Helene Tursten - The Torso

“OK. Bye.”

When Irene had hung up, she felt her stomach flutter with worry. What had happened? Was it really a pure coincidence that she and Isabell had been on the same street at the same time in this huge city?

An ice-cold chill ran down her spine. It felt as though an invisible hand was maneuvering her as if she were a marionette. Someone was playing a cleverly calculated game. Right then, she would have given almost anything for a glimpse at the script.

Could Tom Tanaka be responsible for Isabell’s disappearance? But she hadn’t mentioned Isabell to him. The only ones she had spoken with and shown the picture to were Beate Bentsen, Jens Metz, and Peter Møller. Three police officers.

Tanaka had said that he trusted her, and in turn, it now seemed as though he was the only one she dared to trust.

She got out Tom Tanaka’s calling card with his cell phone number. There was one ring before he answered. “Tom.”

“Hi. This is Irene Huss.”

“What’s new?”

It took a confused second before Irene understood what “What’s new?” meant. Stammering, she started to explain. “No. I don’t have any. . news. But I need to ask a few questions. Is that OK?”

“Depends on what kind of questions.”

“Are you alone now?”

“Yes.”

“It’s about Emil. How long has he worked for you?”

To Irene’s surprise, he let out a short laugh. “Emil doesn’t work for me. He’s more like a volunteer.”

“Volunteer? What do you mean?”

“He has been hanging out in the store ever since I took it over. Sometimes he buys a few things. But mostly he just hangs out. We have gotten to know each other over time. Little by little, as it turned out, he started helping here.”

“Does he have any other jobs?”

“He studies law.”

“Do you know anything about Emil’s parents?”

“Not a thing. Doesn’t interest me. Why are you asking about Emil?”

“His mother is Beate Bentsen. She is the superintendent of police in the Criminal Division. A police officer with connections to Vesterbro. . she works there.”

It became quiet. Irene heard Tanaka’s heavy breathing. When he finally took a deep breath and then exhaled, there was an explosion in the receiver. “Damn! Shit!” Then he said in a normal voice, “When are you going home to Sweden?”

“Now. I’ve just had lunch with my colleagues. Some other things have come up that I’d like to ask you about.”

“Can you stop by on the way?”

“I’ll try. We’re behind Tivoli now so it isn’t far to walk to you. I’ll call on the cell when I get there. You want me to take the back way, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Irene ended the call. She quickly touched up her lipstick before she went out again to her male colleagues.

They were in the process of paying. Irene smiled apologetically. “You can’t be away from home one day without the whole house falling apart-at least it seems that way. Naturally, I’ll pay for myself.”

She pulled her wallet out of her pocket but Metz waved it off.

“Not at all. It’s on us. You can treat us when we come and visit Göteborg.”

“Of course. Thanks a lot.”

The police officers said good-bye to each other outside the pub. Irene and the men went in separate directions. She walked up Bernstorffsgade. She should have taken a right at the large intersection in order to get to her parked car on Studiestræde. Instead, she turned left and followed Vesterbrogade for about one hundred meters, and then turned onto the next cross street, which was Helgolandsgade.

The closer she got, the more hesitant she became. She would hardly be attacked in broad daylight, but the memory of the assault half a day earlier suddenly felt very tangible. She peered into the half darkness of the doorway before she sneaked into the courtyard. Everything was fine. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Tom’s number.

“Tom.”

“It’s Irene. I’m in the backyard.”

“OK. I’ll come down and open the door.”

Tanaka’s heavy, shuffling steps down the short half flight of stairs could be heard clearly. When he looked at her his massive upper body and face filled the entire glass pane of the door. With a faint smile he greeted her and opened the door.

“Thanks for taking the time to come,” he said.

“Good that you could meet with me,” Irene replied.

“No problem. I don’t start until six today. Ole, my real employee, is working now.”

Laboriously, Tom Tanaka started to climb the stairs. His labored breathing echoed in the stairwell. He politely held open the heavy door for Irene and she stepped into his bedroom. It looked the same as it had last time. The bed was neatly made with black silk sheets. Tom had changed into a dark blue silk outfit, pajamas like the black ones he had been wearing the day before.

He showed her into his office.

The sparsely decorated room was soothing. Irene sat on one of the cloth-covered chairs and Tom in his special chair behind the desk. Without asking if she wanted any, he bent and took two cold Hofs out of the minifridge. Just like last time, Irene got a glass while he drank directly from the bottle.

“Marcus designed this room for me. Like the kitchen. It was finished last month. He never got to see the finished product,” he said.

“Was he an interior designer?”

“Among other things. He designed most things. Window and shop displays, fabrics, and all kinds of things. The big job that brought him here to Copenhagen was furnishing a gay bar on one of the cross streets to Ströget. A new and very popular place. It was unbelievably successful and he quickly got new jobs.”

“I’ve informed my colleagues in Göteborg of your information without naming you as the source. Now the investigation at home will really get going thanks to you.”

“It’s the least I can do for Marcus.”

Irene thought through what she should say about Isabell. She decided to start from the beginning, with Monika Lind’s phone call. In her broken English she tried to explain as clearly as possible. Tom listened. Sometimes he nodded almost imperceptibly.

When she came to the previous day’s skinhead attack, Tom sat up straight in his chair and looked at her sharply. The next moment he relaxed, and, to Irene’s surprise, he started laughing. The laughter rolled up out of his broad chest and rumbled out of his mouth.

“You! That was you!”

When he had finished laughing, he said, “I heard about it this morning. A police officer found two beat-up skinheads on Helgolandsgade. They said that a transvestite had robbed and beaten them.”

Tom stopped again for a new round of laughing. Transvestite! Irene didn’t think that was so funny.

“I have to admit it didn’t cross my mind that it was you. Even though I knew you practice jujitsu. But this seemed more violent.”

“It was more violent. Jujitsu and a bit more,” Irene answered.

Tom shook his big head and chuckled to himself.

Irene felt time was running out and quickly returned to the subject of Isabell’s disappearance from the Hotel Aurora on the same street as Tom’s store. He became serious and thoughtful.

“It’s a strange coincidence. But Marcus’s murder and the terrible thing that has happened to him can’t have anything to do with the girl’s disappearance.”

“No. I don’t think so either. But the coincidence worries me.”

He let his gaze rest on her for some time. “There is a connection,” he said finally.

“What?”

“You.”

He said the very thing she had been thinking. Again she was gripped by the feeling that someone was standing in the wings and playing a game with her.

They sat quietly for a while looking at each other. Tom broke the silence. “I know someone at the Hotel Aurora.”