Helene Tursten - The Torso

“It’s important. Can you arrange to let me have copies of the photos you have on your bedroom wall?” she asked.

It was quiet for some time. Irene assumed that Tom was trying to wake up and understand what she had said. Finally she heard his gruff voice. “I have a Polaroid camera. Is it good enough if I use that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. We can always make an enlargement.”

Personally, she wasn’t among the most chipper of morning people so she understood his irritation about being awakened. But it was actually one thirty in the afternoon. As if he had realized how grumpy he sounded, he hurried to add, “I know a guy who can make real copies of the photos. But it will take a bit longer. Then you can have them enlarged.”

“That would be really nice of you. Could I suggest that you take the Polaroid pictures with your camera and send them today and then send the others when they are ready?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Irene decided to get in one more question. “You haven’t come up with the name of the photographer or the name of the other model?”

“No. Marcus never mentioned them. He had the pictures with him when he came here for the last time. They were ready to hang. Without asking me, he took down the two paintings I had on the wall and put up his instead. He said that they should hang there while he was gone so that I wouldn’t forget him.”

To her surprise, she suddenly heard a man’s voice say something in the background. She also heard Tom say, “Soon.” Who was with him? A vague feeling of concern overcame her. It could be heard in her voice when she said, “You’re being careful, right?”

“Absolutely. You, too.”

After he’d hung up, she was unable to free herself from her feeling of concern.

She spent the time until four o’clock finishing the report, then turned off the computer with a feeling of liberation. Her body felt stiff. Her neck and shoulders popped when she stretched. She would have to take a really long run tonight to chase the stiffness from her body. Not to mention the high living in Copenhagen, which had settled around her stomach. Her jeans had felt tight this morning. But her period would be coming in two days, so that might also be the reason. In any case, she needed some serious workouts over the weekend.

On the way to Hannu’s office she picked up two cups of coffee. When she pushed open his door with her foot, she could see that there was a man sitting at the desk, but it was Hans Pahliss, not Hannu. Irene recognized him from the pictures in Marcus’s photo album. He looked up from the pile of papers he had been reading.

A sharp brown gaze focused on her over the edge of lowered reading glasses. His dark hair was a little too long and hung untidily across his forehead. It looked as though he had run his hand through it several times. His face was pale, with sharp lines, and showed heavy blue-black beard stubble. His body seemed to be thin. Irene got the impression that Pahliss was several years older and significantly shorter than his partner, Anders Gunnarsson.

Irene smiled and said, “Inspector Irene Huss. I brought some coffee. Would you like milk or sugar?”

“Milk, please.”

“Then I’ll go and get one with milk. Hannu can take this one.”

She placed both steaming cups on the desk and went out again. She caught sight of Hannu at the far end of the corridor. He had just reached his office when she returned with Hans Pahliss’s coffee.

The virologist was packing his papers into a large briefcase. His thin hands, with their long, sensitive fingers, nervously closed all the locks and set the combination numbers. If she hadn’t known his profession she would have guessed he was a pianist. He folded up his frameless reading glasses and put them in the chest pocket of his suit jacket, clasped his hands in front of him on the desk, and looked challengingly at Irene.

“Well,” said Hans Pahliss.

There was no question in his voice. It was a command to start the conversation.

“Anders Gunnarsson has probably talked to you about what has happened,” Irene started.

Hans Pahliss nodded.

“How well did you know Marcus?”

“We were good friends.”

“Did you speak with Marcus when he called at the beginning of March?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t home.”

“Did Anders tell you that he had called?”

“Yes.”

“What did Anders say?”

“What did he say? That Marcus had called. That he was in a hurry because he was going to pack for a trip to Thailand.”

“Did Marcus say who he was going to travel with?”

“No. We speculated a bit about it.”

“Did you come up with who it could be?”

“No. It could have been anyone.”

“Were you aware that Anders and Marcus had been together?”

“Yes.”

“How did that affect your feelings toward Marcus?”

“It didn’t affect me at all.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

Pahliss hadn’t touched his coffee mug. He maintained eye contact with Irene. A quick thought about the unfairness of nature flickered through Irene’s brain. Long eyelashes like that should not belong to a man. The next thought that struck her was how different Anders Gunnarsson and Hans Pahliss were. The dentist had been open and talkative while the virologist seemed to be his exact opposite.

Hannu had been sitting quietly during Irene’s preliminary questions but now he leaned forward suddenly and said, “Have you been to Copenhagen?”

Pahliss looked both surprised and irritated when he answered. “Of course.”

“As a tourist or for a longer period of time?”

“I was a guest researcher for two months at the state hospital.”

Irene realized that she had been holding her breath. Hannu continued without showing that he noticed. “When was that?”

“February and March 1997.”

“Where did you live?”

“What does it matter? What does this have to do with Marcus-” He stopped, struck by a thought.

“Of course. I understand. Naturally, Marcus also stayed with Emil,” he said shortly.

Irene’s pulse rate increased so much that her ears hummed. Did she have a predisposition to high blood pressure, like the superintendent? Her voice was almost shaky when she asked, “Did you live with Emil Bentsen when you were in Copenhagen?”

“Yes. I got his address from an acquaintance here in Göteborg. His rooms were centrally located, cheap and good. I gave the address to Marcus when he asked me about places to live in Copenhagen.”

“You gave him Emil’s address?”

“Yes.”

“But then you knew where Marcus was living in Copenhagen.”

For the first time something that could be interpreted as a smile crossed Pahliss’s face.

“We didn’t know. Marcus went around and asked everyone he knew about places to stay in Copenhagen. He was loaded down with addresses when he left. He was going to stay at a hotel the first few days and then let us know when he had decided on a permanent address.”

Hans Pahliss suddenly seemed to discover his mug on the desk and took a large gulp of the lukewarm coffee.

“But he never did?”

“No.”

They finally had an explanation for how Marcus had ended up at Emil’s. Irene’s thoughts were interrupted when Hannu asked, “Who gave you Emil’s address?”

For the first time, Pahliss looked uncertain. But when he realized that the police officers had noticed his hesitancy, he said with assurance, “Actually one of my exes. Before you ask: yes, Anders knows him and we hang out as friends.”

His tone of voice sharpened.

“Who?” Hannu repeated.

“Pontus Zander.”

“How did he know Emil Bentsen?”