that her appearance in Copenhagen had started a domino effect that led to Isabell’s disappearance. It seemed too far-fetched.
She decided not to mention Tom’s identity to anyone. She trusted him completely but her boss and colleagues never would. They would make fun of him and question his credibility. But Irene had faith in him, because he had truly loved Marcus Tosscander. Now they had to find out who Marcus really had been. It appeared that he had had many dangerous acquaintances.
IRENE GOT to start Thursday’s morning prayers with a report of her doings in Copenhagen. A censored version.
“Good work in Copenhagen. It seems as though it could be some of Marcus Tosscander lying in the sacks,” said Superintendent Andersson.
Jonny interrupted him. “What’s this funny stuff about not being able to tell us how you got the information?”
He looked at Irene. She had known the question would come and she wasn’t all that surprised about who had asked it. “I have guaranteed complete confidentiality to my informant. No one but me knows his identity. Those were the conditions I agreed to in order to get the information. The main thing is that we finally have a name to start with,” she answered.
Jonny began to object but the superintendent was ahead of him.
“Exactly. Hannu and Jonny worked on it all day yesterday. Everything points to the torso really being Tosscander. Hannu can begin.”
Hannu nodded slightly and read from his notepad: “Marcus Emanuel Tosscander was born March 8, 1968, in Askim Parish. He would now be thirty-one years old. The mother died ten years ago. The father is a retired senior physician. No siblings. Educated at the College for Art and Design for five years. Started his own design firm as soon as his education was done. Moved the business to the offices at Kungsportsplatsen four years ago. According to his tax declarations for the last five years, his company has done very well. The company has declared profits in the millions, and personally he has taken out five hundred thousand in salary each year. Lives on Jenny Lindsgatan in Lunden. Unmarried. No children. Drives an imported red Pontiac, 1995 year model.”
Had he actually thought of checking the car registration as well? thought Irene. But by this time she knew Hannu and realized that he had. Where was the car now? Marcus had probably taken it to Copenhagen.
“Jonny contacted the father yesterday,” Andersson said to Irene.
Jonny got ready to take over: “I drove out to Pappa Tosscander’s after lunch yesterday. He didn’t want to meet with me earlier because he was going to be out golfing. This despite the fact that I told the old man it had to do with his son when I called him in the morning. Golf was more important. He lives alone in a damn big shack by the ocean right next to Hovas golf course. But I understood that the old man and his son don’t have any contact at all. He seemed like he didn’t want to know anything about Marcus. He said several times, ‘My son lives his life and I live mine.’ ”
“Had he heard anything from Marcus during the past few months?” asked Irene.
“From what I understand, they haven’t spoken with each other since Marcus moved to Copenhagen.”
“But he moved at New Year’s!” Irene exclaimed.
“Yes. But apparently that’s the way it is.”
“Strange not to have any contact with your only son for five months. . ”
Irene stopped herself. Marcus had said to Tom Tanaka that he might be moving to Copenhagen for good. Had that decision been based on a break with his father? Yet another thought struck her. The father was a doctor. In Goteborg. She decided that she would try and talk with him when she had a chance.
“Has anyone reported Marcus missing?” Birgitta asked.
“No,” answered Hannu.
“It could be that the publication of the tattoo drawing confused people here in Goteborg. Marcus Tosscander had it done in Copenhagen before he disappeared. Apparently no one here saw Marcus’s new body decoration,” said Irene.
“You mean that even if people had missed Marcus, no one would put his disappearance together with the discovery of the body parts out at Killevik? But where do people think he is? He can’t have been in contact with anyone since the end of February or possibly the beginning of March,” said Birgitta.
The superintendent cleared his throat and started showing signs of wanting to say something.
“Even if we’re almost certain that the victim at Killevik is Marcus Tosscander, I want to wait to release his identity to the media. We’ll collect all the information we can in the next few days and maybe we’ll release his name after the weekend.”
“It’s a long weekend, Pentecost. That won’t be until Tuesday. Five days,” said Hannu.
Irene agreed. Five days felt like way too much time to wait. But she could understand the superintendent’s unwillingness to be hasty. There was a microscopic chance that the victim wasn’t Marcus Tosscander. A mistake like that could be disastrous. They had to have watertight proof that it really was him.
“Has anyone been to his office or his apartment?” she asked.
“No. I was thinking that you should start there today,” said Andersson.
IRENE SPENT several hours writing up the report on her trip to the other side of Oresund. It was difficult since she constantly had to think ahead and make sure that she didn’t write too much. Meanwhile, Jonny and Hannu were chasing after permission and keys so they could enter Tosscander’s residence and workplace.
By lunchtime everything was done.
“We’ll take a look at the office first. It’s the closest, and then we’ll have time to eat lunch before we head over to Lunden,” said Jonny.
Hannu and Irene nodded.
The offices of Tosca’s Design were located on the second floor of a house between Kopparmarra and the canal. A house telephone and keypad lock were supposed to keep unwanted visitors outside, but since the police officers had keys, access wasn’t a problem. Wide marble steps with massive balustrades stretched upward in the light yellow stairwell. There was no elevator. Apparently, Marcus Tosscander didn’t have any handicapped clients, unless they used the telephone or Internet.
TOSCA’S DESIGN, it said on the enamel sign, in elegant dark blue writing against a white background. Hannu had keys to the ASSA deadbolt lock and the burglar alarm.
A stale smell of stagnant, dust-filled air hit them when they opened the door. It seemed as if no one had been here for months. Hannu turned on the light in the long windowless corridor.
The door to the right led into a small room with a glass wall facing the corridor. It had probably been intended as a switchboard operator’s or secretary’s room but Tosscander had made it into a comfortable room for visitors. The window was large and uncurtained, evidently in order not to block the magnificent view of the canal. A brown buffalo hide on the floor covered almost its entire surface. There were two circular-shaped recliners with backrests and seats upholstered in light brown leather. The frames were made of steel. One of the shorter walls was completely covered by books and glossy interior design magazines.
A large watercolor in sober colors hung on the opposite wall. It showed small houses crouched near the foot of a large mountain. A windstorm was whipping snow over the sea and around the corners of the cottages, but warm light glimmered from the little windows. Irene was captivated by the picture and stepped closer in order to be able to read the signature. The artist was Lars Lerin, but the name didn’t mean anything to her.
Straight across the hall was a bathroom. The drains smelled; all of the water had long since evaporated. The door next to it led to a small pantry, a miniversion of Tom Tanaka’s kitchen. Everything was there: the cherry flooring, black-and-white painted drawers and counters, the remaining furnishings in stainless steel. The view from this window was not nearly as striking as the one from the visitors’ room; it faced the front of the house across the street.
The other corridor doors concealed a cleaning supplies closet, a small wardrobe, and a little office storage area for paper and binders.
The remaining door on the right side led into Marcus’s large workroom. The tall bare windows let in generous sunlight. It was warm and stuffy. Irene opened the windows and admired the beautiful view over the glistening water in the canal. The chestnut trees on the other side were in the process of blooming. A multicolored carpet of different bulbs was spread beneath them, a bounty of wasteful splendor, but soon their bloom would be over.
