Helene Tursten - The Torso

“We have good reason to believe that Marcus has been the victim of a crime,” Irene said calmly.

After a split second, the question came like a gunshot, “What kind of crime?”

“That’s what I need to speak with you about. I’ll be there in half an hour. Good-bye.”

Before Tosscander had time to protest, Irene hung up the phone. She grabbed a cup of coffee on her way out for extra strength.

THE LARGEone-story brown brick house was located only a five-iron shot away from Hovås golf course. The whitebeam hedge around the house was several meters high, and only the flat roof of the house could be seen from the street. Irene turned in through the gap in the hedge and bumped onto the poorly maintained driveway. Both the house and the yard were characterized by slight decay.

The front door was opened before she had time to stretch her hand out and knock with the heavy bronze knocker shaped like a lion’s head.

“Criminal Inspector Irene Huss.” Irene held out her hand. Emanuel Tosscander responded with a short, firm handshake.

He was the same height as Irene. His body was slim and fit, his hair thick and silver-white. Marcus had inherited his beautiful eyes from his father. His face was deeply tanned and surprisingly wrinkle free. Emanuel Tosscander was a very handsome man.

“Senior phys-Emanuel Tosscander,” he said. He stepped aside and halfheartedly gestured her inside.

The hall was gloomy, with a dark tile floor and moss green woven tapestry hangings. Irene followed Tosscander’s straight back into an enormous living room. Large picture windows ran along the long side of the room. But no sunlight could squeeze through the heavy vegetation in the backyard. The entirety of the large room was filled with a dusky half-light. The furniture was big and heavy, made of dark wood and dark brown leather. There were large Oriental rugs in reddish brown tones on the floor. Not even the paintings on the walls could cheer up the room. They were sober landscapes and dim portraits. Not a single plant sat in the windows.

“Please sit down,” Tosscander said mechanically. As for himself, he remained standing.

Irene sank down onto an uncomfortable rock-hard leather chair. “Thanks. I’d like it if you would sit down, too,” said Irene.

At first he looked like he wanted to protest, but something in Irene’s voice made him obey. He sat on the edge of the sofa and observed her coldly. But Irene could sense some concern behind his frosty demeanor.

It was just as well to inform him of what had happened to Marcus since it would be in the papers in a few days anyway. Irene got right to the point. “It was good of you to see me. I have something serious to tell you. First, I need an answer to a question. Did Marcus contact you during the first week of March?”

“No.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke with each other?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“Yes, it is. We’re investigating a crime.”

“What kind of crime?”

“Murder.”

Irene looked him straight in the eye. He was the first to glance away. He stared at his overgrown yard for a long time, then he turned toward her. “We haven’t spoken with each other since the first week of December.”

“Why not?”

“We. . had a fight.”

“Why?”

“That’s really none of your business!”

“Again, I’ll have to remind you that we are investigating a murder.”

“Of whom?”

“My condolences, but it has to do with Marcus.”

Slowly, all color disappeared from the handsome face. The even sunburn took on a sick yellowish tone. Right in front of Irene’s eyes, Emanuel Tosscander aged ten years in as many seconds. He sank backward onto the sofa without taking his eyes off her. Finally, he was able to whisper, “It. . can’t. . be true.”

“Unfortunately, it is. Marcus had a very unusual tattoo made in Copenhagen. The body we found a few weeks ago outside Killevik had the same tattoo. There are also other things that add up.”

“No! Not murdered and dismembered!”

Anguish could be heard in his voice and seen in his eyes. He slowly rose from the sofa. In an almost normal tone of voice, he asked, “Will Marcus’s name be published in the press?”

“Yes. We have to do so in order to find possible witnesses.”

“My name. .! What are people out here going to say? You must understand. I forbid you to publish his name in the newspapers!”

He got to his feet upset and pointed an accusing finger at Irene. She was getting angry. Sharply she said, “Sit.”

The command word usually worked on Sammie and it also did on the surprised Tosscander.

“Marcus probably came home to Göteborg during the first week in March. That’s when he met his killer. A killer who we have good reason to believe has murdered before. There is a significant risk that he will continue. That’s why we must find him. You should also be anxious to catch your son’s murderer.”

Tosscander looked as though he had just been boxed on the ear. “Why were you not getting along?” Irene repeated.

He didn’t answer.

“My guess would be that he told you he was gay. Is that what happened?” The jaundiced look of Tosscander’s face gave way to a blush that spread up from his throat.

“That’s not true! It was just a passing fixation. I don’t know how many girlfriends he brought home over the years! He isn’t gay!”

“How many girlfriends has he brought home over the years?”

“What business. . I don’t know.”

“Try and count.”

Tosscander glared at Irene but looked like he was thinking. Finally he said, “Four or five.”

“Four or five girlfriends in thirty years. Can you give me their names?”

“No. Just one. The others I only met once or twice. Angelica Sandberg was a kid from the neighborhood with whom he was together for several years.”

“When was that?”

“Well. . it was probably about ten years ago. She’s married now. Lives in the States.”

“But her parents still live here?”

“Yes.”

Irene wrote the name in her notebook. There were reasons for trying to get in touch with Angelica.

“He never brought any male friends here?”

Tosscander stiffened. Guardedly he said, “No. Not the last few years. When he was younger he did, of course. . but not since he moved away from home.”

“Was he always alone when he came to visit?”

“Yes.”

“He never spoke with you about a male friend?”

“No.”

“No name ever came up?”

“No.”

Tosscander sat crumpled on the sofa as if he had given up the battle. It seemed as though the truth had begun to sink in.

“Mr. Tosscander, I need to ask a few routine questions. Is that all right?”

He nodded weakly.

“How old are you?”

“Sixty-nine.”

Irene would never have guessed. He looked considerably younger. “Where were you senior physician before you retired?”

“I was an ear, nose, and throat specialist at Sahlgren Hospital.”

That kind of a specialist couldn’t be all that familiar with autopsy methods, thought Irene.

“Does Marcus have any siblings or half siblings?”

“No.”

“I understand that your wife died. .”

“Ten years ago. Breast cancer.”

Suddenly, he stood up and looked sharply at Irene. “Now I’m glad that she’s dead so she doesn’t have to experience this. . disgrace!”

That’s how he felt about his only son’s death. It was a disgrace to him.

THE VISIT to Emanuel Tosscander depressed Irene. Since Hovås wasn’t that far from Fiskebäck, she decided to drive home for lunch.

It was strange to come home in the middle of the day to an empty house. The mailbox was overflowing with advertisements. She almost threw out a card along with them, but just before she dropped the whole pile into the paper recycling bag she saw a glimpse of it inside a double-folded advertisement for Hemglass ice cream. Curious, she took a closer look at the colorful card. It was a picture of the familiar view of Copenhagen with the Little Mermaid in the foreground and glittering water behind. The message itself as well as Irene’s name and address, was written with a black India ink pen. The street and postal code were perfectly correct.