Helene Tursten - The Torso

Jonny raised his eyebrows in surprise and started to say, “How do you-” but stopped himself.

At least he had learned something, thought Irene.

A freelance photographer? Probably. A photographer of this class probably worked on his own. But he might have a studio with employees. Irene realized that it was going to take time to find the photographer but they would find him.

PETER MØLLER left just before five o’clock. He planned on reaching his home by ten if all went smoothly. Hannu, Jonny, and Irene went to Superintendent Andersson’s office in order to bring him up to speed on the surprising developments in the case.

Andersson declined to watch the videos. He fully trusted their judgment of the tapes’ authenticity, he said.

They agreed that they would start the search for the photographer the next day.

THE GIRL IN THE lab was a godsend. By nine o’clock she had made five sets of copies of Tom Tanaka’s Polaroid pictures, as well as a good enlargement of both pictures. Irene had gone around among her colleagues with the picture of the man with the ponytail, and asked if anyone had seen him before. No one recognized him. Only she and Hannu seemed to have a feeling of familiarity. Or was it just their imagination?

Irene focused on the picture and tried to be objective. Yes, there was certainly something familiar about the high cheekbones and the contour of the ear, the chest and the arms. She stared at the picture until her eyes started burning.

She gave up. His identity was somewhere in the back of her mind, she was certain of it. She would eventually come up with it. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long. They were working under a time constraint; the risk that the murderer would kill again was constantly increasing. It was obvious that the man in the backlit picture had known Marcus Tosscander. It was possible that he knew quite a bit about both Emil and Marcus. It was even conceivable that he was involved in the murders. It was very important to find this man.

Hannu was going to try to reach Anders Gunnarsson, and Birgitta was going to try Hans Pahliss. Irene took it upon herself to get in touch with Pontus Zander since she needed to speak with him anyway. There was a good chance that one of them would recognize the man in the photo. Maybe he moved in the same circles they did.

Irene realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t possible to divide up photographers based on their areas of specialty. So they divided those listed in the Yellow Pages in four, with the same number of names in each. They would have to go through each list methodically, one by one. It was just a matter of getting started.

Irene started writing in the photographers’ addresses on the map, in order to work out a systematic route. If she didn’t get any leads quickly, it would take up most of the day and a good portion of the next one. But it would be worth it if they could put a name to the man in the backlit picture.

IT WAS three thirty and Irene had begun to feel a bit dejected. None of the men or women she had met during the day as she wandered between photography studios had been able to give her any tip as to who the photographer could be. However, several people had recognized Marcus. Apparently, he had done a lot of modeling before the design company got off the ground.

Now she was both sweaty and thirsty. The early summer heat had been pleasant at lunchtime but it had become oppressive during the afternoon. It was the first real summer day of the year, and one that had been longed for, but as far as Irene was concerned, it could definitely have held off a while longer. The car was boiling hot and her clothes were sticking to her body. Her deodorant sure wasn’t lasting twenty-four hours, like the commercial had promised, a fact of which she had become awkwardly aware during the last couple of hours. She longed intensely for a cool shower.

Without any expectations whatsoever she slowly trudged up the worn steps to E. Bolin’s Commercial Photography Company, Incorporated, on Kastellgatan. “Corporation” always sounded fancy, but the facade of this office was not impressive. The outer door was insignificant and its paint had peeled off in big patches. The bell didn’t work, so Irene had to knock hard.

The man who opened it was a surprise. Her first thought was that he must be a photo model. He was a bit taller than average, slim, and looked like he was in good shape. His eyes were amber brown and matched his short hair perfectly. The bangs were longer and stood straight up in straggling pieces. The look was so nonchalant and sporty that it must have taken him at least half an hour to arrange it. After more scrutiny, she realized that he was older than he had seemed at first glance, over thirty rather than under.

He smiled charmingly and said, “Hi. What can I help you with?”

“Hi. Irene Huss, from the police.” She had her ID ready and pulled it out of her pocket.

The man raised his eyebrows slightly but didn’t move from the doorway.

“Really?” he said.

“I’m looking for the photographer Erik Bolin,” Irene said.

“At your service,” said the man at the door.

He made a slight bow and took a step into the hall so that she could get past. Irene entered his studio.

If the exterior wasn’t impressive, the interior certainly was. It was obvious that the entire premises had recently been renovated.

The walls in the hall were painted light gray, and the floor was a warm cherrywood. The studio itself, a large illuminated room, was located straight ahead. Those walls were white but the floor was the same as in the hall. The door to the right stood open and led into a rather large and airy kitchen. Black, steel, and cherrywood flooring.

“When did Marcus Tosscander design this interior?” she asked.

Now Bolin arched his eyebrows. “Did you know about it or could you tell?” he asked.

“I could tell.”

“Bravo. He has, or had, his own style. Absolutely luscious. I love it.”

“When did he design it?”

“A little more than a year ago. The renovation itself was done last summer. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

They went into the ultramodern kitchen. Irene sat on a kitchen chair, which certainly wasn’t any ordinary kitchen chair. The welded-steel frame and the skillfully woven chair seat of sturdy hemp told her that it was “designed.” Erik Bolin turned on an espresso machine. He was busy for a long time with all of the utensils required to press out an itty-bitty cup of coffee from the sputtering and puffing machine. Irene preferred huge buckets of Swedish coffee but for lack of anything better, this would have to do. Caffeine was caffeine.

Apparently the machine could make two cups at a time, because Bolin set down two minicups on the kitchen table’s slate top. He placed a small plate with rice cakes between them. Was the man dieting? He didn’t look like he needed to. Or maybe that’s why he looked like he did?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Bolin’s question. “Is this about Marcus?”

“In a way. Did you know each other well?”

He smiled sorrowfully. “Yes. We were very good friends.”

“How long had you known each other?”

Bolin thought a bit. “Four years.”

“Were you together?”

“Together. . it happened in the beginning. . but we’ve just been friends the last two years.”

“Did you take any pictures of Marcus?”

His dark amber eyes began to glow.

“Tons! He loved being in front of the camera, and the camera loved him. It’s like that with some people.”

Irene pulled out the envelope with the two Polaroid pictures.

“Did you take these?”

He picked up the pictures and cast a fleeting look at them. “Of course.”