Helene Tursten - The Torso

Tom sighed. “Good God. . Emil! It could have been Emil. I sold him a police uniform about a year ago.”

“Do you remember when?”

“It was right in the beginning when I had just taken over the store. Almost two years ago. It was the first time we met.”

“He only bought one? Not two?”

“One.”

Irene said, after some hesitation, “Emil found out from his mother that I was looking for Isabell Lind. When I left Beate Bentsen at the restaurant, it was eight thirty. Emil came in just after that. He couldn’t have known, then, until eight thirty. I saw him here with you around ten o’clock. At about the same time, a man named Simon Steiner called Scandinavian Models and requested Isabell Lind be sent to the Hotel Aurora, a stone’s throw from your store. Who would Emil have had time to tell that I was looking for Isabell?”

A loaded silence ensued. Finally, Tom answered, “He must have called the killer from his cell phone. Can’t you trace calls from cell phones as well?”

“I don’t know if it’s possible at this point. I don’t even know if they found his cell phone. Do you have his number?”

Tom shook his head. “No.”

A thought struck Irene. “Did Emil have your number?”

“No.”

“Did Marcus?” A hint of a smile could be seen in one of the corners of Tom’s mouth, when he answered. “Of course.”

“And you gave it to me.”

Tom raised his massive head and looked her straight in the eye. “I trust you,” he said.

An unspoken question lingered above their heads: did she trust him? Irene looked at the massive figure in front of her, seated on the edge of the bed. He had known both Marcus and Emil. As a police officer, this fact should cause her to be on her guard. He was a grotesque figure in the eyes of many people: frightening and at the same time inviting ridicule. But Irene had felt his sincere grief over Marcus’s murder. She had also seen his lust for vengeance and realized that he was dangerous. He had meant what he’d said when he’d asked her to catch Marcus’s killer.

“I trust you, too. Without you we wouldn’t have identified Marcus as quickly, and you have always answered my. . close questions truthfully.”

Tom hid his smile when he heard Irene search for the English word for “intrusive”; it became instead “close questions.” Irene understood English much better than she spoke it. He knew what she meant and he hadn’t corrected her. He hadn’t done that a single time during their sometimes stumbling conversations.

“I’m doing everything I can to help you,” he said.

Irene looked at the clock and saw that it was high time she went on her way.

“Can you call me a cab?”

“Sure.”

Tom reached for the telephone on the nightstand and pushed a speed-dial button. He instantly got an answer and ordered the car to the street behind the back lot.

He rose from the bed in a cumbersome fashion and went to the door that led to the stairwell. Before he opened it, he turned toward Irene and said, “We’ll keep in touch, like before. But be on your guard. Keep a good lookout.”

“The same goes for you.”

Tom nodded. “I understand.”

She called Scandinavian Models from the taxi. Petra didn’t answer. Instead, a hoarse, sexy voice introduced herself in Danish as Heidi. Irene explained who she was and asked for Petra but was told that she was unavailable. Irene quickly decided to take a chance. In an official, neutral tone she said, “Petra told me what time Jens Metz arrived on Wednesday the nineteenth. But I happened to write it down sloppily and I can’t see if it says eleven thirty or eleven forty.”

Irene could hear Heidi flipping through the logbook. Her smoky, dark voice said, “Eleven thirty.”

Irene was overjoyed. But her voice didn’t reveal a thing when she thanked Heidi for her help.

Irene saw Peter Møller outside the entrance to the church before he saw her. He was standing on the top step next to the entrance, peering out at the people passing by. She knew that she was late and she quickened her steps. Peter caught sight of her and raised his hand to wave. Without haste, he sauntered down the steps toward her.

“Sorry, Peter. I went into a store and forgot the time.”

She smiled apologetically and tried to look female and scatterbrained. Peter nodded, but she felt him subject her to careful scrutiny. Without wasting unnecessary words, he piloted her over to the parked BMW. As usual, he held open the passenger-side door for her.

He slid smoothly into the heavy stream of traffic.

“Did you find out anything new?” he asked.

“I couldn’t get Petra. She wasn’t there. But I got confirmation for something I had been wondering about.”

She explained that she had been outside Scandinavian Models at about the same time Isabell was murdered and that she had seen a man who looked strikingly like Jens Metz go into the bordello. After forty-five minutes he still hadn’t come out. Heidi had admitted that it really had been Jens Metz.

“How should we deal with this information?” she asked.

Peter sat quietly for some time.

“Don’t say anything to Jens. His visit to a bordello doesn’t have anything to do with Isabell’s murder.”

“But don’t you think it’s an amazing coincidence?”

“Maybe not. Jens could have become curious about Scandinavian Models after you mentioned it. Maybe he went there to get a closer look. And then he thought about other things when he was there. . ”

“You don’t think it’s the least bit suspicious?” Irene persisted.

Peter gave her an amused look before he said, “As I see it, he has a perfect alibi. You were standing outside keeping an eye on him.”

He had a point there.

They turned onto a wide avenue with impressive beech trees lining both sides. The immense network of branches met in the middle and had braided themselves together like an enormous vaulted ceiling. The half-light of the avenue contrasted sharply with the sun-drenched surroundings.

An arrow pointed toward a parking lot. Peter turned in and stopped inside a white marked box.

Tall oaks shadowed the well-tended flower beds in the hospital garden. The hospital itself was a low yellow stucco building. Even though the building looked idyllic and romantically old-fashioned, the barred windows on the bottom floor dispelled this impression.

A discreet brass sign next to the entrance informed visitors that they had come to Queen Anne’s Hospital.

“This is a psychiatric hospital,” Peter informed her.

“I’d assumed that.” Irene had to try not to sound sarcastic.

The heavy entrance door was open and led to a spacious hall with pillars in a Roman style supporting the white painted ceiling. It looked fresh and newly decorated.

“She’s in Ward Three,” said Peter.

The door on the left bore the number one, and that on the right, number two. Consequently, Beate Bentsen should be located one floor up.

There weren’t any bars on the windows of the second floor, but the door to the ward was locked. They had to ring the bell and wait for a nurse.

One of the largest men Irene had ever seen-even compared with Tom Tanaka-filled the doorway when the door was finally opened. Under his curly blond beard and tangled head of hair, which seemed to be joined, a deep voice emerged. “Who are you looking for?”

Neither Peter nor Irene managed to reply. The giant was used to this reaction.

“I’m Erland. One hundred and sixty kilos, two meters ten. An old basketball player who has gained a few kilos.”

Irene heard a hint of a titter in his bass voice. Peter had finally managed to get his act together and said, “Crime police. We’ve been given permission to visit Beate Bentsen.”