The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (25 page)

“Did you reach Emil?” Irene asked.

The superintendent gave a start and looked at Irene, confused. “What? Emil? No.”

With the last word she bent over her glass again.

Irene felt strongly that something was wrong. But she couldn’t stop now. “Do you think we can reach him tonight or tomorrow morning?” she asked.

Beate looked irritated. “I don’t know. He lives his own life.”

“I understand that. But for the sake of the investigation, it’s important to clarify who knew that I was looking for Isabell. We need to know whom he told.” Irene tried to sound calm and reasonable.

Beate looked at her sharply, then she nodded and looked away. “I can’t get ahold of him.” she admitted. “I was at his apartment today but he wasn’t home.” she sounded worried.

Irene thought quickly, then asked if he had left a note or a message for her at his apartment.

“I don’t have a key,” Beate Bentsen said.

Irene almost gave it away. The sentence was already rolling off her tongue—
but doesn’t he have a tenant who can open it for you
—when she realized what she was about to reveal. She quickly swallowed the sentence and became mute out of sheer terror. She had come close to exposing Tom Tanaka! She could feel that she was starting to sweat.

Beate didn’t seem to have noticed anything. Almost whispering, she continued, “He says that he doesn’t want me to come and go in his life just as I please. That’s why I don’t have a key.”

Irene could come up with several reasons why Emil wouldn’t want a mother who was a police superintendent to suddenly show up at his home. She nodded, without saying anything.

Beate suddenly burst out, “It’s so strange! He seems to have disappeared!”

The three men turned their heads simultaneously and looked at her. Jens peered good-naturedly from the depths of his fatty jowls and asked, “Who has disappeared?”

Bentsen took a deep breath and looked morosely. “Emil. I haven’t heard from him in a week.”

Clearly Beate was worried, and Irene had a feeling that she had good reason to be. Impulsively, she put her hand on the coarse linen-clad arm of her colleague and said, “When we’re finished here, we’ll take a taxi and go to Emil’s apartment. I’ll come along. If he’s home, I can ask him my question directly. Then it’ll be taken care of.”

Beate shrugged at first. Then she nodded.

THE DINNER HAD BEEN superb. Jens Metz had entertained them with stories about the work of the Copenhagen Police Department, and Jonny had countered with glimpses from the everyday lives of his Göteborg colleagues. They had laughed and passed a very enjoyable couple of hours.

Just before eleven o’clock, Beate Bentsen touched Irene’s arm and said in a low voice, “Shall we go?”

Irene nodded. They got up and excused themselves. Peter Møller asked if he should escort them but they assured him that it wasn’t necessary.

After the increasing warmth and cigarette smoke of the restaurant, the night air of Rådhuspladsen felt refreshing. They hailed a free cab and Irene remembered to let the superintendent give the directions. At Gothersgade they paid for the trip and asked the cabdriver to wait five minutes. If they hadn’t come back before then, he could leave.

Emil lived in a beautiful old stone house dating from the beginning of the twentieth century. The house itself was of red-brown brick, richly embellished. Sculptured faces on the building’s friezes gazed down at the two women through the half darkness.

They were lucky. A man was coming down the stairs and opened the door, giving Beate a friendly smile. He probably recognized her as Emil’s mother, thought Irene.

Broad marble steps led to an airy stairwell. At the far end of the hall, light streamed in from a rectangular elevator window. The elevator was considerably younger than the remainder of the house. They were quickly carried up to the fourth floor; the car stopped with a gentle bounce.

The hallway had been recently renovated, revealing Art Nouveau designs along the walls and around the lead-framed stairway windows. It must be unbelievably beautiful when the sun shines through the multicolored glass windows, thought Irene. They were dark now since street light didn’t reach to the top floor. The walls were newly glazed in pale yellow, and a talented painter had covered the heavy outer doors in an old-fashioned style using a dark chestnut brown color for a hand-drawn pattern.

Beate Bentsen walked with determined steps up to one of the two doors on the landing. It said EMIL BENTSEN on the blue ceramic plate, which contrasted with the elegance of the rest of the entrance. If one looked closer, it could be seen that the little pink border under Emil’s name was made up of pigs. The first stood on all fours and the others stood behind, each with its forelegs resting on the back of the one in front. There were ten pigs in a row, copulating.

Beate didn’t give the pigs a glance. She rang the doorbell forcefully. It echoed behind the massive door, which remained closed. Irene put her ear to the door. All was quiet; no movement could be heard. She got down on her knees and peered through the mail slot. On the floor she could glimpse newspapers, advertisements, and some envelopes.

“He hasn’t been home for several days,” she said.

Just when she was about to get up, Irene became aware of the smell coming through the open slot. It was so faint that she hadn’t noticed it at first. But this smell, even if ever so faint, was well known to a murder investigator.

At first she didn’t know what she was going to say to Beate. In order to buy some time, she asked, “Did you look through the mail slot when you were here earlier today?”

“Yes, I saw the pile of mail. That’s what got me so worried.”

Irene swallowed before she asked the next question. “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”

“No. Why?”

Irene looked quickly at Beate. It was quite possible that the superintendent hadn’t noticed the smell as she was a heavy smoker. Her sense of smell might be diminished, but not Irene’s. A faint but unmistakable odor of corruption was coming through the mail slot.

Beate Bentsen managed to get the building’s owner using Irene’s cell phone. Judging by the tone of the conversation, they were old acquaintances. He hadn’t gone to bed, and since the women didn’t have a car, he promised to come and give them the keys personally.

The superintendent’s face was pale green when she ended the conversation. With a gesture of exhaustion she handed the phone to Irene. “He lives very close by. It will only take him a few minutes by car.”

Then the remote expression returned to her face. Irene decided not to bother her with chitchat. They stood in silence outside the door with its racy sign.

All of Irene’s instincts were signaling with red warning lights: the smell wasn’t coming from old, forgotten trash. Someone or something was rotting inside the apartment.

 

THE ELEVATOR swished quietly up to the top floor and the building’s owner stepped out. To Irene’s surprise he was as dark as ebony. He flashed a brilliant smile and introduced himself as Bill Faraday. He was tall and wiry. If Irene had been asked to guess his profession, she would have said he was a dancer. The last thing she would have guessed was that he was a real estate lessor.

Faraday pulled an enormous set of keys out of the pocket of his expensive-looking leather coat. He searched for a long time among the different keys before he fished out one with a joyful exclamation. The key slid easily off the ring and, with a click as it turned in the lock, the door opened.

Beate stepped in front of Faraday. Brusquely, she said, “Thanks, Bill. We’ll go in ourselves. Can we keep the key?”

If he was surprised by this dismissal, he didn’t show it. With another beaming smile, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the elevator. Bentsen waited until it had started descending before she opened the door completely and, with a wave of her hand, invited Irene in.

The smell was evident in the hall. Irene turned on the light and looked around. It was big and airy and the ceiling was very high. A soiled folk art rug in shades of wine red lay under the large pile of mail and newspapers. The only furnishings were a hat and coat stand and a large mirror with a gilded frame. A naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling.

At random, Irene chose the closest door on the left. It turned out to lead into a large dirty bathroom, which smelled stale. A sour-smelling terry-cloth towel had been thrown on the floor among empty toilet-paper rolls and shampoo bottles.

The next door led into a kitchen, which was equally messy. Encrusted dishes and smelly pizza boxes overflowed the filthy counter. But this wasn’t the dominant smell in the apartment. Irene realized that Beate Bentsen was following right at her heels. Irene understood. The superintendent was afraid of the nauseating smell and of learning where it was coming from. She didn’t dare find out on her own.

As if she had read Irene’s thoughts, Bentsen took a step toward a closed door and said, “Emil’s music room is in there. The door next to it leads to the living room and over there is the bedroom.”

Irene went directly to the bedroom door. It wasn’t completely closed.

The stench hit her as she opened the door wide.

Irene whirled around and tried to keep Beate away but she had glimpsed enough and rushed past Irene. Bentsen stopped by the bed as if frozen in place and stood stock-still without making a sound. Irene hurried to stand beside her.

Emil lay with his hands and feet bound. Rope this time, instead of handcuffs, Irene registered automatically. He was naked. The killer had left his mark on Emil’s abdomen. Beate Bentsen began moaning; soon her moans had risen to a hysterical scream. “It’s gone! He’s taken . . . It’s gone. . . . .”

Irene also saw that body parts were missing. The murderer had mutilated his victim.

 

IT WAS along night. Irene didn’t get back to the Hotel Alex until just before 4:00 a.m.

I’m never going to fall asleep, she thought. She didn’t remember anything after that until she was awakened by the telephone at eight thirty. Half asleep, she fumbled the phone to her ear. She came awake after she heard Superintendent Andersson’s booming voice. “Naturally, I called the police station to talk to you since you’re supposed to be there working. But I didn’t get you or Jonny so I had to try and understand a gruff-speaking Dane. At least I’ve understood that you found another dismembered victim! What the hell are you doing?”

Irene felt offended and tried to protest. “I’m not the one going around killing people!”

Andersson ignored her objection and continued. “And where are you and Jonny? You’re lying in bed at the hotel sleeping!”

Irene was finally awake enough to get angry.

“I was there last night when the latest victim was found, and I didn’t get to bed until five o’clock!” she hissed angrily. She added an hour while she was at it because it sounded better. Andersson wouldn’t be able to refute this information. There was a short silence on the phone before the superintendent started speaking again. In a considerably calmer tone, he said, “You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the victim?”

“Superintendent Bentsen’s son.”

The silence that followed was very long, but she knew her boss and was preparing for another explosion. “What the hell are you saying? Bentsen’s son! It can—”

She interrupted him. “This murder bears the signature of our killer. His victim was bound, split open, defiled and mutilated.”

When the superintendent’s voice could be heard again, it sounded serious and sensible. “Irene. He’s working close to you. He’s probably still in Copenhagen and he has struck again at someone connected to you.”

“That’s not entirely certain,” said Irene. “The medical examiner reported that Emil Bentsen has probably been dead for a week. The murderer could already be back in Göteborg or wherever it is that he lives.”

“So this victim was killed at the same time as that girl, Isabell?”

“Yes. The murders are connected. Jonny and I have to stay here another night.”

“Why? Can’t the Danes report to us as to what their investigation turns up?”

“I found a business card on Emil Bentsen’s bulletin board in his bedroom. It was hanging pinned under another piece of paper and only one corner was sticking out. But I recognized the corner. It was Marcus Tosscander’s business card. You know, the one that has Tosca’s Design on it.”

She could hear Andersson gasping for breath. Irene worried that he was going to have a heart attack but he sounded relatively normal and collected by the time he spoke again.

“OK. Look for more connections to Marcus today. But you’re coming home tomorrow! This is getting expensive. We can’t pay for two police officers to stay in Copenhagen. . . .”

He stopped himself and Irene realized that a thought had struck him.

“Was Jonny with you last night when you found Bentsen’s son?”

“No.”

“Where was he?”

Irene hesitated about telling the truth, which was
He was sitting and drinking with his Danish colleague Jens Metz.
She decided not to.

“No idea. I was with Beate Bentsen. She was worried because Emil hadn’t been in touch for so long and I agreed to go with her to his apart—”

The superintendent interrupted her. “So Jonny wasn’t there when you discovered the murder. What excuse does he have for not working?”

Irene chickened out again. “Don’t know.”

“I’ll call his room and ask. And Irene . . . be careful.”

“Of course. I’ll call tonight.”

 

A RED-FACED and hungover Jonny Blom entered the breakfast room when Irene had almost finished eating. He sank down in the chair across from her and sighed. “Andersson called. He was in a horrible mood. Why was he jabbering about my not being with you last night? What corpse was he ranting about?”