“Wasn’t there any of Carmen’s blood on the uniform?”
“No. Though it had never been washed.”
Irene thought. “On the video, Emil was wearing a uniform when he dismembered Carmen. That must mean that he had still another uniform at that time,” she said.
“Very possible.”
Svante was already on his way into the corridor when Irene heard his farewell. “Good-bye. We’ll be in touch when we know more about Bolin.”
Irene brooded for a long time about the mystery of the absence of Carmen’s blood from the uniform worn during her dismemberment. That must mean Emil had had a third uniform. Where was it now? Maybe he had burned it afterward if it was very bloody? And bought a new one for the dismembering of Marcus?
Irene trembled. That meant that Marcus’s murder had been planned long in advance. Which must mean that Carmen’s murder had also been planned. Were the strange assaults on the two prostitutes in Copenhagen shortly before Carmen was murdered the first clumsy attempts at trying to secure a mutilation victim? Third time was the charm, in that case.
The description the police had of “the policeman” matched Emil, and the description of “the doctor” matched Basta. And what was it that had clicked when Svante Malm started talking about Stridner? Something that Stridner had said? Something that her assistant had said? Irene had only met Britt Nilsson a few times and that had been a while ago. No, it was useless. To her irritation, she was forced to give up. But something had definitely registered.
She went through every name on the lists from Marcus’s computer. Even names that only popped up in connection with job requests were noted. All of them would be checked. It would be a huge job but Irene felt convinced that Basta was hiding behind one of those names. He could be a link between the victims and the murderer. But another certainty had grown ever stronger inside her: he was the murderer they were looking for.
“ITHINK we have him!”
Tommy stormed into the office they shared. He seemed elated. Normally, Tommy was calmness personified.
“I’ve come directly from the prosecutor. We’re going to get him immediately. He’s at work right now.”
“Who?” Irene asked, confused.
Tommy stared at her. Then he exploded, “Jack the Ripper, of course!”
“The New York Ripper and Jack the Ripper. . . . It’s a bit much now,” Irene said, trying to make a joke of her blunder.
Tommy gave her a sharp look before he continued. “I went through the employee lists of all the bars in Vasastan and its surroundings. I checked all males between the ages of twenty and forty. What a job! But it paid off. Yesterday I found Rickard ‘Zorro’ Karlsson. Thirty-two years old and works as a dishwasher at a pizzeria on Molinsgatan.”
Irene formed a silent whistle with her mouth. A dishwasher at a pizzeria, just a stone’s throw away from the pub where her husband worked as master chef.
“He got the nickname Zorro from his fellow inmates in prison. He raped a waitress who was working at the same bar that he was. After the rape, he carved two deep Z marks on her thighs with a meat knife. Afterward he couldn’t explain why. He was convicted of aggravated sexual assault and he got seven years.”
“Dare I guess that this was max four years ago?” Irene said ironically.
“Almost right. Four and a half. The crime happened in Gävle. After his time in prison he moved to Göteborg. His brother works as a cook at another restaurant here in the city but Rickard didn’t get a job there as a dishwasher. He works at the pizzeria instead.”
“When did he start?”
“In February.”
“And at the end of March, Jack the Ripper started to wreak havoc,” Irene determined.
“Yup. And now I’ve checked his time sheets against the times of the rapes. All of them have occurred when Zorro was working a late-night shift!”
“And the prosecutor has given the OK to pull him in right away?”
“Yup. Fredrik is tagging along. See you!”
His good-bye echoed from the corridor. Strange how everyone seemed to be in a hurry to leave her office today.
Personally, she was stuck with all of the names on Marcus’s computer lists. Her intuition hadn’t given her the verdict when she went through them but she felt certain the murderer’s name was there.
Two names connected with Marcus weren’t on the lists: Pontus Zander and Tom Tanaka. Irene knew of them so she noticed they were missing. That meant there were probably other people close to Marcus who were not listed in the computer. The absence of Pontus’s name wasn’t as remarkable as the fact that Tom’s name was missing. According to Pontus, he and Marcus had never been well acquainted. But Tom and Marcus had been.
Irene sighed. It felt hopeless but she had to start the phone calls. Just as she reached out for the phone it rang. She grabbed the receiver.
At first it was quiet on the line but she could hear quick, nervous breathing.
“This is Angelica Hendersen,” said a thin female voice.
The name didn’t mean anything to Irene. Cautious, but in a friendly tone of voice, she said, “OK. And what can I help you with?”
“Marcus . . . I knew Marcus Tosscander. Have you caught the killer?”
“No. Not yet.”
“It’s so terrifying. I can’t understand it . . . Marcus!”
To Irene’s dismay, the woman started sobbing. There was no point in trying to comfort her. Irene patiently held the phone and waited for the crying fit to ease. It took a long time but the woman finally calmed down. Sniffling, she said, “Forgive me. But this is a shock for me.”
Irene heard her blow her nose. Her voice sounded steadier when she started speaking again. “I live in Los Angeles. I came home yesterday to visit my parents. They told me what had happened to Marcus. It’s . . . horrendous! They didn’t want to tell me anything before I came home because they knew how sad I would be.”
“How did you know Marcus?”
“We grew up together.”
“In Hovås?”
“Yes. I was named Sandberg at that time.”
The lightbulb came on. This was the girlfriend Marcus’s father had desperately tried to drag out as proof of his son’s heterosexuality. Irene had actually thought about contacting her, but since no more women’s names had come up in connection with Marcus, she had forgotten about Angelica.
“I visited Emanuel Tosscander today but he didn’t want to talk to me about the murder. He said that I should contact an Inspector Huss at the police station if I wanted to know anything. Please, tell me what you know,” Angelica Hendersen pleaded.
“Yes, I will, if I can ask you a few questions afterward.”
“That’s fine.”
“Even if the questions might be a little sensitive?”
“Yes. I promise to answer them,” Angelica replied in a firm voice.
Irene told her about the investigation from the very beginning but without going into great detail. She outlined the connections between the murders of Carmen Østergaard, Marcus, Isabell Lind, Emil Bentsen, and Erik Bolin.
Angelica didn’t interrupt her account. Her response, when it finally came, took Irene aback.
“Despite everything, I’m not completely surprised about what happened to Marcus. The connection to violence and to the other victims, that also adds up.”
Irene collected herself after her initial reaction. “Why aren’t you surprised?” she asked.
“He needed excitement and danger. Together with sex. If you understand.”
Several people had said the same thing in similar words. Irene understood but still said, “Explain a bit more. Or why not tell me about your relationship with Marcus from the beginning?”
“Maybe that would be best. We’ve known each other all our lives. He was a year older than I. Our parents were neighbors and spent a lot of time together. We were best friends, played with each other all the time, and were always together, too. When we were teenagers, there was
a bit more . . . making out between us. In hindsight, I’ve realized that I was always the one who took the initiative. But I didn’t have any experience with other boys, and I thought that Marcus and I were very much in love with each other. Because I really loved him. During my entire childhood and youth there wasn’t anyone else. He went along with cuddling and making out, but never sex. I was naive and romantic and thought that it would sort itself out on our wedding night. That he was saving himself for that.”
Angelica stopped herself.
“You never sensed that Marcus was gay?” Irene asked.
“No. Never. As I said, I was very naive and I’d had a protected childhood. That’s why the realization was so traumatic.”
She blew her nose discreetly before continuing. “The summer I turned eighteen, Marcus asked if I wanted to go with him to Crete. I was overjoyed. Somewhere inside me, hope started growing. The Greek sun and warmth would get Marcus’s hormones to wake up, and we would finally have sex. Because I really felt I was mature enough for it. We landed at the airport in Chania late in the afternoon, so by the time we had checked in and gotten things sorted out with the hotel room, it was time for dinner. The hotel we were staying at was located in Platania. It was right by the beach and couldn’t have been more romantic. I still remember that night. We were sitting at a beachside tavern watching the sun disappear into the Mediterranean. The food was fantastic and we had shared a bottle of wine. We had also had some whiskey in the hotel room. I wasn’t used to it and became a bit tipsy. Marcus suddenly got up from the table, mumbling an apology. I thought that he was just going to go to the bathroom. But he never came back. I sat and waited for him for more than an hour. When the staff started looking at me strangely, I paid and went up to the hotel room. He didn’t show up during the night.”
“Didn’t you report him missing to the hotel staff? Or the police?” Irene asked.
“That came later. I fell into an uneasy sleep in the early morning hours and slept until nine o’clock. When I woke up, a very clear memory came back to me. Just as Marcus had gotten up and hurried away, a man dressed in military clothes did the same, and I got the impression that they had nodded at each other faintly. As if they knew each other. But it was impossible. Marcus had never been to Crete before. I managed to convince myself that I was mistaken and that I had to do something. But I didn’t know what. Maybe something bad had happened to Marcus. I went out on the streets and wandered around aimlessly a while without knowing what I was going to do next. Then I saw the jeep.”
Angelica took a deep breath. “A military jeep came driving at a high speed down the main street of Platania. It was forced to slow down because of a car that was turning just a few meters away from me. A military man was sitting in front, driving. Marcus was in the backseat with the man I had seen at the restaurant the night before. He was still wearing a uniform. The jeep disappeared from my line of sight. I totally panicked. I rushed into the telegraph office, which was located a few hundred meters farther down the same street, and requested a phone call home to my parents. When Pappa answered, I started screaming that Marcus had been arrested by the military and was probably being taken away to some Greek prison. Because my father is a man with good international contacts, he promised to find out what had happened to Marcus right away. He called the consulate in Athens, which in turn contacted Heraklion in Crete. Pappa had told me to be in the hotel room two hours later. He called me like he had promised but he hadn’t gotten any information yet. I remember that he told me to go and eat and swim and he would be in touch around four o’clock. I didn’t have the energy to eat or sunbathe. I sat glued to the phone instead. Pappa called at four o’clock and I could tell by the sound of his voice that it was hard for him to tell me what had happened. In the end, I understood what he was saying. Marcus had been found. He was with a high-ranking military officer at the military base in Maleme. They weren’t on the base but in the personal home of the officer, and Marcus was there of his own free will. I still remember Pappa’s sympathetic voice when he asked if I wanted to come home right away or stay the whole week as planned. You aren’t going to believe me, but I chose to stay the whole week. I hadn’t really accepted what Pappa told me. I thought that I had to be there when Marcus came back. Surely everything would turn out to be a misunderstanding. Not even then did I realize Marcus was gay. Not even then . . . I didn’t want to see the truth.”
She stopped herself again.
“When did you realize that Marcus was gay?” Irene asked.
“When he showed up after three days. Just as bright and cheerful as usual. I was at the point of collapse. Actually, I was just as pale as I had been when I arrived in Crete. It wasn’t fun to lie by yourself on the beach, and I didn’t have enough peace of mind to do it. But Marcus was tan over his whole body. He certainly didn’t have any tan lines from a bathing suit! When I asked what the marks around his wrists and neck were, he only laughed and hugged me. But the marks were terrible; his skin was chafed and covered with sores. Even I could see that he had been tied up. He was sweet with me and was in his usual cuddly mood during the afternoon. In the evening he got dressed up and invited me out to dinner. After dinner we went to a disco. Not fifteen minutes had passed before he disappeared again. But this time I understood what had happened. He had met a man again.”
“When did he come back?”
“Late the next morning, but by then I had had enough. There were two sweet Norwegian guys living in the same corridor as we were and I basically moved in with them.”
At the last sentence she laughed. Apparently not all her memories from the trip to Crete were unpleasant.
“Did you speak with Marcus afterward about what had happened?”
“No. That’s what was so weird. When we went back home on the plane we didn’t say a word about his disappearing. Anyone who saw us must have believed we were a young couple in love traveling home from a very nice vacation. And we never talked about it later either. But our relationship changed. The making out and the cuddling ended, but, strangely enough, we continued to be the best of friends. We’ve continued to stay in touch through the years. I write to him a few times a year and he calls me. In recent years it has mostly been e-mails back and forth.”
“Haven’t you wondered why he hasn’t been in touch during the last few months?”
“Yes. At Easter. He always sends a greeting or gets in touch. But he didn’t this year. I was a bit upset but that’s the way it was with Marcus. I could go a long time without hearing from him, but when he did get in touch it was always as though no time had passed since the last time.”
“When was the last time you had contact with Marcus?”
Angelica thought a moment before replying. “He sent an e-mail on Stan’s fortieth birthday. Stan is my husband. His birthday was February 3. I had reminded Marcus when we spoke on the phone New Year’s Eve. I never thought that he would remember, but he did.”
Irene was struck by a thought. She looked down at the pile of lists lying in front of her on the desk and asked, “Do you know if Marcus had access to a computer when he was in Copenhagen?”
“Of course! He couldn’t work without his computer. Before he moved to Copenhagen he bought a laptop. I don’t remember what brand it was but he was completely satisfied with it.”
Obviously, that was why Tom Tanaka wasn’t on any of the address lists. All of the new names and design projects after the move were on the new computer. It had disappeared without a trace, like all of Marcus’s other belongings in Copenhagen.
Irene gave Angelica her direct number and got Angelica’s parents’ telephone number. She would be staying in Sweden two weeks.
Dark rain clouds towered over the city, warning of a serious afternoon rainstorm. Irene pondered, not paying attention to the weather.
Marcus’s clothes, computer, cell phone, pens and papers, toiletry items—everything was gone. Except for the car and the three framed photographs Erik Bolin had taken.
/> One victim had taken pictures of another victim. One of the pictures had hung over the bed—and, moreover, the murder scene—of a third victim. Who demonstrably had participated in mutilating the victim in the picture! It was all connected in some sick and curious way.
The pictures. Because Bolin had been murdered and Tanaka seriously wounded in the murderer’s hunt for Manpower, one could reasonably assume that the picture was important. Because the man in the photograph was the murderer? Irene couldn’t come up with any other reason.
The car. Why hadn’t they gotten rid of Marcus’s conspicuous car? And what kind of car did Emil have?
Irene decided to ask Peter Møller. Her heartbeat sped up when she dialed his number.
To her disappointment, Jens Metz answered. He sounded less irate than he had the last time they’d spoken. Irene presented her questions. Jens answered, “The investigation of Tosscander’s car hasn’t revealed anything. It appears to have been standing untouched in the garage since the owner disappeared.”
“What kind of car did Emil have?”
“The make? A Range Rover.”
A Range Rover. A jeep. Erik Bolin had said Basta had arrived in a jeep the time his picture was taken. Had Basta borrowed Emil’s jeep?
“Where is it now?”
“It was parked out in the yard. We’ve taken it in for a forensic examination. The investigation into the attack on your friend Tanaka has come to a halt. A witness saw a tall dark-clothed man jump into a white parked car that was standing just outside the entrance to the backyard. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. Before he started the car, he threw a large picture into the backseat. According to the witness, he was alone. He wasn’t sure about the make of the car. Probably an old Jetta or something similar. But we’ve gotten some interesting tips from Emil’s neighbors. According to them, a tall man with a ponytail has occasionally lived at Emil’s. And, according to a neighbor lady who lives under Emil, he’s Swedish. She’s heard them talk with each other. The other neighbor has only run into the guy a few times in the elevator.”
The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 Page 30
