floor via the back stairs. He probably fixed the locks ahead of time.”
It was quiet in the room while they contemplated the likelihood of this theory. Irene decided that it sounded very logical.
Metz took a puffing breath and continued, “We traced the phone call from the young woman to Scandinavian Models, an escort service.”
Irene waited for the follow-up that never came. Now Metz should have talked about his visit to Scandinavian Models. He could have used the line that “It was a private investigation to help Irene,” or whatever, but he didn’t offer any explanation.
“The interrogations there have provided a good deal of information. The business is new and has only been up and running for a few months. All four of the girls have been there from the beginning. They share a large apartment in the same building in which the company is located.”
“Did they move from the address that Isabell’s mother had?” Irene jumped in.
“No. They’ve lived there the whole time.”
So Bell had given Monika the wrong address in Copenhagen on purpose. Of course, it had seemed odd that the girls didn’t have a phone in their apartment.
Irene remembered Bell’s inclination to run away when she was younger, how she had wanted to disappear so that her mother would worry. Had Bell chosen to be unreachable? Maybe it made her feel grown-up, free, and independent. She had had to pay a high price for her so-called freedom.
“Who owns Scandinavian Models?” asked Irene.
“An American. Robin Hillman. A nasty guy. This is the third bordello he’s started. He’s worked 24/7 from the get-go. The girls are paid fairly well but they really have to work hard.”
Metz winked and smiled knowingly after the last comment. Irene thought that he was disgusting. Why didn’t he say anything about his visit to the bordello?
Peter Moller took over. “When he thinks he has made a big enough profit, he shuts down the business, goes bankrupt, or sells. Of course, there’s no money left in the company. A colleague I spoke with says it’s estimated that he must owe a minimum of twenty million kronor in unpaid taxes. It may be a much higher sum, but no one knows. He has the best tax lawyers in the country working for him.”
“Have you spoken with Hillman?” Irene asked.
Moller shook his head. “No, he’s in the States. Left on Friday morning, after we found Isabell. Someone probably tipped him off, and he felt things were getting too hot to handle.”
“When is he coming back?”
“His wife didn’t know.”
“His wife?”
“Yes. Jytte Hillman. Danish. They have two small children and they live-very well off-in Charlottenlund.”
“Where is that?”
“North of Copenhagen, along Strandvejen.”
Irene remembered the fashionable neighborhood she had driven through on her way home the week before.
She looked at Moller’s blond hair with its sun-bleached strands, his short-sleeved light gray shirt in thin silk, and well-pressed chinos in a slightly darker shade of gray. He looked healthy with his suntan. Suddenly, it struck her that she didn’t know where he had gone to get his tan. Thailand? Also a question that had to be asked. But not right now; she would have to wait. Instead, she smiled and said casually, “Is the house located on the right side of the road?”
Moller raised his eyebrows and said ironically, “Of course. Own beach and dock. Hillman paid nine million kroner for the place. His occupation, as listed in the phone book, is businessman. Business seems to be going well.”
Birgitta Moberg had said the sex industry brings in more money than the drug trade in the USA today. It’s called an
In order to stop her thoughts, Irene asked, “What have you found out by questioning the other girls at the bordello?”
“Isabell was requested via phone by a man who called himself Simon Steiner. He called around ten o’clock on Wednesday night. He asked specifically for Isabell and wanted her immediately. She was free at eleven. Petra, the one who took the phone call, said that Isabell hailed a taxi and left just before eleven. We’ve found the taxi driver and the time matches. He dropped her off at the Hotel Aurora at five minutes to eleven. The driver doesn’t remember if there was a man waiting for her outside the hotel.”
“Have you found anyone with the name Simon Steiner?”
“No.”
Beate Bentsen suddenly cleared her throat and said, “The fact is, I knew someone named Simon Steiner. He lived here in Copenhagen but died four years ago. Lung cancer.” She put out her half-smoked cigarette.
Metz suddenly looked interested and asked, “Who was he? Could he have a relative with the same name who’s still alive?”
Bentsen shook her head. “No relatives with the same name, as far as I know. He was a retired real estate agent. Widowed.”
“No children?”
“No.”
Irene thought she heard a slight hesitation in Bentsen’s voice but she wasn’t completely certain. The superintendent’s face didn’t reveal anything. Since none of the other inspectors seemed willing to ask the question, Irene decided to do it. “How did you know Simon Steiner?”
“He was a good friend of my father’s. They were childhood friends.”
It was a simple explanation but Irene still felt uneasy. It seemed to be quite a coincidence that the superintendent had known a man with exactly the same name. Still, the explanation was credible. A dead man couldn’t possibly be the murderer they were looking for, but someone could have easily used his name. But why
Irene had to interrupt her train of thought when Metz said, “Now I want to hear everything you know about Isabell Lind.”
Irene summed up everything she could remember about how Isabell had ended up in Copenhagen. She also told them about her own investigation at Scandinavian Models at about the same time Isabell’s murder must have taken place. Jens Metz gave a start and gave her a sharp look. She calmly looked back into his small light blue eyes whose almost white lashes gave the impression that he didn’t have any.
Surely now he will mention his visit she thought, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked away quickly.
She did not talk about her visit to Tom Tanaka. She wouldn’t breathe a word about his role in the investigation.
She finished by telling them about the postcard with its short message.
“The Little Mermaid is dead,” Metz repeated thoughtfully.
“But in English,” Irene clarified.
The three Danish colleagues looked grave. Moller was the one who said it. “To your home address. The murder of a girl you knew, here in Copenhagen. Murdered according to the rituals we recognize from two other murders. A warning can’t get much clearer.”
“But why me? Several police officers, both in Goteborg and in Copenhagen, are working on this investigation,” said Irene.
She could hear the fear in her own voice. Metz looked at her expressionlessly before saying, “You must know things that make the killer feel threatened. Maybe you can’t see how important these details are and that’s why you haven’t told us about them. But he thinks you’re a threat.”
A block of ice lodged itself in Irene’s stomach. What Metz had just said could be interpreted as a threat. It sounded like a well-intended warning, but it could just as easily be-Irene warned herself not to over-analyze. There was a risk of becoming paranoid. Yet she had to tread cautiously and think about every word she uttered when she was with these three people.
