Helene Tursten - The Torso

“Tom speaking.”

“Irene Huss here. We need to meet immediately.”

“Has something happened?”

“Yes, I need to speak with you.”

“Are you able to, even with your colleague around?”

“Yes. If we can meet in half an hour.”

“I can make it in an hour. OK?”

“No. There won’t be enough time. It’s important! Otherwise I wouldn’t have called you!”

He must have heard the desperation in her voice.

“OK. I have company now. Come in half an hour. Call when you’re outside the door and I’ll come down and open it for you.”

Irene pulled a comb through her short hairdo and ruffled it a bit. To her surprise, she had started liking her short hairdo. For the sake of appearances, she put on some more lipstick. She smiled at her own reflection for practice. It was important that she look casual while she was serving up a white lie to her colleagues.

She dropped down next to her steaming cup of coffee and said, “I think that I’m going to try and speak with the girls at Scandinavian Models again. I’d especially like to talk to Petra one more time. Now that the initial shock is over, she might remember more from the night Isabell disappeared.”

“Do you think it will add anything? We have already questioned the girls several times,” Peter objected.

“I know, but I want to make one last attempt.”

Peter shrugged to show what he thought of the idea. To Irene’s relief, the three men started talking about soccer. She sat quietly and pretended not to know anything about the group matches for the European Championship.

When she had finished her last cup of coffee, she smiled apologetically and said, “I think I’ll head out. So long.”

“I’ll pick you up next to the entrance to Vor Frue Kirke at 2:45,” said Peter.

“Fine.”

Irene faintly recalled that this meeting place was in the immediate neighborhood. She realized that it was going to be difficult to get to Vesterbro and back in time. She would have to take a taxi.

Irene called Tom from the taxi. The driver turned in on Helgolandsgade and Irene paid. Without hurrying, she went through the entrance door. Even though it was broad daylight, she looked around the courtyard carefully. The run-in with the skinheads was still fresh in her mind.

Tom was already standing at the window. He opened the door, welcomed her, and shuffled up the stairs. Irene shivered when she heard his strained breathing. He sounded like a mountain climber without his oxygen at the top of Mount Everest. Tom was dressed in a silver-colored satin outfit for the day and he had wound small silver threads around his knots of hair.

With a chivalrous gesture he held open the door to his bedroom and invited Irene to step in. The room looked just the same. If Tom had been entertaining someone there, he had had enough time to put things in order again. When he started to walk toward the door that led to the corridor, Irene said, “Tom. Could we please stay here in the bedroom?”

Tom raised his eyebrows ironically. “In the bedroom?”

When he saw the serious look on Irene’s face he hurried to add, “Sorry. Bad joke.”

“It’s OK. Why don’t you sit on the bed?”

Without arguing, Tom lowered himself heavily onto the edge of the bed.

“Tom. Prepare yourself for horrible news. Emil Bentsen was found dead in his apartment last night. Murdered. Based on the evidence so far, he was killed a week ago. His body carries the signature of our killer. The signature of Marcus and Isabell’s killer.”

She watched for Tom’s reaction. At first nothing happened; he sat immobile, like a massive gray stone. Slowly, a dull moaning sound rose toward the ceiling. Even though Irene had expected a reaction, she was still surprised. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Tom’s plaint sounded wordlessly and terribly through the room, traveled desperately out into the hall, and died away in the far reaches of the apartment. He began rocking his large body back and forth. His moaning decreased in intensity until finally it ended. But he continued to rock his enormous body back and forth.

Irene was about to continue when he hissed, “That devil! You have to catch him!”

“I’m going to try but I need your help.”

Tom nodded. Irene pointed at the framed photographs on the wall and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that these are photos of Marcus?”

Tom looked sincerely surprised. “I didn’t think about it actually. And he’s only in one of the photographs. The other model is a friend of his.”

Irene took a closer look at the two pictures and realized that he was right.

Marcus was sitting right at the edge of the water. The sun glistened on the droplets on his young sunburned body. He was smiling into the camera. The wind was playfully blowing the hair above his forehead. He was resting his hands on his knees, which were slightly bent and very wide apart. His condition was amazing. The photo had been taken from the water’s edge, looking up, and the whole picture breathed sensual joy and acceptance of one’s own sexuality. Irene had to admit to herself that it was one of the most exciting pictures of a naked person she had ever seen.

The other model was standing in profile, leaning against a rugged stone wall, which seemed to be part of a building. He appeared to be muscular and well built. The picture was taken against the sun so it was impossible to make out his face. Irene could see that his long hair was combed back and had been put in a thick ponytail. The photographer had managed to create the illusion that the sunbeams originated from the top of his erect penis.

Irene had to admit that the photographer was talented.

Suddenly, she had a strong feeling that she recognized the man. She stepped closer but her memory failed her. The direct light pulled his face into darkness, yet she definitely recognized the man. But where had she seen him?

“Do you know who the friend is?”

“No, he never said.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“No.”

“Did Marcus give you these photos?”

“Yes, right before he left. Framed and ready. I just needed to hang them up.”

“Do you know who took them?”

“A photographer in Göteborg, but I don’t know his name.”

“Did you know that Emil also had this same kind of photo of Marcus over his bed? Not the same pose, but it is Marcus.”

Tom gave a start. “No. I didn’t even know that they were that well aquainted.”

“But you knew that they knew each other?”

“Yes. The first time I saw Marcus, he came into the store with Emil. Marcus came up to me right away and started talking. Emil bought some things and didn’t participate in our conversation. I never got the feeling that they were. . together. They seemed more like friends. That’s the only time I saw them together.”

“Marcus never spoke about Emil?”

“No.”

“And you never asked?”

“No.”

“Did Emil ever speak about Marcus?”

“No. Never.”

“You don’t know very much about the personal lives of either Emil or Marcus? You never asked?”

For the first time, Irene felt a reserve on Tom’s part. His tone of voice was icily neutral when he replied, “No.”

“Why not?”

“If you don’t ask any questions, then you don’t have to answer any.” That was as close to the truth as you could get; Irene realized that she wasn’t going to get any personal information out of Tom.

“But Marcus spoke of ‘my police officer’ and said that he lived with a police officer, right?”

“Yes.”

“We found two police uniforms at Emil’s place. And Emil had a rental unit that was part of his apartment. Do you think Emil could have been the policeman Marcus was staying with?”