The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (22 page)

“Beer. A big Danish beer.”

“Oh.”

That was their entire conversation as they drove the length of Halland’s coast. Since Irene was acquainted with Jonny’s driving, she had insisted on getting behind the wheel of the bureau car. For the most part, Jonny sat dozing with his head hanging. He didn’t wake up until they had driven onto HH-Ferries in Helsingborg. But he was first in line at the cafeteria. A large draft beer, and bread with a chunk of coarsely ground liver pâté with pickles, made him thaw out considerably. Irene went for the coffee and a plate of shrimp. She wasn’t able to finish the slice of bread under it.

They were sitting in the car again after twenty minutes, and then it was time for Irene to drive across the clattering ramp with the same chilly feeling in her stomach as before.

Since she was familiar with the route, they made their way pretty quickly to the highway heading toward Copenhagen.

“Could you go through everything you know about Isabell Lind one more time? It would be good if you could refresh my recollection,” said Jonny.

Irene went over everything she knew. But she didn’t mention Tom Tanaka.

“I don’t know much about the murder itself yet. We’ll find out more tomorrow. But Metz said that the murder of Isabell bears the signature of our murderer even though she wasn’t dismembered. That seems strange,” said Irene.

Jonny nodded. Then he quickly changed the subject. “What is the hotel like?”

“It’s really nice. I booked the rooms via the Internet. It’s the same hotel I stayed in a few days ago. The breakfast is amazing.”

“Are there some nice hangouts in the area?”

“It depends on what you mean by nice hangouts. The hotel is centrally located and everything is close by. It’s just a matter of choosing.”

Jonny nodded in response. Irene noticed that he started paying more attention to the areas they were passing through the closer to Copenhagen they came.

 

THEY EACH had a single room. To Irene’s silent joy they were not located on the same floor. She took the second-floor room and Jonny, the room on the third. Thanks to this, she would have much more freedom to move around. She suspected that Jonny had similar thoughts, but for entirely different reasons.

They agreed to meet downstairs in fifteen minutes. Even though Irene wasn’t particularly hungry after the pile of shrimp she’d had on the ferry, she realized that it was about time for dinner. If she ate too late, she would have a hard time sleeping.

The room was just as nice and fresh as the one she had had last time. She washed under her arms, put on a few strokes of deodorant, and touched up her makeup. She told her reflection that it wasn’t for Jonny’s sake but for her own.

In a cosmopolitan fashion Irene led Jonny over broad H. C. Andersen Boulevard. Restaurant Vesuvius looked warm and welcoming. The heat of the pub and the smell of cigarette smoke hit them when they stepped through the glass doors. They were shown to a little table by the window.

“Shit. The menu is in a different language,” Jonny muttered.

“No. It’s in Italian, Danish, and English,” said Irene.

“Hell, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He ordered a calzone, “so you know what you’re getting.” Irene ordered
passera mira mare
, which turned out to be fried red snapper with mussels in a white wine sauce. Jonny needed two strong beers in order to wash down his pizza while Irene was content with one Hof. Tomorrow was another day.

When they got back to the hotel, the bar was overflowing. A big group of Swedes filled the room, making noise. There was a sign on the wall announcing that it was a “Jell-O shot evening.” The guests were trying the gelatin drinks with a great deal of enjoyment and enthusiasm and, based on the rate of consumption, the Jell-O shot was definitely approved. A man sitting on a bar stool had fallen asleep with his head and arms on the bar. No one was paying any attention to him, and the noise gradually increased with the rate of consumption.

“That looks like fun,” said Jonny.

Irene continued toward the reception desk. When she had gotten her room key from the smiling receptionist, she turned toward Jonny and said, “We’re supposed to be at Vesterbro at eight o’clock. I’m planning on eating breakfast at seven-fifteen. Should I call your room before—”

She stopped when she saw Jonny’s back disappear into the crowded bar.

In the room she took out her cell phone and dialed Tom Tanaka’s number. He answered immediately.

“Tom.”

“Hi. Irene here. I’m at my hotel now. The Hotel Alex.”

“The same as last time,” Tom noted.

“Yes. Has anything happened?”

“No. The newspapers haven’t printed any details about Isabell’s murder, just that she had been strangled and bound to the bed with handcuffs.”

The handcuffs were news to Irene but she didn’t admit it to Tom. Instead, she said, “Did Marcus tell you that he was going to go to Thailand with a . . . friend? Or did he just say that he was going home to Göteborg?”

Tom sounded harsh when he finally replied, “He didn’t say anything about Thailand. Just that he was going home.”

“Not a word about Thailand?”

“No. Who’s said something about Thailand?”

“He called an old friend when he got home to Göteborg at the beginning of March. Marcus told him that he was on his way to Thailand with a friend.”

“Apparently our dear Marcus had quite a few friends whom he didn’t talk about.”

Irene could hear deep bitterness in Tom’s tone. “Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.

Irene dreaded having to ask the next question but she was forced to. “Tom . . . this friend in Göteborg whom we spoke with implied that Marcus liked . . .
hard
sex.”

She didn’t know if her meaning was clear in English, but it was the only thing she could come up with. Tom seemed to understand. “I don’t have the slightest intention of telling you about my sex life with Marcus. But of course . . . he was keen on some variations.”

“Even . . . dangerous variations?”

“Not so that he would get seriously injured. Not like that. Maybe a little . . . spanking.”

Irene didn’t understand the word “spank,” but based on the almost amused tone Tom used, she drew the conclusion that it had to do with a softer type of force. For fun.

“I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, but we need to try and find out what happened to Marcus.”

“It’s OK. I still want his murderer to be caught and punished. It’s unfortunate that you don’t have the death penalty in Scandinavia.”

Irene trembled uncontrollably. Dear Tom still had a dark side. She hadn’t realized it at the beginning of their acquaintance, but she was starting to understand that Tom had hidden depths he wasn’t about to reveal to her. And why should he? Thanks to him, they had been able to determine the identity of the dismembered body in Killevik and that was the important thing.

A thought started growing in Irene’s head. Maybe Tom could bring them closer to Marcus’s killer. She asked, “Tom . . . since you know Copenhagen . . . do you know if there is a place for necrosadists?”

“Necrosad . . . !”

He was surprised by the question. But after thinking a bit he said, “There are several places for sadomasochists. But necrophiles! No. But . . .”

He stopped to think again. “There are videos that show necrophilia and some illegal films that show actual murders. But, of course, if someone wants them, they can get them.”

“Did Marcus ever show any interest—”

“In necrophilia? Absolutely not! He was so alive and absolutely not interested in death!”

“Thanks for letting me ask these questions,” she said.

“No problem.”

They wished each other good night and hung up.

She sat for a long time thinking in the growing darkness of the room. Somewhere there had to be a connection between the three murder victims. A common variable. The police officer? The doctor? Or both?

Sex. All three of them were particularly sexually active. Carmen Østergaard had been in the business quite a while and Isabell was new to prostitution. But both of them had worked with sex professionally.

Anders Gunnarsson had said that Marcus was always ready for sex and that he was drawn to
dangerous types
. Did he do it for money? Hardly, especially as he made a very good living from his work. Money wasn’t his problem. Did he buy sex? Not very likely either. With his looks he wouldn’t have needed to pay.

No matter how she twisted and turned, she couldn’t find a logical connection between the three victims. She gazed out through the mullioned windows. The lights of the big city were hard and artificial. The shadows between the sources of light were deep and black. Perfect for a killer.

 

IRENE FELT well rested after eight hours of deep sleep. She called Jonny’s room at a quarter past seven, and after ten rings she heard the receiver picked up. Then, with a crash, it fell to the floor and she could hear Jonny’s muffled “Damn it!” He finally managed to get the receiver to his ear.

“Jonny . . . Jonny Blom,” a cracked voice bleated.

“Time for breakfast,” Irene chirped.

“Breakfas . . . God damn—”

The receiver on the other end of the line was slammed down, and Irene felt both anger and dejection. Having to drag Jonny around Copenhagen was like having a ball and chain around her ankle. A hungover Jonny was a catastrophe. There were some good moments when he was sober, and he could even be useful. But if he felt half as bad as he had sounded on the phone, he was going to be worthless.

Irene went down and ate a delicious breakfast. She took her time. The sun outside was already shining brightly, and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Jonny never showed up in the breakfast room.

Back upstairs she changed into a short-sleeved light blue linen shirt. She kept the dark blue pants on but put on her black loafers. She took off her socks as a gesture to the summery feeling she had. She decided that the dark blue linen blazer would have to do as a coat. With her big canvas bag nonchalantly hanging over her shoulder, she looked more like a tourist on a shopping spree than a cop on the trail of a killer.

She called Jonny before she left the room, and after several rings he managed to answer the phone. Irene could only hear a guttural mumble, and then the receiver hit the cradle again.

With a sigh, Irene decided to let him sleep.

 

SHE WALKED down to the Vesterbro police station. It hadn’t even been a week since she was here last, but it felt like an entire year had passed. Maybe it was the change in the weather that gave her this feeling. Last week she had been cold and had shivered, and now she was enjoying the warm wind’s promise of summer.

Beate Bentsen, Peter Møller, and Jens Metz were already sitting in Bentsen’s office. The air was thick with smoke. Irene hesitated on the threshold before she stepped into the room. Møller seemed to sense why. He opened the window. Whether the air outside was any cleaner was debatable but at least it diluted the nicotine concentration in the room.

Everyone greeted her warmly and welcomed her back, even if the reason for her return might have been more pleasant.

“Weren’t there supposed to be two of you?” Beate Bentsen asked.

Irene had hoped to avoid that particular question but realized that was wishful thinking. “Yes . . . but my colleague wasn’t feeling well this morning. I thought it would be best if he could sleep.”

“Does he need a doctor?”

“No. It will pass on its own. Eventually.”

“A hangover,” Jens Metz whispered theatrically.

He winked meaningfully at Irene. She was ashamed of Jonny’s behavior. Personally, he wouldn’t have the good sense to be ashamed, she thought, and her irritation grew.

“We’ll start without your colleague and you’ll have to try and bring him up to speed when he gets here. Both Jens and Peter were present at the Hotel Aurora when Isabell Lind was found.”

Beate Bentsen looked at the two inspectors over the rims of her French designer glasses.

Jens Metz leaned back in his chair and linked his sausage-like fingers over his belly. The backrest protested nervously but Metz didn’t seem to hear it. Or maybe he was used to chairs whining under his weight.

“We got the call on Thursday afternoon, May 20, that a dead woman had been found at the Hotel Aurora by some painters. Peter and I got there shortly after four thirty. The medical examiner had already arrived and was inspecting the corpse. Here you can see the pictures of what we were faced with.”

Metz bent forward, breathing heavily, and shook some photos out of a thick envelope.

Irene started with a picture of the room. It was taken from a high angle. The photographer must have been standing on a tall stool or a ladder.

Under the bare window, an overturned nightstand lay on the floor next to a lamp with a broken plastic shade. A bed could be seen in the rear next to the wall. Another bed had been placed in the center of the room. Isabell was lying on top of it.

Irene took out another photo. It was an enlargement of the bed with Isabell’s body spread out on top.

Her hands were chained with handcuffs to the high wooden bed-posts. She was lying on her back, completely naked, with her legs spread apart. There was a deep incision from the top of her collarbone all the way down to her pelvic bone. Mechanically, Irene noticed that the incision hadn’t bled very much. There was, however, a good deal of blood under her, from her waist down to her separated legs.

Irene switched to the next photo, which was a close-up of the head and neck area. Strangulation marks from a noose were evident on her throat. Isabell’s eyes were wide open, and her tongue hung out of her mouth, dark and swollen.

Irene was completely unprepared for her reaction. She was barely able to make it to her knees by the wastepaper basket before she threw up. The entirety of the delicious Danish breakfast came up.