The Torso dih-2

by Helene Tursten

  Hannu asked permission to speak. “I’ve found Hans Pahliss and Anders Gunnarsson. They live in Alingsås.”

  “Try and get ahold of them. Fredrik and Birgitta, how is it going with the investigation into Robert Larsson?”

  Fredrik still hadn’t really recovered from the big news, but Birgitta gave an account of the results to date.

  “He isn’t trying to hide the money. Instead, he’s trying to show it. That is to say, to launder the dirty money. We’ve had Wonder Bar under surveillance for three days. The number of customers has been noted and we have looked into what it costs to get into the club. If the entrance fees declared by Robert Larsson on his tax forms are correct, then an average of two hundred people visit the club every day. It can’t possibly be that many. We make it an average of sixty-three. But we are going to keep an eye out for a few more days before we bring him in again.”

  “Speak with the prosecutor first,” Andersson advised.

  “We will.”

  “How is it going with Jack the Ripper?” Andersson asked and turned toward Tommy.

  “Still no new information. Today I’m going to question his latest victim again. She was too upset when I spoke with her the first time. It doesn’t feel right that we aren’t getting any tips. There were long articles in both GP and the Götesborgs Tidningen the day before yesterday, but no one has called in. And soon it will be the weekend again.”

  “He only strikes on the weekends and downtown. Mostly around Vasagatan and its side streets,” Andersson concluded.

  “Does that provide any clues?” Irene asked.

  Tommy nodded and shrugged his shoulders at the same time. This could be read as both a yes and a maybe.

  Hannu and Irene went into Irene’s office to continue planning.

  “What do you think about my driving out to Pappa Tosscander’s this morning while you contact Pahliss and Gunnarsson?” said Irene.

  “Sounds good. Then we can speak with them this afternoon.”

  Irene called Emanuel Tosscander. He was still listed as “senior physician” in the phone book. According to Jonny he had been retired for a few years.

  “Tosscander,” a deep man’s voice answered.

  If Irene hadn’t known about his previous profession, she would have guessed him to have been a high-ranking military officer.

  “Good morning. My name is Irene Huss. I’m a police inspector-”

  “I’ve already spoken with one policeman. Marcus is in Copenhagen. You’ll have to look for him there.”

  The voice was ice-cold and dismissive.

  “We have good reason to believe that Marcus has been the victim of a crime,” Irene said calmly.

  After a split second, the question came like a gunshot, “What kind of crime?”

  “That’s what I need to speak with you about. I’ll be there in half an hour. Good-bye.”

  Before Tosscander had time to protest, Irene hung up the phone. She grabbed a cup of coffee on her way out for extra strength.

  THE LARGEone-story brown brick house was located only a five-iron shot away from Hovås golf course. The whitebeam hedge around the house was several meters high, and only the flat roof of the house could be seen from the street. Irene turned in through the gap in the hedge and bumped onto the poorly maintained driveway. Both the house and the yard were characterized by slight decay.

  The front door was opened before she had time to stretch her hand out and knock with the heavy bronze knocker shaped like a lion’s head.

  “Criminal Inspector Irene Huss.” Irene held out her hand. Emanuel Tosscander responded with a short, firm handshake.

  He was the same height as Irene. His body was slim and fit, his hair thick and silver-white. Marcus had inherited his beautiful eyes from his father. His face was deeply tanned and surprisingly wrinkle free. Emanuel Tosscander was a very handsome man.

  “Senior phys-Emanuel Tosscander,” he said. He stepped aside and halfheartedly gestured her inside.

  The hall was gloomy, with a dark tile floor and moss green woven tapestry hangings. Irene followed Tosscander’s straight back into an enormous living room. Large picture windows ran along the long side of the room. But no sunlight could squeeze through the heavy vegetation in the backyard. The entirety of the large room was filled with a dusky half-light. The furniture was big and heavy, made of dark wood and dark brown leather. There were large Oriental rugs in reddish brown tones on the floor. Not even the paintings on the walls could cheer up the room. They were sober landscapes and dim portraits. Not a single plant sat in the windows.

  “Please sit down,” Tosscander said mechanically. As for himself, he remained standing.

  Irene sank down onto an uncomfortable rock-hard leather chair. “Thanks. I’d like it if you would sit down, too,” said Irene.

  At first he looked like he wanted to protest, but something in Irene’s voice made him obey. He sat on the edge of the sofa and observed her coldly. But Irene could sense some concern behind his frosty demeanor.

  It was just as well to inform him of what had happened to Marcus since it would be in the papers in a few days anyway. Irene got right to the point. “It was good of you to see me. I have something serious to tell you. First, I need an answer to a question. Did Marcus contact you during the first week of March?”

  “No.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with each other?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “Yes, it is. We’re investigating a crime.”

  “What kind of crime?”

  “Murder.”

  Irene looked him straight in the eye. He was the first to glance away. He stared at his overgrown yard for a long time, then he turned toward her. “We haven’t spoken with each other since the first week of December.”

  “Why not?”

  “We. . had a fight.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s really none of your business!”

  “Again, I’ll have to remind you that we are investigating a murder.”

  “Of whom?”

  “My condolences, but it has to do with Marcus.”

  Slowly, all color disappeared from the handsome face. The even sunburn took on a sick yellowish tone. Right in front of Irene’s eyes, Emanuel Tosscander aged ten years in as many seconds. He sank backward onto the sofa without taking his eyes off her. Finally, he was able to whisper, “It. . can’t. . be true.”

  “Unfortunately, it is. Marcus had a very unusual tattoo made in Copenhagen. The body we found a few weeks ago outside Killevik had the same tattoo. There are also other things that add up.”

  “No! Not murdered and dismembered!”

  Anguish could be heard in his voice and seen in his eyes. He slowly rose from the sofa. In an almost normal tone of voice, he asked, “Will Marcus’s name be published in the press?”

  “Yes. We have to do so in order to find possible witnesses.”

  “My name. .! What are people out here going to say? You must understand. I forbid you to publish his name in the newspapers!”

  He got to his feet upset and pointed an accusing finger at Irene. She was getting angry. Sharply she said, “Sit.”

  The command word usually worked on Sammie and it also did on the surprised Tosscander.

  “Marcus probably came home to Göteborg during the first week in March. That’s when he met his killer. A killer who we have good reason to believe has murdered before. There is a significant risk that he will continue. That’s why we must find him. You should also be anxious to catch your son’s murderer.”

  Tosscander looked as though he had just been boxed on the ear. “Why were you not getting along?” Irene repeated.

  He didn’t answer.

  “My guess would be that he told you he was gay. Is that what happened?” The jaundiced look of Tosscander’s face gave way to a blush that spread up from his throat.

  “That’s no
t true! It was just a passing fixation. I don’t know how many girlfriends he brought home over the years! He isn’t gay!”

  “How many girlfriends has he brought home over the years?”

  “What business. . I don’t know.”

  “Try and count.”

  Tosscander glared at Irene but looked like he was thinking. Finally he said, “Four or five.”

  “Four or five girlfriends in thirty years. Can you give me their names?”

  “No. Just one. The others I only met once or twice. Angelica Sandberg was a kid from the neighborhood with whom he was together for several years.”

  “When was that?”

  “Well. . it was probably about ten years ago. She’s married now. Lives in the States.”

  “But her parents still live here?”

  “Yes.”

  Irene wrote the name in her notebook. There were reasons for trying to get in touch with Angelica.

  “He never brought any male friends here?”

  Tosscander stiffened. Guardedly he said, “No. Not the last few years. When he was younger he did, of course. . but not since he moved away from home.”

  “Was he always alone when he came to visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “He never spoke with you about a male friend?”

  “No.”

  “No name ever came up?”

  “No.”

  Tosscander sat crumpled on the sofa as if he had given up the battle. It seemed as though the truth had begun to sink in.

  “Mr. Tosscander, I need to ask a few routine questions. Is that all right?”

  He nodded weakly.

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixty-nine.”

  Irene would never have guessed. He looked considerably younger. “Where were you senior physician before you retired?”

  “I was an ear, nose, and throat specialist at Sahlgren Hospital.”

  That kind of a specialist couldn’t be all that familiar with autopsy methods, thought Irene.

  “Does Marcus have any siblings or half siblings?”

  “No.”

  “I understand that your wife died. .”

  “Ten years ago. Breast cancer.”

  Suddenly, he stood up and looked sharply at Irene. “Now I’m glad that she’s dead so she doesn’t have to experience this. . disgrace!”

  That’s how he felt about his only son’s death. It was a disgrace to him.

  THE VISIT to Emanuel Tosscander depressed Irene. Since Hovås wasn’t that far from Fiskebäck, she decided to drive home for lunch.

  It was strange to come home in the middle of the day to an empty house. The mailbox was overflowing with advertisements. She almost threw out a card along with them, but just before she dropped the whole pile into the paper recycling bag she saw a glimpse of it inside a double-folded advertisement for Hemglass ice cream. Curious, she took a closer look at the colorful card. It was a picture of the familiar view of Copenhagen with the Little Mermaid in the foreground and glittering water behind. The message itself as well as Irene’s name and address, was written with a black India ink pen. The street and postal code were perfectly correct.

  The Little Mermaid is dead.

  That’s all it said. The card had been postmarked in Copenhagen two days earlier. Irene quickly dropped the card onto the table. Normal mail handling had probably resulted in a lot of fingerprints on the card but there could still be something useful left.

  What did it mean? Was it a warning or a threat? Who had sent it? The answer had to be Isabell’s killer. No one else would send that message.

  But why? Several police officers were working on the case, both here and in Copenhagen. Why had the murderer chosen her?

  She got an envelope and carefully placed the card inside.

  A thought struck her. The message was in English. Maybe it was from Tom Tanaka, who was trying to contact her. The idea seemed rather far-fetched but she decided to pursue it anyway. Yet when she took a closer look at the handwriting, it didn’t have any resemblance to Tom’s elegant script in the message she had received at the Hotel Alex. The style on the postcard was heavy block letters. Still, she would leave the card with the technicians at the police station, together with the earlier message from Tom. She had saved it.

  She took out her cell phone and found Tom’s number. He answered almost immediately.

  “Hi, Tom. This is Irene Huss.”

  “Hi. I suppose you are calling because of Isabell.”

  “Yes. But first I need to ask you a question. Did you send me a postcard?”

  “Absolutely not. I never send postcards.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I had to check. I’ve received a postcard from Copenhagen with-”

  She had to stop herself for a moment and think about the word for mermaid in English, but in that moment she remembered that it was written on the postcard.

  “A photo of the Little Mermaid. On the back it says, ‘The Little Mermaid is dead.’ Nothing more. I don’t know how I should interpret the card.”

  Tom was quiet for a long time. She could hear his heavy breathing. Finally, he said, “It’s a warning. The murderer knows exactly where you are. The murder of Isabell Lind is also a warning to you. I told you that when she disappeared.”

  “Do the police know that you called your contact at the Hotel Aurora and asked about Isabell?”

  “No. He came here when her body was found and was completely hysterical. I managed to calm him down. We were lucky because a girl had called the hotel and asked about Isabell just after my call. The police only know that one of the girls at the escort service called because Isabell didn’t come back after her job at the hotel. That’s why the police think my contact’s questioning the hotel staff resulted from the call by the girl at Scandinavian Models.”

  “I think it’s important that the police in Copenhagen not know about you and Marcus. I haven’t revealed your identity to my Swedish colleagues.”

  “Good.”

  “No one seems to have realized how. . close you were, you and Mar cus.”

  “No. We were very discreet. For different reasons. Marcus didn’t want the policeman he was living with to know about our relationship.”

  “And you haven’t told anyone about the two of you?”

  “No. Just you.”

  “I’m coming down to Copenhagen on Monday night and have booked a room at Hotel Alex again. Unfortunately, I’m going to have a colleague with me. A male colleague. It means that I can’t move around as freely.”

  “I understand. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes. Good-bye.”

  “Be careful. Good-bye.”

  Irene had a vague feeling of concern after the phone call. Was Tom in danger too? She couldn’t rule out the possibility.

  POLICE TECHNICIAN Svante Malm took both the cards and promised to do a graphological comparison and look for fingerprints as soon as possible.

  Hannu was sitting in his office waiting for her. Irene told him about the postcard. He reflected, then said, “Are you really going to go to Copenhagen?”

  “You mean it could be dangerous?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He knows my address, and he can easily get to me here! And as far as we know, the murderer could just as well be in Göteborg as Copenhagen.” She took a deep breath and then said with conviction, “I have to catch him.”

  Hannu nodded. He knew Irene well enough to realize that this killer had good reason to feel hunted.

  “What have you found on Pahliss and Gunnarsson?” she asked.

  “Hans Pahliss is a doctor. Researcher. Virologist. He is in France right now at a conference. I reached Anders Gunnarsson. Dentist. He’s willing to see us. He has a private practice by Vasaplatsen. On Fridays he finishes early. He could meet us around three o’clock.”

  “Perfect. Then we’ll have time for coffee before we go.”

  RUSH-HOURtraffic was already heavy. The flex-time system meant that the bells of f
reedom starting ringing around lunchtime on Friday for lots of people.

  Irene managed to find a free parking space on Storgatan. “This should be a good omen. I need one, especially when I consider how crazy this investigation has been,” she sighed.

  They found the entrance to Anders Gunnarsson’s office without any problems. He shared the space with two colleagues. According to the shiny brass sign, they were Rut and Henry Raadmo, probably a married couple.

  Irene called on the house phone. Almost instantly a scratchy male voice came over the speaker. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Dentist Anders Gunnarsson. We have an appointment at three o’clock,” said Hannu.

  “Welcome. Second floor.”

  The entry lock buzzed and Hannu opened the heavy door. A broad, short flight of red marble steps led up to the stairway. Those who were brave could step into the rickety elevator, which dated back to the early years of the twentieth century. Since Irene and Hannu didn’t want to risk getting stuck for the rest of the afternoon, they took the stairs.

  Anders Gunnarsson had opened the door to his office and stood there, waiting to greet them. Irene recognized him from the wedding photographs as the tall blond one of the couple. His hair was a bit longer than it had been in the pictures. He stretched out his hand in greeting and smiled a bright white smile. His handshake was dry and firm. Then he showed them inside.

  They entered a sober waiting room whose color scheme was light gray and old-fashioned rose. At once Irene suspected that Marcus Tosscander had helped decorate the room. When they came into the employee’s lounge her suspicion was confirmed. There was a small kitchen area done in steel and black, with a floor of polished cherrywood and a dining set in the same style as Tanaka’s. Everything looked clean and fresh. The whole office appeared to be newly renovated.

  “Please sit down and I’ll put on some coffee. We’re all alone in the office. Everyone else goes home around two o’clock on Fridays,” said Gunnarsson.

  Irene and Hannu sat in the creaking leather chairs. They still smelled new.