nodded, expressionlessly, an unfailing sign that he was worried.

  While they were waiting for the locksmith, they read the names of the other tenants in the building. The house had five stories, with two apartments on every floor. They decided to wait to question the neighbors until they had more information about what had happened in the studio.