The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (18 page)

She entered the apartment. The hallway was the same size as the one in Marcus’s apartment, but the color scheme was completely different. Deep purple velvet flocked wallpaper revealed that the last renovation had taken place sometime during the late sixties. All the interior doors were painted a dark brown. Gretta Svensson showed Irene into a large living room, the same size as Marcus’s. This was not a corner apartment so there was only one window and the room was not as bright. The furniture was a mixture of dark oak pieces and IKEA recliners. The window was framed by thick rose-patterned chintz curtains. The impression was dark and oppressive.

“Please sit down. I’ll get the coffee,” said Ms. Svensson.

Irene didn’t protest because she was longing for a cup of coffee. As she sank down on the pink sofa she noticed that the coffee cups had already been set out. She had never had a chance to decline.

The little woman came flying out of the kitchen with a coffee pot made of glass in one hand and a plate of Marie biscuits in the other.

“I don’t have any coffee cake in the house. This was a bit unexpected,” Gretta Svensson apologized.

Irene nodded understandingly and inhaled the scent of coffee. The biscuits weren’t important as far as she was concerned; the main thing was that she got some caffeine.

“Please start by answering a few routine questions that we always ask people in cases like these,” Irene said.

“That’s fine.”

“Your full name?”

“Anna Gretta Svensson.”

“Thanks. Your date of birth?”

“October 19, 1921.”

Irene quickly did the math and determined that the woman sitting in front of her was seventy-eight years old. Before she was able to ask another question, Gretta continued. “I was born a few houses down on this street, though that building was torn down many years ago. This house hadn’t been built yet. Pappa was a baker and Mamma sometimes helped in the bakery where he worked. It was them and the six of us kids in a two-room apartment. I’m the only sibling left of the bunch. I guess I was what you would call a late surprise.”

“Have you always lived on this street?”

“All my life. I’ve lived in this apartment for thirty-two years because it suits me so well. Before that I had a studio apartment in the house next door for many years.”

“What did you work as?” It had nothing to do with the investigation, but Irene was curious.

“A seamstress. The last few years I worked at Gillblad’s.”

Gretta sat up straight in the little chintz-covered Emma recliner and kept her light blue eyes focused steadily on Irene as she slowly brushed a white wisp of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “But this isn’t about me. Where is Marcus?” she asked.

“If we only knew,” Irene sighed.

Gretta looked as though she was preparing to ask another question, but Irene quickly prevented her. “How long has Marcus been your neighbor?”

“Ten and a half years. We celebrated our ten-year anniversary during Saint Lucia. He came over with a bottle of wine and I made some delicious sandwiches. We sat talking and had a wonderful time. That’s when he told me about Copenhagen and I promised to look after his apartment.”

“Do you often get together over a bottle of wine?”

“Sometimes. He comes over when he thinks I’m feeling lonely. That’s the way he is. Very sweet and thoughtful.”

Gretta smiled unconsciously when she spoke about Marcus.

“I know that Marcus moved to Copenhagen around New Year’s. How often did he call you from Copenhagen?”

“Not very often. He had so much to do. There were always new jobs and . . .” She stopped herself and compressed her lips. Finally she said dully, “He called me twice.”

“When was the last time?”

“Wait.”

Gretta rose surprisingly quickly and disappeared into the bedroom. After a while she came back with a small blue pocket diary. She nervously skimmed back and forth, then triumphantly she announced, “Here. February 18.”

She held out the page. “Marcus has called,” it said. The other days were blank.

“I always write down important things.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

Gretta’s brow wrinkled as she concentrated. “He said that he was getting on very well in Copenhagen and he might come home at the beginning of March, but he would call me beforehand. He didn’t. But he may have called when I was in the hospital.”

“When were you in the hospital?”

“I was admitted the night of February 27 and came home on March 5. I’d had some intestinal bleeding and it turned out to be a large polyp, which they removed immediately. But I lost a lot of blood so they had to give me transfusions. I got seven bags of blood! Then there were a bunch of tests with—”

“Could Marcus have been home during that time?” Irene brusquely interrupted the health story.

“Yes. Because there was something . . .” Gretta fell silent and looked uncertain. “I went to the emergency room on Sunday night. I had gone in and watered the plants at Marcus’s on Friday. As soon as I got home, I went into his apartment because I expected that the flowers would be droopy, but they weren’t. They looked healthy. As if someone had watered them.”

“Did they look like they had been watered recently? Was there water on the dishes? Was the soil moist?”

“They hadn’t been watered that recently. Maybe three or four days earlier.”

This was very interesting. If they could prove that Marcus had been home the first week in March, they might be able to pinpoint when he died.

Irene chose her words carefully. “Do you know if Marcus had a girlfriend or another friend whom he often saw?”

“Marcus lived such an active life. There wasn’t room for a girlfriend. He used to say that he didn’t need one because he had me.”

What kind of man had this effect? Tom Tanaka and Gretta Svensson both seemed to feel specially chosen by Marcus.

“Did he have a lot of buddies?”

“Not all that many. Sometimes he would have small parties in his apartment. But never any rowdiness! All of the boys were polite and well behaved.”

“Do you know any of their names?”

“No.”

Irene couldn’t come up with any more questions for the moment. She got up and said, “I’d like to thank you for your help. Is it all right for me to return if I come up with any more questions?”

“It’s perfectly fine.”

The little woman followed her out into the hall. When she had closed the door, Irene heard the lock rattling as the key was turned.

Jonny had found a box that he carried down from the attic.

“Magazines and films. Gay porn,” he announced.

There was only an old bike in the basement. Hannu had returned to the apartment and was looking through the albums they were planning to take back to the station.

“Names,” he said and pointed.

A wedding invitation was glued to the top of one of the pages. It was a double card with two gold rings on the outside. On the inside it read:

“Pahliss. A name that should be easy to look up,” said Irene.

“A wedding. But, damn, it’s two guys,” Jonny said. The distaste was evident in his voice.

There were several photos next to the invitation, which had evidently been taken during the partnership ceremony and at the lunch.

The two men appeared to be in their thirties. One of them was tall and blond and the other was shorter and had dark hair. It was possible that he was a few years older than his blond partner. Both wore dark suits with bright red bow ties. The roses in their buttonholes were also red. They looked serious in the first picture, in which they were listening carefully to the officiator. Marcus’s handsome face could be seen behind the blond man. The next picture was taken from the side, and Marcus could be seen from behind. His light linen suit fit perfectly. The last picture from the City Hall ceremony showed the couple standing outside on the steps and being showered with rice by lots of people. Irene quickly counted forty-three, plus the photographer. She could see Marcus’s light-colored suit in the crowd.

The pictures that followed were from the lunch: happy people, toasting and laughing. The newly wedded couple beamed at each other and their guests. Irene noticed that there seemed to be an equal number of men and women in the pictures. There were no photos from the party that evening.

“We’ll take a closer look at the albums at the station. And maybe you can start looking for Gunnarsson and Pahliss,” she said.

The latter was directed at Hannu, who nodded.

 

“ITHINK it’s about time for me to meet Pappa Tosscander,” said Irene.

She was standing leaning against the edge of Superintendent Andersson’s desk. Jonny was sitting on the visitor’s chair, sulking.

“I’ve talked with the old man. And I don’t want to go through that gay porn myself.” He made a face at the box that was standing by the inside of the door.

“You don’t need to pore over the magazines. Just look through the videos,” said Irene. She didn’t want to admit even to herself that she felt uncomfortable about watching them. That’s why she quickly said, “The possibility that Marcus returned to the city in the first week of March needs to be confirmed. Maybe he contacted his father. We have to ask him. Maybe he has forgotten or he doesn’t want to remember.”

“Has Hannu found those two guys from the album?” asked Superintendent Andersson.

“No, but he’s still looking. And he will locate them,” Irene said confidently.

“It’s after five. It’s almost time to leave,” said Jonny.

The phone on Andersson’s desk rang. He answered and then looked in Irene’s direction.

“Just a second. She’s here,” he said. He handed over the receiver and hissed, “A Dane, asking for you.”

Irene took the receiver. “This is Irene Huss.”

“Jens Metz here. We’ve found Isabell Lind. Dead.”

Irene couldn’t utter a sound. Her colleagues watched in astonishment as she grew pale and tried to steady herself by grasping the edge of the desk.

“Hello! Are you still there?” Jens Metz’s voice could he heard asking.

With great effort, Irene croaked, “I’m here.”

“Good. She was found murdered at the Hotel Aurora. The top floor is closed to guests due to renovations. The painters found her in one of the rooms. There are signs that point to our mutual murder-mutilator.”

To her own astonishment, Irene felt her knees begin to shake. She leaned heavily against the superintendent’s desk and managed to rest her weight on the edge. It felt as if her legs wouldn’t hold her.

“Is she . . . is she dismembered?” she finally managed to get out.

“No. None of the parts are missing. But the murder method bears our murderer’s signature. She was strangled and abused, the same as Carmen Østergaard and the boy you found. The stomach was cut open but none of the contents were removed, according to Svend Blokk, who performed the autopsy.”

“Oh my God!” was all Irene could say.

“We want you to come back to Copenhagen. You know more than we do about Isabell and the investigation in Göteborg. I would also like to ask a big favor.”

“What?”

“That you notify the parents. It would be better than if we tried to convey this kind of message over the phone, and in Danish.”

Irene knew that he was right but her stomach clenched. She didn’t want to face Monika Lind’s despair. But she had to.

“OK, I’ll do it. But I have to talk to my boss about returning to Copenhagen.”

Andersson’s expression told her that he also had a good deal he wanted to talk about. The color of his face was ominous, and his expression was grim.

He exploded when she hung up the phone. “What the hell! Who’s been dismembered?”

Irene had to go through the whole Isabell Lind story from the very beginning, starting with Monika’s phone call. She went to get the tourist guide she had taken from the hotel room with the picture of the girls from Scandinavian Models.

Sven Andersson looked sternly at Irene. “And the only ones you showed the picture to were the three police officers you worked with on the murder-mutilation?”

For a hundredth of a second, Tom Tanaka’s heavy image floated in front of her eyes but she decided to keep him out of this. Her instinct was to protect his identity.

“Yes,” she said, looking Andersson in the eye.

The superintendent gazed at her for a long time. Maybe he sensed that she was hiding information.

“OK. You are going back to Copenhagen tomorrow. But you are taking Hannu with you.”

“That’s not possible,” said Hannu.

“Geez. You don’t have to stay the whole Whitsuntide,” said Andersson.

“I’m getting married.”

The others stared at him as though he had just revealed that he was the murderer. No one had anything to say.

Irene tried to get her act together. “Oh. I mean . . . congratulations.” “Thanks.”

“Who the hell are you marrying?” said Andersson.

“Birgitta.”

Of course. Irene’s brain finally started working again. She had spied on Hannu and seen him get into Birgitta’s car, had thought they might be dating, but in her wildest imagination she hadn’t dreamed that it would go as far as marriage.

Andersson gasped for breath. After he managed to get some oxygen, he exclaimed, “Birgitta Moberg, here in the unit? Are you insane? A married couple can’t work together in the same unit!”

Hannu met his boss’s tirade calmly. “It will only be for about half a year. Then she will be on maternity leave a while and we’ll have to think things over.”