pages.
He had been very attractive, with thick dark brown hair, clean and symmetrical facial features, big deep blue eyes, and a beautiful smile. Irene had expected him to be effeminate but his looks were completely masculine. From the nude photos, Irene noted that he was muscular with six-pack abs. He was very sexy.
The two other albums contained pictures taken at parties and on trips. There was a good deal of writing next to the pictures so Jonny, Hannu, and Irene decided to take them back to the station.
Hannu remarked on their failure to find an address book here either.
“We’ll have to ask the technicians to come and collect evidence. I assume that the big bathtub might have been suitable for the dismemberment of the body,” Irene said, although they had found nothing to indicate it had taken place there, but it was best to go by the book.
There weren’t many clothes in the bedroom closets. It looked as though Marcus had taken both summer and winter clothes with him. Odd, since he had left in the middle of winter. Maybe he was counting on staying away till the summer. Then again, the distance between Goteborg and Copenhagen wasn’t that far. If nothing else, he had both his office and his apartment to look after. Had he really not planned to return to Goteborg a single time during the spring? Yet that’s exactly what he must have done: returned home, only to be murdered and dismembered.
In the beautiful apartment, Irene shivered.
“Only one of us has to talk with the old lady,” said Jonny.
“OK, I’ll do it,” Irene volunteered.
Hannu and Jonny had found two keys in a drawer of the tall dresser in the hall. One of them was marked “Basement” and the other “Attic.” They each took a key and on the landing they split up. Jonny unlocked the door to the attic, Hannu went down the stairs, and Irene rang the bell of the door across the hall. It opened at once.
“Did you find anything?” asked Gretta Svensson.
There was concern, not curiosity, in her voice.
“Nothing that tells us where he might be,” Irene answered truthfully.
She entered the apartment. The hallway was the same size as the one in Marcus’s apartment, but the color scheme was completely different. Deep purple velvet flocked wallpaper revealed that the last renovation had taken place sometime during the late sixties. All the interior doors were painted a dark brown. Gretta Svensson showed Irene into a large living room, the same size as Marcus’s. This was not a corner apartment so there was only one window and the room was not as bright. The furniture was a mixture of dark oak pieces and IKEA recliners. The window was framed by thick rose-patterned chintz curtains. The impression was dark and oppressive.
“Please sit down. I’ll get the coffee,” said Ms. Svensson.
Irene didn’t protest because she was longing for a cup of coffee. As she sank down on the pink sofa she noticed that the coffee cups had already been set out. She had never had a chance to decline.
The little woman came flying out of the kitchen with a coffee pot made of glass in one hand and a plate of Marie biscuits in the other.
“I don’t have any coffee cake in the house. This was a bit unexpected,” Gretta Svensson apologized.
Irene nodded understandingly and inhaled the scent of coffee. The biscuits weren’t important as far as she was concerned; the main thing was that she got some caffeine.
“Please start by answering a few routine questions that we always ask people in cases like these,” Irene said.
“That’s fine.”
“Your full name?”
“Anna Gretta Svensson.”
“Thanks. Your date of birth?”
“October 19, 1921.”
Irene quickly did the math and determined that the woman sitting in front of her was seventy-eight years old. Before she was able to ask another question, Gretta continued. “I was born a few houses down on this street, though that building was torn down many years ago. This house hadn’t been built yet. Pappa was a baker and Mamma sometimes helped in the bakery where he worked. It was them and the six of us kids in a two-room apartment. I’m the only sibling left of the bunch. I guess I was what you would call a late surprise.”
“Have you always lived on this street?”
“All my life. I’ve lived in this apartment for thirty-two years because it suits me so well. Before that I had a studio apartment in the house next door for many years.”
“What did you work as?” It had nothing to do with the investigation, but Irene was curious.
“A seamstress. The last few years I worked at Gillblad’s.”
Gretta sat up straight in the little chintz-covered Emma recliner and kept her light blue eyes focused steadily on Irene as she slowly brushed a white wisp of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “But this isn’t about me. Where is Marcus?” she asked.
“If we only knew,” Irene sighed.
Gretta looked as though she was preparing to ask another question, but Irene quickly prevented her. “How long has Marcus been your neighbor?”
“Ten and a half years. We celebrated our ten-year anniversary during Saint Lucia. He came over with a bottle of wine and I made some delicious sandwiches. We sat talking and had a wonderful time. That’s when he told me about Copenhagen and I promised to look after his apartment.”
“Do you often get together over a bottle of wine?”
“Sometimes. He comes over when he thinks I’m feeling lonely. That’s the way he is. Very sweet and thoughtful.”
Gretta smiled unconsciously when she spoke about Marcus.
“I know that Marcus moved to Copenhagen around New Year’s. How often did he call you from Copenhagen?”
“Not very often. He had so much to do. There were always new jobs and. .” She stopped herself and compressed her lips. Finally she said dully, “He called me twice.”
“When was the last time?”
“Wait.”
Gretta rose surprisingly quickly and disappeared into the bedroom. After a while she came back with a small blue pocket diary. She nervously skimmed back and forth, then triumphantly she announced, “Here. February 18.”
She held out the page. “Marcus has called,” it said. The other days were blank.
“I always write down important things.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
Gretta’s brow wrinkled as she concentrated. “He said that he was getting on very well in Copenhagen and he might come home at the beginning of March, but he would call me beforehand. He didn’t. But he may have called when I was in the hospital.”
“When were you in the hospital?”
“I was admitted the night of February 27 and came home on March 5. I’d had some intestinal bleeding and it turned out to be a large polyp, which they removed immediately. But I lost a lot of blood so they had to give me transfusions. I got seven bags of blood! Then there were a bunch of tests with-”
“Could Marcus have been home during that time?” Irene brusquely interrupted the health story.
“Yes. Because there was something. .” Gretta fell silent and looked uncertain. “I went to the emergency room on Sunday night. I had gone in and watered the plants at Marcus’s on Friday. As soon as I got home, I went into his apartment because I expected that the flowers would be droopy, but they weren’t. They looked healthy. As if someone had watered them.”
“Did they look like they had been watered recently? Was there water on the dishes? Was the soil moist?”
“They hadn’t been watered that recently. Maybe three or four days earlier.”
This was very interesting. If they could prove that Marcus had been home the first week in March, they might be able to pinpoint when he died.
Irene chose her words carefully. “Do you know if Marcus had a girlfriend or another friend whom he often
