The Torso

In a cosmopolitan fashion Irene led Jonny over broad H. C. Andersen Boulevard. Restaurant Vesuvius looked warm and welcoming. The heat of the pub and the smell of cigarette smoke hit them when they stepped through the glass doors. They were shown to a little table by the window.

“Shit. The menu is in a different language,” Jonny muttered.

“No. It’s in Italian, Danish, and English,” said Irene.

“Hell, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He ordered a calzone, “so you know what you’re getting.” Irene ordered passera mira mare, which turned out to be fried red snapper with mussels in a white wine sauce. Jonny needed two strong beers in order to wash down his pizza while Irene was content with one Hof. Tomorrow was another day.

When they got back to the hotel, the bar was overflowing. A big group of Swedes filled the room, making noise. There was a sign on the wall announcing that it was a “Jell-O shot evening.” The guests were trying the gelatin drinks with a great deal of enjoyment and enthusiasm and, based on the rate of consumption, the Jell-O shot was definitely approved. A man sitting on a bar stool had fallen asleep with his head and arms on the bar. No one was paying any attention to him, and the noise gradually increased with the rate of consumption.

“That looks like fun,” said Jonny.

Irene continued toward the reception desk. When she had gotten her room key from the smiling receptionist, she turned toward Jonny and said, “We’re supposed to be at Vesterbro at eight o’clock. I’m planning on eating breakfast at seven-fifteen. Should I call your room before-”

She stopped when she saw Jonny’s back disappear into the crowded bar.

In the room she took out her cell phone and dialed Tom Tanaka’s number. He answered immediately.

“Tom.”

“Hi. Irene here. I’m at my hotel now. The Hotel Alex.”

“The same as last time,” Tom noted.

“Yes. Has anything happened?”

“No. The newspapers haven’t printed any details about Isabell’s murder, just that she had been strangled and bound to the bed with handcuffs.”

The handcuffs were news to Irene but she didn’t admit it to Tom. Instead, she said, “Did Marcus tell you that he was going to go to Thailand with a. . friend? Or did he just say that he was going home to Goteborg?”

Tom sounded harsh when he finally replied, “He didn’t say anything about Thailand. Just that he was going home.”

“Not a word about Thailand?”

“No. Who’s said something about Thailand?”

“He called an old friend when he got home to Goteborg at the beginning of March. Marcus told him that he was on his way to Thailand with a friend.”

“Apparently our dear Marcus had quite a few friends whom he didn’t talk about.”

Irene could hear deep bitterness in Tom’s tone. “Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.

Irene dreaded having to ask the next question but she was forced to. “Tom. . this friend in Goteborg whom we spoke with implied that Marcus liked. . hard sex.”

She didn’t know if her meaning was clear in English, but it was the only thing she could come up with. Tom seemed to understand. “I don’t have the slightest intention of telling you about my sex life with Marcus. But of course. . he was keen on some variations.”

“Even. . dangerous variations?”

“Not so that he would get seriously injured. Not like that. Maybe a little. . spanking.”

Irene didn’t understand the word “spank,” but based on the almost amused tone Tom used, she drew the conclusion that it had to do with a softer type of force. For fun.

“I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, but we need to try and find out what happened to Marcus.”

“It’s OK. I still want his murderer to be caught and punished. It’s unfortunate that you don’t have the death penalty in Scandinavia.”

Irene trembled uncontrollably. Dear Tom still had a dark side. She hadn’t realized it at the beginning of their acquaintance, but she was starting to understand that Tom had hidden depths he wasn’t about to reveal to her. And why should he? Thanks to him, they had been able to determine the identity of the dismembered body in Killevik and that was the important thing.

A thought started growing in Irene’s head. Maybe Tom could bring them closer to Marcus’s killer. She asked, “Tom. . since you know Copenhagen. . do you know if there is a place for necrosadists?”

“Necrosad. .!”

He was surprised by the question. But after thinking a bit he said, “There are several places for sadomasochists. But necrophiles! No. But. .”

He stopped to think again. “There are videos that show necrophilia and some illegal films that show actual murders. But, of course, if someone wants them, they can get them.”

“Did Marcus ever show any interest-”

“In necrophilia? Absolutely not! He was so alive and absolutely not interested in death!”

“Thanks for letting me ask these questions,” she said.

“No problem.”

They wished each other good night and hung up.

She sat for a long time thinking in the growing darkness of the room. Somewhere there had to be a connection between the three murder victims. A common variable. The police officer? The doctor? Or both?

Sex. All three of them were particularly sexually active. Carmen Ostergaard had been in the business quite a while and Isabell was new to prostitution. But both of them had worked with sex professionally.

Anders Gunnarsson had said that Marcus was always ready for sex and that he was drawn to dangerous types. Did he do it for money? Hardly, especially as he made a very good living from his work. Money wasn’t his problem. Did he buy sex? Not very likely either. With his looks he wouldn’t have needed to pay.

No matter how she twisted and turned, she couldn’t find a logical connection between the three victims. She gazed out through the mullioned windows. The lights of the big city were hard and artificial. The shadows between the sources of light were deep and black. Perfect for a killer.

IRENE FELT well rested after eight hours of deep sleep. She called Jonny’s room at a quarter past seven, and after ten rings she heard the receiver picked up. Then, with a crash, it fell to the floor and she could hear Jonny’s muffled “Damn it!” He finally managed to get the receiver to his ear.

“Jonny. . Jonny Blom,” a cracked voice bleated.

“Time for breakfast,” Irene chirped.

“Breakfas. . God damn-”

The receiver on the other end of the line was slammed down, and Irene felt both anger and dejection. Having to drag Jonny around Copenhagen was like having a ball and chain around her ankle. A hungover Jonny was a catastrophe. There were some good moments when he was sober, and he could even be useful. But if he felt half as bad as he had sounded on the phone, he was going to be worthless.

Irene went down and ate a delicious breakfast. She took her time. The sun outside was already shining brightly, and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Jonny never showed up in the breakfast room.

Back upstairs she changed into a short-sleeved light blue linen shirt. She kept the dark blue pants on but put on her black loafers. She took off her socks as a gesture to the summery feeling she had. She decided that the dark blue linen blazer would have to do as a coat. With her big canvas bag nonchalantly hanging over her shoulder, she looked more like a tourist on a shopping spree than a cop on the trail of a killer.

She called Jonny before she left the room, and after several rings he managed to answer the phone. Irene could only hear a guttural mumble, and then the receiver hit the cradle again.

With a sigh, Irene decided to let him sleep.

SHE WALKED down to the Vesterbro police station. It hadn’t even been a week since she was here last, but