The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (35 page)

They decided to eat before watching the tapes one more time. Peter wanted a solid lunch because he was planning on driving home directly afterward.

“You’re not going to stay here in Göteborg for one night?” Irene asked.

“No. We’re short-staffed. Jens has had to take over as superintendent for Beate. She’ll be on sick leave a few more weeks.”

He wouldn’t let himself be persuaded. Finally, Irene gave up. She wanted him to leave with a good impression of Göteborg’s pub life so she decided that they would eat at Glady’s Corner. She lifted the phone receiver to reserve a table. If you’re married to the master chef, it should be possible to arrange things on short notice.

 

THEY WERE given a table but had to wait until two o’clock. Jonny excused himself by saying that he had work piled up, but Irene had the suspicion that it was mostly out of fear that he would have to pay for himself. Glady’s was one of Göteborg’s best pubs, with a star in
Guide Michelin
, but not the cheapest one.

Irene quickly realized that the three police officers weren’t really dressed for the establishment. Peter might be able to pass as business casual. But since it was after the lunch rush and the dinner guests hadn’t started streaming in yet, there shouldn’t be a problem. The headwaiter was among the snootiest Irene had ever come across; they had never gotten on well. Not that they had that much to do with each other, but sometimes she couldn’t avoid needing to speak with her husband. If the headwaiter happened to be the one who answered the phone, an icy chill soon floated over the wires. Irene suspected that she wasn’t chic enough to be the wife of the golden pub’s master chef, in his estimation.

Now he met them at the door. He wore a black suit and a white shirt, and bowed stiffly to them. Of course, he pretended not to recognize Irene. Surrounded by the scent of his exclusive perfumed aftershave, he showed them to a table by the far wall in one of the more concealed alcoves. With her biggest smile, Irene said, “No thanks. We would like to sit at one of the empty window tables.”

He opened his mouth to respond but when their eyes met he closed it again with a snap. Without a word, he led them toward one of the window tables. In order not to admit complete defeat, he seated them at a table by the side of the window rather than in the middle. Irene decided to let it go.

The business lunch consisted of grilled cod cooked in a wok, with white wine sauce. All three chose the same dish, not least because of the price. For an additional one hundred and thirty SEK, they could have gotten an appetizer and dessert as well, but none of them was that hungry. The images from the video were all too fresh in their minds.

While they were waiting for food, they each ordered a large beer. Freshbaked bread appeared. Its smell was seductive, and it was still warm enough for the butter to melt when it was spread.

So far, the day had been overwhelming. It was important to process all the new information. Peter and Hannu avoided talking about what they had seen and gone through during the last few hours. And Irene started to relax. The tension in her neck and shoulders began to ease, due to a combination of the beer and Glady’s comfortable atmosphere. The restaurant, located in an old potato shop on the bottom floor of one of the larger stone buildings on Avenyn, was spacious but the architect had preserved small storage rooms and narrow passages, which added intimacy to the restaurant. The bare brick walls had been washed, and lighting points and candles placed in the holes in damaged stones. The chairs, in a late-eighteenth-century Gustavian style, were painted in sober light gray and covered in a blue-and-white-striped cotton fabric. White linen tablecloths and napkins completed the fresh look. Airy striped cotton curtains framed the only window, where the police officers were sitting. Irene could watch the passersby through the gauzy fabric without being seen herself. An ideal lookout spot, she thought. She realized a second later how much her work had affected her psychologically. She had to make an effort to concentrate on the conversation and the good food.

 

THEY WATCHED the videos with Peter one more time. Jonny joined the group before they started.

It was easier this time, since they knew what was coming. When the last painful image had faded from the screen, Irene said, “Why didn’t Emil include the entire dismemberment process? It’s easy to copy a videotape so that both Emil and his accomplice could have had one.”

They pondered the question for a while. Finally, Hannu said, “He didn’t want the other part. That’s not what turned him on.”

Peter nodded.

“Blokk said something similar. He said that the dismemberments with the saw reduced Emil’s anxiety and gave him pleasure.”

“The other one probably wanted the other pictures of the abuse of the body. Opening the abdomen and removing the internal organs and all that. Incidentally, I wonder if the murder itself is on tape?” Irene asked.

“It’s very possible. But not certain. The primary thing wasn’t to kill a person but what they did later with the body,” Peter answered.

It sounded very much like what Yvonne Stridner had said at the beginning of the investigation.

“So the other guy is supposed to be the doctor, if I’ve understood this correctly?” Jonny jumped in.

“Yes. We think so since Marcus spoke . . .” Irene started.

“What if he’s just as fake as the policeman?” Jonny said triumphantly.

“Fake?”

“Emil wasn’t a police officer. Just dressed up like one. What if the doctor isn’t really a doctor, but is just pretending. Goes around in a white coat and stethoscope and all that.”

Irene stared at Jonny, amazed. It was the most intelligent thing he had come up with during the entire investigation. And he could very well be right. Irene nodded and said, “That’s very possible. I’ve been thinking about the picture that was stolen at Tom’s. The man in the photo, maybe he’s the doctor. I’ve been trying to come up with a way of getting in touch with the photographer who took the pictures. He should know who the man in the backlit picture is.”

“Have you asked Tanaka?” Peter wondered.

“Yes. Tom doesn’t know who he is. It’s a high-quality picture—”

She was interrupted by Jonny’s loud snort but continued, “—and there shouldn’t be that many photographers who could have taken it. The question is where to start looking.”

“Among the photographers,” Hannu answered.

Sometimes he really could be irritating. Irene told herself to be patient and waited for further exposition.

“He’s a freelance photographer,” said Hannu.

Jonny raised his eyebrows in surprise and started to say, “How do you—” but stopped himself.

At least he had learned something, thought Irene.

A freelance photographer? Probably. A photographer of this class probably worked on his own. But he might have a studio with employees. Irene realized that it was going to take time to find the photographer but they would find him.

 

PETER MØLLER left just before five o’clock. He planned on reaching his home by ten if all went smoothly. Hannu, Jonny, and Irene went to Superintendent Andersson’s office in order to bring him up to speed on the surprising developments in the case.

Andersson declined to watch the videos. He fully trusted their judgment of the tapes’ authenticity, he said.

They agreed that they would start the search for the photographer the next day.

THE GIRL IN THE lab was a godsend. By nine o’clock she had made five sets of copies of Tom Tanaka’s Polaroid pictures, as well as a good enlargement of both pictures. Irene had gone around among her colleagues with the picture of the man with the ponytail, and asked if anyone had seen him before. No one recognized him. Only she and Hannu seemed to have a feeling of familiarity. Or was it just their imagination?

Irene focused on the picture and tried to be objective. Yes, there was certainly something familiar about the high cheekbones and the contour of the ear, the chest and the arms. She stared at the picture until her eyes started burning.

She gave up. His identity was somewhere in the back of her mind, she was certain of it. She would eventually come up with it. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long. They were working under a time constraint; the risk that the murderer would kill again was constantly increasing. It was obvious that the man in the backlit picture had known Marcus Tosscander. It was possible that he knew quite a bit about both Emil and Marcus. It was even conceivable that he was involved in the murders. It was very important to find this man.

Hannu was going to try to reach Anders Gunnarsson, and Birgitta was going to try Hans Pahliss. Irene took it upon herself to get in touch with Pontus Zander since she needed to speak with him anyway. There was a good chance that one of them would recognize the man in the photo. Maybe he moved in the same circles they did.

Irene realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t possible to divide up photographers based on their areas of specialty. So they divided those listed in the Yellow Pages in four, with the same number of names in each. They would have to go through each list methodically, one by one. It was just a matter of getting started.

Irene started writing in the photographers’ addresses on the map, in order to work out a systematic route. If she didn’t get any leads quickly, it would take up most of the day and a good portion of the next one. But it would be worth it if they could put a name to the man in the backlit picture.

 

IT WAS three thirty and Irene had begun to feel a bit dejected. None of the men or women she had met during the day as she wandered between photography studios had been able to give her any tip as to who the photographer could be. However, several people had recognized Marcus. Apparently, he had done a lot of modeling before the design company got off the ground.

Now she was both sweaty and thirsty. The early summer heat had been pleasant at lunchtime but it had become oppressive during the afternoon. It was the first real summer day of the year, and one that had been longed for, but as far as Irene was concerned, it could definitely have held off a while longer. The car was boiling hot and her clothes were sticking to her body. Her deodorant sure wasn’t lasting twenty-four hours, like the commercial had promised, a fact of which she had become awkwardly aware during the last couple of hours. She longed intensely for a cool shower.

Without any expectations whatsoever she slowly trudged up the worn steps to E. Bolin’s Commercial Photography Company, Incorporated, on Kastellgatan. “Corporation” always sounded fancy, but the facade of this office was not impressive. The outer door was insignificant and its paint had peeled off in big patches. The bell didn’t work, so Irene had to knock hard.

The man who opened it was a surprise. Her first thought was that he must be a photo model. He was a bit taller than average, slim, and looked like he was in good shape. His eyes were amber brown and matched his short hair perfectly. The bangs were longer and stood straight up in straggling pieces. The look was so nonchalant and sporty that it must have taken him at least half an hour to arrange it. After more scrutiny, she realized that he was older than he had seemed at first glance, over thirty rather than under.

He smiled charmingly and said, “Hi. What can I help you with?”

“Hi. Irene Huss, from the police.” She had her ID ready and pulled it out of her pocket.

The man raised his eyebrows slightly but didn’t move from the doorway.

“Really?” he said.

“I’m looking for the photographer Erik Bolin,” Irene said.

“At your service,” said the man at the door.

He made a slight bow and took a step into the hall so that she could get past. Irene entered his studio.

If the exterior wasn’t impressive, the interior certainly was. It was obvious that the entire premises had recently been renovated.

The walls in the hall were painted light gray, and the floor was a warm cherrywood. The studio itself, a large illuminated room, was located straight ahead. Those walls were white but the floor was the same as in the hall. The door to the right stood open and led into a rather large and airy kitchen. Black, steel, and cherrywood flooring.

“When did Marcus Tosscander design this interior?” she asked.

Now Bolin arched his eyebrows. “Did you know about it or could you tell?” he asked.

“I could tell.”

“Bravo. He has, or had, his own style. Absolutely luscious. I love it.”

“When did he design it?”

“A little more than a year ago. The renovation itself was done last summer. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

They went into the ultramodern kitchen. Irene sat on a kitchen chair, which certainly wasn’t any ordinary kitchen chair. The welded-steel frame and the skillfully woven chair seat of sturdy hemp told her that it was “designed.” Erik Bolin turned on an espresso machine. He was busy for a long time with all of the utensils required to press out an itty-bitty cup of coffee from the sputtering and puffing machine. Irene preferred huge buckets of Swedish coffee but for lack of anything better, this would have to do. Caffeine was caffeine.

Apparently the machine could make two cups at a time, because Bolin set down two minicups on the kitchen table’s slate top. He placed a small plate with rice cakes between them. Was the man dieting? He didn’t look like he needed to. Or maybe that’s why he looked like he did?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Bolin’s question. “Is this about Marcus?”

“In a way. Did you know each other well?”

He smiled sorrowfully. “Yes. We were very good friends.”

“How long had you known each other?”

Bolin thought a bit. “Four years.”

“Were you together?”

“Together . . . it happened in the beginning . . . but we’ve just been friends the last two years.”