Helene Tursten - The Torso

Marcus Tosscander had lived with a Danish police officer and he knew a doctor. “He’s worse than my doctor in Göteborg,” he had said to Tom Tanaka when he’d spoken about the police officer. A Swedish doctor who lived in Göteborg.

The telephone on the desk started ringing. She answered since no one else was in the room. “Detective Inspector Irene Huss,” she said slowly.

She tried hard to speak extra clearly, in case the person calling had a hard time understanding Swedish.

“Wonderful that I got hold of you!” It was Yvonne Stridner.

It was unnecessary to add the last part. No one else trumpeted on the phone like the professor.

“Have just spoken with Svend Blokk. There were certain details about the dismemberment process of our body that I wanted to compare with their murder-mutilation from two years ago. He mentioned that you were going to meet him today to pick up detailed autopsy reports. You don’t need to. I’ll take care of it directly with Svend. But I can say right now, it’s the same mutilator.”

Irene could only say, “Thanks.”

Maybe it wasn’t the right answer, or Stridner misunderstood, or maybe she just wasn’t listening.

“No problem. It’s no extra trouble. You take care of the police work, and I’ll handle the pathology. But isn’t it remarkable that this type of murderer is operating in both Göteborg and Copenhagen? There is some distance between the cities, at least 180 miles. And Öresund is in between.”

At that moment, Irene realized that the professor was wrong. It wasn’t at all remarkable since they were probably dealing with two murderers. A Danish police officer and a Swedish doctor. It could, of course, also be someone who commuted between the two cities, but the few descriptions that existed indicated there were two murderers.

Stridner was saying something else into the receiver. In order to cover her lapse, Irene mumbled something inarticulate in a tone of agreement.

“Wonderful! Then we’re agreed,” Stridner said.

A click indicated that the professor had hung up. Irene did the same and wondered what she and Stridner had agreed on.

Irene was busy with the copying until almost twelve o’clock. Then Jens Metz opened the door to the office and stuck in his round face.

“Are you coming to lunch?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m finished now.”

“You’re efficient,” Metz commented, smiling jovially.

He hadn’t said a word about his visit to Scandinavian Models. Maybe he would do so during lunch? She would wait and see. She gathered up her papers and put them in her bag. It became considerably heavier but she wanted to take them along. She hoped to drive home directly after lunch.

Peter Møller kept them company. They ate lunch at a very smoky pub behind Tivoli. All three ate beef patties fried with onions, served with potatoes. Møller and Metz each had a large beer. Irene declined with the excuse that she would be driving.

“The alcohol will be gone before you get to Helsingborg,” said Metz.

“Stupid to take the risk.” Irene smiled. In order to change the subject, she said, “You’ll have to give my best to Beate Bentsen and thank her for being so accommodating. Not to mention a big thanks to the two of you for all your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Metz and raised his beer glass.

Mostly to have something to say, Irene said, “Not to be nosy, but what does Mr. Bentsen do?”

Metz laughed. “There’s never been a Mr. Bentsen.”

“But she talked about a son,” Irene said sheepishly.

“Yes, you’ve already met him,” Jens Metz grinned.

Irene caught the warning look Peter Møller sent his colleague, but Metz didn’t. He was fully concentrated on his beer glass. When he finally managed to tear it from his lips, Irene continued, “I’ve met Beate Bentsen’s son?”

“Of course! Emil, who hangs out at Tom Tanaka’s. Emil Bentsen. Peter said that you met him in the store yesterday.”

You could have knocked Irene over with a feather. Jens Metz wrinkled his forehead and looked uncertainly in Peter Møller’s direction.

“Didn’t you tell her about it yesterday?” he asked Møller in an irritated tone.

Møller sighed before he answered, “It didn’t have anything to do with her investigation.”

He was right about that. But it wasn’t unimportant if one happened to have the remaining information that Irene was in possession of but which her two Danish colleagues weren’t aware of. She had to speak with Tom Tanaka again before she left.

Just then notes of “The Marseillaise” fluted out of her coat pocket. “Irene Huss,” she said into the cell phone.

It was quiet on the phone, but she could hear someone breathing.

“Hello?” she said.

“It’s. . it’s Petra. At Scandinavian Models. Bell. . Isabell is gone.”

Irene felt her heart skip a beat. “Wait a moment,” she said.

She took the Nokia from her ear and smiled at Metz and Møller.

“Excuse me. It’s my daughter. Personal problems.”

She got up from the chair and headed for the women’s bathroom. Once there, she put the phone back to her ear. “Hi, Petra. Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“You said something about Isabell being gone?”

“Yes. She hasn’t come back from. . a job. . ”

“How long has she been gone?”

“She left here around eleven last night.”

“Where did she go?”

“To the Hotel Aurora.”

“You know this for certain?”

“Yes. We write down all of the orders in a logbook. Bell was supposed to be at the Hotel Aurora before eleven thirty.”

“Do you know who asked for her?”

“I didn’t take the call, but it says here that the customer was Simon Steiner.”

“The request was made by telephone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where the Hotel Aurora is located?”

“The address is listed here. Colbjørnsensgade. It’s in-”

“Vesterbro. I know.”

Irene had been in Tom Tanaka’s apartment behind the gay sex shop on the same street, at about the time Isabell should have arrived at the hotel. More accurately, it was probably just before Irene’s encounter with the skinheads. Her brain was working in overdrive but she couldn’t get her thoughts in order. Finally she asked, “Could Isabell have stayed with the customer overnight and overslept?”

“No, we never stay the night with a customer.”

“Have you called the police here in Copenhagen?”

There was a long silence before Petra answered. “No. A man came yesterday asking after Bell. He said that he was a police officer and showed his police ID. . but Bell had already left, and then you came. But you gave me the card with your name and cell phone number, so I thought. .”

“Petra. I’m really grateful that you called and told me about this. But I don’t have the ability to do anything here. A Swedish police officer has no authority in Denmark. I would suggest that you call the police in Vesterbro and report that Isabell never came back after an appointment at the Hotel Aurora. Only a Danish police officer can search the hotel.”

Petra said, “Do you think I could leave it as an anonymous tip?”

“Yes, but there’s a risk that they will dismiss it as a prank call. Another option is for you to call the hotel. Have you done that?”

“No, but maybe I should. . ”

“You can start with that. By the way, did the man looking for Bell yesterday really say that he was a police officer?”

“Yeah. . they do that sometimes. . say that they want to inspect. . you know. .”

In order to get a free pass, thought Irene. Loudly she said, “Hey, I have to run now. I’ll call you in two hours and see if you have come up with anything. And please call my number if Isabell happens to show up.”