The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (40 page)

Obviously, that was why Tom Tanaka wasn’t on any of the address lists. All of the new names and design projects after the move were on the new computer. It had disappeared without a trace, like all of Marcus’s other belongings in Copenhagen.

Irene gave Angelica her direct number and got Angelica’s parents’ telephone number. She would be staying in Sweden two weeks.

Dark rain clouds towered over the city, warning of a serious afternoon rainstorm. Irene pondered, not paying attention to the weather.

Marcus’s clothes, computer, cell phone, pens and papers, toiletry items—everything was gone. Except for the car and the three framed photographs Erik Bolin had taken.

One victim had taken pictures of another victim. One of the pictures had hung over the bed—and, moreover, the murder scene—of a third victim. Who demonstrably had participated in mutilating the victim in the picture! It was all connected in some sick and curious way.

The pictures. Because Bolin had been murdered and Tanaka seriously wounded in the murderer’s hunt for
Manpower
, one could reasonably assume that the picture was important. Because the man in the photograph was the murderer? Irene couldn’t come up with any other reason.

The car. Why hadn’t they gotten rid of Marcus’s conspicuous car? And what kind of car did Emil have?

Irene decided to ask Peter Møller. Her heartbeat sped up when she dialed his number.

To her disappointment, Jens Metz answered. He sounded less irate than he had the last time they’d spoken. Irene presented her questions. Jens answered, “The investigation of Tosscander’s car hasn’t revealed anything. It appears to have been standing untouched in the garage since the owner disappeared.”

“What kind of car did Emil have?”

“The make? A Range Rover.”

A Range Rover. A jeep. Erik Bolin had said Basta had arrived in a jeep the time his picture was taken. Had Basta borrowed Emil’s jeep?

“Where is it now?”

“It was parked out in the yard. We’ve taken it in for a forensic examination. The investigation into the attack on your friend Tanaka has come to a halt. A witness saw a tall dark-clothed man jump into a white parked car that was standing just outside the entrance to the backyard. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. Before he started the car, he threw a large picture into the backseat. According to the witness, he was alone. He wasn’t sure about the make of the car. Probably an old Jetta or something similar. But we’ve gotten some interesting tips from Emil’s neighbors. According to them, a tall man with a ponytail has occasionally lived at Emil’s. And, according to a neighbor lady who lives under Emil, he’s Swedish. She’s heard them talk with each other. The other neighbor has only run into the guy a few times in the elevator.”

“Have they been able to give a more detailed description?”

“Tall, muscular, about twenty-five years old, shoulder-length dark blond hair in a ponytail. The man who had been with him in the elevator said that he thought the man was an artist because he had paint on his hands and a large sketch pad under his arm.”

Artist? Then if this was the killer, all Marcus’s references to “my personal physician” were meaningless. No matter how much he would have liked to, Marcus couldn’t possibly have transformed an artist into a personal physician.

Jens Metz asked about the new murder in Göteborg. Irene told him the little she knew. When they hung up they agreed to allocate every resource to stopping the murder-crazed beast. There couldn’t be any more killings.

“Right now it’s quiet here because he’s wreaking havoc in Göteborg. But something tells me that he’ll be here again soon,” Jens concluded ominously.

When they had hung up, Irene thought about his last sentence. Why Göteborg and Copenhagen? Was it possible to figure out some sort of connection between these two cities and one of the names on the list? That name might only be on Marcus’s missing computer, but all they could do was check the names they had and hope for a little luck.

Birgitta Moberg stood in the doorway like a God-sent angel and said, “Hi! Did you find any names that seem familiar? No? Then I can help to make some calls. We’ll divide the pile.”

“You’re a pal! Just let me know if you need a favor in return.”

“Well . . . you can babysit in a few years.”

 

HER DAUGHTERS were in the kitchen, well under way with dinner, when Irene came home. Krister was working late and wouldn’t be home until past midnight.

Jenny was pouring steaming vegetable broth over thin-sliced vegetables. Irene could make out tomatoes, carrots, squash, and onion. A faint smell of garlic whirled up into the air, betokening the perfect amount of seasoning in the casserole.

Katarina was spicing large ground-beef patties with generous dashes of black, white, and green pepper. When they had turned a delicious golden brown color in the frying pan, they would simmer in some cream and a little bit of soy sauce. Those who had iron stomachs could add even more pepper at their discretion. Irene usually added a bit extra.

Jenny opened the oven door and scooted the pan with the potato wedges over in order to make room for her vegetable casserole. Irene knew what was expected of her. She got out the ingredients for the salad. It was boring to make salad but it was the family’s collective opinion that that was what she was best at when it came to the cooking arts.

“We aren’t going to be in Borås until eleven. Mattias and Tobbe are leaving earlier to set up the stuff so that everything will be ready when we get there,” said Jenny.

“Are you going to Borås?” asked Irene.

Jenny sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.

“You’re more scatterbrained than Grandma! If someone tells you something, like, in the beginning of the week, you’ve forgotten it by the end.”

Irene faintly started remembering a short conversation with Jenny a few days earlier. Then she had talked about the band having gotten a gig in Borås. But was it really so soon as this weekend?

“We’ve been allowed to jump in at the last minute for the Wawa boys. They’re huge. This is an awesome opportunity. We’re getting paid really well.”

The blush on her cheeks wasn’t because she had a fever. Her eyes were lit up from excitement and happiness. This was what Jenny had dreamed about for the last couple of years. Irene felt affection mixed with sorrow rise within her. Sorrow over the fact that time went by so quickly. Soon the girls would be all grown up. She quickly landed in reality again with Jenny’s next comment; she was far from being able to accept her daughter as an adult.

“And everything is sorted out with the hotel. It’s going to be so cool!”

“The hotel? Are you going to stay at a hotel?”

“Naturally. We won’t be done until after one o’clock. And by the time we’ve packed all of our things, half the night will have gone. We were able to take over the Wawa boys’ room reservation.”

Irene stared at her daughter. She would soon be turning seventeen but she was far from being of age. And now she was going to stay at a hotel in Borås with a strange group of guys. Irene didn’t have any idea what they were like. With an effort, she tried to conceal the anxiety in her voice as she asked, “Will you get your own room?”

Jenny shrugged and said, “Don’t know. Think so.”

Contradictory thoughts were darting here and there in Irene’s brain, but before she had time to reach a decision, Katarina said, “Polo is in the process of becoming superpopular. You have to understand, Mamma. Jenny might be the next Nina in the Cardigans!”

Jenny blushed with delight at her sister’s praise. Irene hadn’t seen her this happy for a long time.

Now she realized: she had to let Jenny go to Borås.

Katarina continued enthusiastically, “Micke and I are driving there to listen to them. Then we’re going home to Micke’s to sleep there. It’s nearby.”

Irene could have informed Katarina that the distance from Micke’s parents’ house in Önnered to her own was barely a kilometer as the crow flies and only slightly longer if one used the asphalt roads. But she didn’t have the energy for that discussion. She had the feeling that she had lost something. And she knew what it was. Her daughters’ childhoods would never come back.

Mostly in order to have something to say, she asked, “Is Micke well now? And how does your neck feel?”

“Both of us are feeling much better. I’m allowed to start training lightly after midsummer. Real training and stuff. Not this stupid physical therapy I’m doing now. Just watch how I’m going to catch up! That Ida Bäck better not think she can keep her gold medal in the National Championships next year!”

Irene felt very proud of her daughters now. Each of them, in her own way, was a goal-oriented fighter.

Heavenly smells started emanating from the oven. Katarina was browning the beef patties. Irene felt hungry. She quickly set the table and put out a pitcher of ice water.

A calm whimper at knee height reminded her that it was high time for Sammie’s dinner. Two mugs of dry food mixed with the leftovers from yesterday’s beef sausage was a culinary treat, according to him. Irene stared at the dry brown pebbles, which looked suspiciously like rabbit droppings. Even though she loathed preparing food, she would never be tempted to eat dry dog food. Not even if it had been soaked in hot water.

 

THE POLICE movie was over just after midnight. Irene turned off the TV, stretched, and yawned. Goodness, how confused and messy it seemed to be at police stations in the USA. Large open office spaces where the desks stood close together, and every attempt at creating a close relationship was doomed to fail. Collared whores, drug dealers, and murderers walked past each other between the desks. In the middle of it all, cops stood and quarreled and fussed about their work problems. And everyone went around indoors armed. It would seem to be too easy for a suspect to pull a gun out of a holster amidst the general confusion.

Was it really like this? If that was the case, Irene felt sincerely sorry for her colleagues on the other side of the Atlantic.

She cleared away her coffee cup. Just as she had expected, Sammie came padding after her into the kitchen. It was high time for the last rounds of the night.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The air was fresh but still mild. Steam rising from the warm earth smelled good. The early summer foliage was at its most beautiful and everything breathed hope in the face of the oncoming summer. Judging from appearances, a student party was being held at a nearby house. Two skinny birches decorated with balloons stood on either side of the front door as a sign. A young man in a white shirt and dark pants stumbled through the open door. Heaving sounds could be heard by Irene and Sammie. The young man clung to the nearest birch for support and both he and the propped-up birch fell straight into the pool of vomit.

The future is ours, Irene thought.

Sammie became uneasy and whimpered when he saw the boy struggling with the birch tree. It didn’t get any better when, with loud curses, the boy swayed upright, grabbed the birch, and threw it down the steps. Sammie started barking heatedly. Of all strange behaviors, this took the cake! Personally, he loved trees and never fought them! He used them for their proper purpose. He demonstrated by lifting his leg toward a lilac bush.

Irene had to drag her furiously barking dog away by his leash. A lap around the soccer field would have to do. A wet dog wasn’t the nicest thing to have in bed and Irene knew that he would jump up as soon as she had fallen asleep. They should have dealt with that when he was a puppy, but it had been so charming when the chubby little dog, struggling, crawled into their bed.

Irene suddenly felt as though she was being watched. They were on the far side of the soccer field that bordered on woods. She looked around but couldn’t see anyone. The feeling wouldn’t go away.

Sammie didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary; he sniffed the ground as usual. The energetic wagging of his tail revealed that an unusually attractive female dog had passed by a little while ago.

Irene’s nervousness increased. Going home, the dog hesitated; someone was standing behind the trees, watching her. Sweat broke out over her entire body under the tight nylon rain jacket. Fear made her yell at Sammie, “Come on, you stupid dog!”

He was so perplexed that he followed without protest. She hadn’t been imagining things. When they began walking briskly, she heard a twig break. Someone had stepped on a dry branch. The young birches stood tightly together. It was impossible to see anything in the deep darkness between the trees. In a flash, she made up her mind. In a fake, hearty voice, she said to Sammie, “Now we’re going to run home to master!”

Bewildered by his mistress’s quick mood swing, he hesitantly started trotting, but pretty soon he got into the swing of things. He increased his speed and ran with the leash taut as a cable behind him.

While she ran, Irene fumbled with her house key. She held it, ready, in a tight grip inside her jacket pocket. As luck would have it, she had switched on the outside lighting when she went out. Even though her hand was shaking, she managed to get the key in the lock. She quickly pulled the dog inside, shut the door behind her, and locked it.

Without taking off her shoes she went straight through the house, checked that the patio door was locked, and switched on the outdoor lights facing the yard. Then she switched off all the lamps on the ground floor and checked the windows just in case, even though she knew that they were closed. Quietly, she crouched beneath a window, so that she couldn’t be seen from the outside. She peered out but didn’t see a single living creature. Only the light rain and the wind, setting the trees’ leaves in motion.

A thought struck her: the second floor. What if the girls had left a window ajar? With a pounding heart, she ran up the stairs. But she had worried for no reason; all of the windows were closed, including the ceiling window in the combined hall and TV room.