The waiter politely pulled out the chair for Irene, placed a menu in her hands, and quickly disappeared.
Irene shook hands with the superintendent. To Irene’s surprise, Beate Bentsen’s slender hand was ice-cold despite the warmth of the room. Irene judged that the woman sitting across from her was a few years older than she was but tall, attractive, and in good shape. She had twisted her coppery red hair into a bun but a few stray wisps had gotten loose and curled around her forehead and ears. The linen dress suit she was wearing was a sober tan. Under its jacket she wore a low-cut silk top in light green that perfectly matched the eyes behind her black- framed eyeglasses.
“Forgive me for not being able to meet you this afternoon. But I assume that Peter and Jens took good care of you,” Beate began.
“They have been great.”
“Good. Maybe we should order before we talk.”
With a hint of a nod she called the waiter over. Irene understood that Beate was one of the regulars. Irene ordered saltimbocca a la romana and a large beer, and the superintendent ordered a seafood dish and a glass of white wine.
While they were waiting for the food, Irene told Beate what had transpired during the day but she didn’t mention Tom Tanaka’s warning or that he wanted to meet her later that evening. Beate sat and observed her and sipped her wine. Sometimes she nodded as if confirming something she had already suspected.
When Irene had finished she said, “It’ll be difficult to find the person who made the tattoo. It may not have been made in Copenhagen. But the similarities between the dismemberment of Carmen Ostergaard and the male corpse in Goteborg are remarkable. I participated in the investigation as an inspector; I’ve since been promoted. We’ve never seen anything like what Carmen was subjected to, even here in Copenhagen.”
“Then you’re familiar with the witnesses’ reports that Carmen had spoken about a policeman and a doctor?”
The superintendent said, “It was in all of the papers. Someone leaked it to the media and was well paid. As usual.”
“A doctor would be able to completely empty the body.”
“Yes, the pathologists picked up on that as well. But there were some complicating factors. You’ll find out more from Blokk tomorrow. He’s a pleasant fellow.”
Irene remembered that the name of Professor Stridner’s friend and colleague was Svend Blokk.
The food came and the delicious smells made Irene realize how hungry she was. Her veal with Parma ham and noodles in a white wine sauce was wonderful. They concentrated on the food for a long time. When they were almost done, Beate said, “Tomorrow you can read through the investigation file on Carmen. You can make copies of whatever you think is important. The same thing goes for the autopsy report itself. You’ll get that from Blokk. And you-”
She was interrupted by the first bars of “The Marseillaise.” It took a few confused seconds before it occurred to Irene that it was her cell phone that was blaring. Blushing, she dug through the pockets of her coat, which hung next to them on the wall.
“This is Irene.”
“Hi, Mamma. It’s Jenny. The dog sitter has the stomach flu. Who can take Sammie tomorrow?”
“Goodness. . I don’t know. I’m sitting at a restaurant eating dinner right now. Can I call you in an hour? Are you at home?”
“Sure.”
“Sounds good. Bye for now, sweetie.”
She hung up and started mumbling an apology. Beate Bentsen stopped her. “I know how it is with kids. How many do you have?”
“Two. Twin girls who are sixteen.”
“My son is twenty-two.”
They nodded in motherly understanding, raised their glasses, and drank the last few drops. Irene had an idea and dug through her other coat pocket. She pulled out the picture of Isabell Lind and set it in front of the superintendent. Briefly, she went through the story about the missing girl. Summing up, she said, “Peter and Jens think that Scandinavian Models might be an escort service and that Isabell is working as a prostitute.”
Beate studied the picture before she answered.
“Unfortunately, it’s quite likely. Copenhagen lures hordes of young girls, consumes them, and spills them onto the trash heap after a few years. They often come here with the dream of making a career in the theater or as photo models. The reality is something completely different.”
“Have you heard of Scandinavian Models?”
“No. There are countless places like that. Usually they disappear after a while or change their name and owner. It’s impossible to keep track of all of them.”
“Where do I look for a list of porn clubs, strip bars, escort services, and the like?”
Beate laughed hoarsely and lit a cigarette at the same time. She lifted the extra-long filter cigarette that was already glowing, gesturing toward Irene, and asked, “You aren’t offended?”
Irene shook her head.
“I just remembered that the Swedes are so touchy when it comes to smoke. Do you smoke?”
She held the pack out to Irene, who politely declined.
The superintendent inhaled greedily and peered at Irene through the smoke. “A list where you may find Scandinavian Models? I would suggest that you look in the tourist guide in your hotel room. There are usually advertisements in the back for. . everything. The worst places aren’t allowed to advertise, but people find their way there anyway.”
Neither of them wanted to have dessert. They ordered two cups of coffee. It was almost eight thirty when they finished. Irene excused herself by saying that she needed to call home.
Beate remained sitting there, smoking a newly lit cigarette, as Irene walked out into the drizzle.
“IT’S BEENtaken care of. Mrs. Karlsson across the street is going to take him on a walk around lunchtime. The kids have chicken pox and are at home,” said Jenny.
“Can she leave them to go out with Sammie then?”
“It’s fine. The kids are doing pretty well now. When are you coming home?”
“Tomorrow night. How are things with Katarina?”
“She has pain in her neck and is stiff. But she has an appointment tomorrow at the clinic.”
“Good. I’m turning off the cell phone tonight. If there is an emergency you can call the hotel.”
After sending extra hugs and kisses, Irene hung up. At least things were sorted out with Sammie. Now her own evening rounds would start.
Color pictures of naked young girls were lures to tourists. The businesses were called go-go bars, nightclubs, sauna clubs, escort services, and other creative euphemisms but it was obvious that young girls were for sale and, in some of the ads, boys. None of the pictures showed girls who looked older than twenty-two. They stood sticking out their breasts and tilting their hips, either wearing thongs or, in some cases, totally nude.
She found the advertisement for Scandinavian Models on the last page. The illustration was in black and white and showed a group of four girls standing tightly together with their arms around each other. They smiled invitingly at the camera with pouting lips, wearing only thongs and short T-shirts on their upper bodies that barely covered their nipples. Their names appeared above their heads: Petra, Linn, Bell, and Heidi. Bell was Isabell Lind.
“This is an actual photo of our models you will meet here in Copenhagen-guaranteed or your money back!” the advertisement proclaimed.
Irene felt her stomach knot. The pouting girl in the picture who was selling herself had been her daughters’ playmate.
