Stridner opened her elegant briefcase and took out a large envelope. “The picture of the tattoo.”
She held it out to Andersson.
“Thank you very much,” he remembered to say after a while.
But it was too late. The clicking of Stridner’s heels could already be heard disappearing down the corridor.
THE DRAGON’Sred mouth was wide open and long razor-sharp teeth coiled around the end of its own tail. The eyes glowed like sparkling emeralds. The claws were wide open and ready to drag the intestines out of anyone who came too close. The entirety of the powerful and agile body was covered by red, blue, and green armored scales. The dragon curled itself in a protective circle around the mysterious character.
An upside-down
“Make copies on a color copier. Then you can start visiting the tattoo artists in town. But don’t come back with a ring in your nostril! Ha ha!” Andersson joked.
None of the others thought that it was particularly funny, but they smiled politely and assured him that they wouldn’t be tempted.
Birgitta and Fredrik were still working on the investigation of the murder of Laban. Robert Larsson had come up with an alibi. Two of his girls working at Wonder Bar had assured them they had been in the Jacuzzi with their employer at exactly the time of Laban’s demise. Since no witness had turned up to contradict them, it would be difficult to hold Larsson.
Jonny, Irene, and Hannu divided up the seven tattoo artists in Goteborg among themselves. Irene drew Tattoo Tim on Nordenskioldsgatan and MC-tattoo on Sprangkullsgatan.
Since MC-tattoo was the closest, Irene decided to start there. She found a parking spot by Hvitfeldtsplatsen. Without hurrying, Irene strolled across the bridge over Rosenlundskanalen. The big blossoms on the large chestnut trees stood straight up on the branches like unlit Christmas tree candles. A cascade of colorful bulbs were spread out underneath the tree. It struck her that she was only a stone’s throw away from Flora’s Hill. Laban had died when the area around the canal was at its most beautiful. But Irene doubted that was any comfort to him.
Personally, she felt in great need of comfort as she closed in on MC-TATTOO. Two heavy motorcycles were parked outside. In the last few years she had developed a phobia. Not without good reason since she had had a very unpleasant run-in with the Hell’s Angels. It had put her in the hospital and left deep psychological wounds. She thought that she had gotten over her fear, but when she saw the shiny machines outside the tattoo parlor, she wanted to turn and run. It took great self-control to open the door and step inside.
A fiery humming buzzed in the air. A thin man with a shaved head was sitting, concentrating, as he marked the shoulder of another man, whose upper body was bare, with a small color drill. The humming stopped in the same instant that the door slammed shut behind Irene.
“Hey, there. Will it be a little rose on your ass or a butterfly on your tit?” said the skinny one.
The subject laughed and his friend in the visitor’s chair joined in. Since the tattoo artist’s work area was illuminated by a strong lamp and the room was for the most part dark, Irene hadn’t seen the man in the corner when she came in. But when she heard his laugh she peered into the darkness, then let her gaze roam back to his friend. Her mouth became parched.
Each of them could have kept a seasoned investigator awake all night just based on looks. They were heavy, bordering on fat. But under the fat, one could sense many hours of work with bars and weights. The one who was being furnished with a new tattoo had put his long hair into a ponytail, probably so that it wouldn’t be in the way of the tattoo artist. His shoulder must have been the last spot on his body that wasn’t yet tattooed, Irene thought. From his fingers, up his arms, and over his entire upper body, he was covered with tattoos, a variegated map of everything from graffiti to sophisticated pictures in different colors.
The nicer tattoos interested Irene. She straightened and tried to sound official. “No, thanks. I’m not here to get tattooed.”
She pulled out her police identification and waved it in front of the tattoo artist’s nose. “Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”
The big man on the visitor’s chair said, “That name sounds familiar …but I’ll be damned if I know from where.”
“I don’t think so. We haven’t met,” she said shortly.
Inside, her pulse was racing so fast her ears were buzzing. Quickly, she said, “I’m here to ask a favor. It’s about the murder-mutilation in Killevik. We don’t know who the victim is but he has this tattoo on his right shoulder. Do you know who might have made it? Or maybe who the man is?”
Now all three of them were paying attention to her. She held out the picture of the dragon tattoo to the tattoo artist. He carefully took it by one corner. It wasn’t until then that Irene saw he was wearing plastic gloves. He studied the color copy for a long time without saying anything. Irene nervously let her gaze roam over the walls, which were wallpapered with different tattoo themes. Most of them seemed to feature eagles, skulls, and American flags.
“A real master has done this one,” the tattoo artist finally said. “A damn good work of art!” he added. His voice revealed sincere admiration.
“Who could have made it?” Irene asked.
“No idea. I don’t think that it was done in Sweden.”
“Why don’t you think so?”
“The subject. The sign in the middle. It doesn’t look Swedish. The dragon is so. . Asian. Is the guy Asian?”
It took a second before Irene understood that he was talking about the victim. “No. A dark-haired European,” she answered.
The tattoo artist took a thorough look at the picture before he handed it back with a shake of his head.
“Sorry. The only thing I can say is that it takes time to complete a tattoo like that. It isn’t something you do during a coffee break.”
“Like the shit you’re scratching on me?” asked the man in the tattoo chair.
All three of them let out a roar of laughter. Irene took the opportunity to put away the picture and leave. Just as she opened the door and was about to step out onto the sidewalk, she heard the man in the visitor’s chair exclaim, “Damn! Now I know who she is! Do you remember that row out in Billdal for-”
Quickly, Irene closed the door and hurried toward her car.
Tattoo Tim was closed. The parlor never opened before one o’clock according to the piece of cardboard taped on the inside of the glass door. On the other hand, it didn’t close before nine. Irene decided to eat lunch before she met Tim.
On Linnegatan there were all sorts of cozy restaurants. Irene decided on a little Italian pub. While she was waiting for the food at a table by the window she looked out at the heavy traffic on Linnegatan and the new houses built in Art Nouveau style on the other side of the street. Elegant shops were located on the ground floors.
The fresh pasta came with a ham and cheese sauce that smelled wonderful. A crisp salad and an ice-cold light beer completed her meal. She had declined the waitress’s suggestion of a drink before the meal. She’d felt strongly tempted for just a second, but then thought better of it. An investigator couldn’t go around breathing alcohol fumes on the people she was trying to interrogate. It didn’t instill confidence.
She had lingered over coffee and had several refills so it was almost one thirty when she arrived at Tim’s tattoo parlor again.
A girl in her early teens was sitting with her mouth wide open. A young man with dyed black hair down to his waist had a firm grip on her tongue, which he’d wrapped in a piece of cloth. With a large tonglike instrument, he punched a hole in the tongue.
“Aaggg,” said the girl.
The man let go and gave the girl a hand mirror. She held it in front of her face and stuck out her tongue. A round glittering silver ball was located a little way in on it.
