could feel that she was starting to sweat.
Beate didn’t seem to have noticed anything. Almost whispering, she continued, “He says that he doesn’t want me to come and go in his life just as I please. That’s why I don’t have a key.”
Irene could come up with several reasons why Emil wouldn’t want a mother who was a police superintendent to suddenly show up at his home. She nodded, without saying anything.
Beate suddenly burst out, “It’s so strange! He seems to have disappeared!”
The three men turned their heads simultaneously and looked at her. Jens peered good-naturedly from the depths of his fatty jowls and asked, “Who has disappeared?”
Bentsen took a deep breath and looked morosely. “Emil. I haven’t heard from him in a week.”
Clearly Beate was worried, and Irene had a feeling that she had good reason to be. Impulsively, she put her hand on the coarse linen-clad arm of her colleague and said, “When we’re finished here, we’ll take a taxi and go to Emil’s apartment. I’ll come along. If he’s home, I can ask him my question directly. Then it’ll be taken care of.”
Beate shrugged at first. Then she nodded.
Chapter 11
THE DINNER HAD BEEN superb. Jens Metz had entertained them with stories about the work of the Copenhagen Police Department, and Jonny had countered with glimpses from the everyday lives of his Goteborg colleagues. They had laughed and passed a very enjoyable couple of hours.
Just before eleven o’clock, Beate Bentsen touched Irene’s arm and said in a low voice, “Shall we go?”
Irene nodded. They got up and excused themselves. Peter Moller asked if he should escort them but they assured him that it wasn’t necessary.
After the increasing warmth and cigarette smoke of the restaurant, the night air of Radhuspladsen felt refreshing. They hailed a free cab and Irene remembered to let the superintendent give the directions. At Gothersgade they paid for the trip and asked the cabdriver to wait five minutes. If they hadn’t come back before then, he could leave.
Emil lived in a beautiful old stone house dating from the beginning of the twentieth century. The house itself was of red-brown brick, richly embellished. Sculptured faces on the building’s friezes gazed down at the two women through the half darkness.
They were lucky. A man was coming down the stairs and opened the door, giving Beate a friendly smile. He probably recognized her as Emil’s mother, thought Irene.
Broad marble steps led to an airy stairwell. At the far end of the hall, light streamed in from a rectangular elevator window. The elevator was considerably younger than the remainder of the house. They were quickly carried up to the fourth floor; the car stopped with a gentle bounce.
The hallway had been recently renovated, revealing Art Nouveau designs along the walls and around the lead-framed stairway windows. It must be unbelievably beautiful when the sun shines through the multicolored glass windows, thought Irene. They were dark now since street light didn’t reach to the top floor. The walls were newly glazed in pale yellow, and a talented painter had covered the heavy outer doors in an old-fashioned style using a dark chestnut brown color for a hand-drawn pattern.
Beate Bentsen walked with determined steps up to one of the two doors on the landing. It said EMIL BENTSEN on the blue ceramic plate, which contrasted with the elegance of the rest of the entrance. If one looked closer, it could be seen that the little pink border under Emil’s name was made up of pigs. The first stood on all fours and the others stood behind, each with its forelegs resting on the back of the one in front. There were ten pigs in a row, copulating.
Beate didn’t give the pigs a glance. She rang the doorbell forcefully. It echoed behind the massive door, which remained closed. Irene put her ear to the door. All was quiet; no movement could be heard. She got down on her knees and peered through the mail slot. On the floor she could glimpse newspapers, advertisements, and some envelopes.
“He hasn’t been home for several days,” she said.
Just when she was about to get up, Irene became aware of the smell coming through the open slot. It was so faint that she hadn’t noticed it at first. But this smell, even if ever so faint, was well known to a murder investigator.
At first she didn’t know what she was going to say to Beate. In order to buy some time, she asked, “Did you look through the mail slot when you were here earlier today?”
“Yes, I saw the pile of mail. That’s what got me so worried.”
Irene swallowed before she asked the next question. “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”
“No. Why?”
Irene looked quickly at Beate. It was quite possible that the superintendent hadn’t noticed the smell as she was a heavy smoker. Her sense of smell might be diminished, but not Irene’s. A faint but unmistakable odor of corruption was coming through the mail slot.
Beate Bentsen managed to get the building’s owner using Irene’s cell phone. Judging by the tone of the conversation, they were old acquaintances. He hadn’t gone to bed, and since the women didn’t have a car, he promised to come and give them the keys personally.
The superintendent’s face was pale green when she ended the conversation. With a gesture of exhaustion she handed the phone to Irene. “He lives very close by. It will only take him a few minutes by car.”
Then the remote expression returned to her face. Irene decided not to bother her with chitchat. They stood in silence outside the door with its racy sign.
All of Irene’s instincts were signaling with red warning lights: the smell wasn’t coming from old, forgotten trash. Someone or something was rotting inside the apartment.
THE ELEVATOR swished quietly up to the top floor and the building’s owner stepped out. To Irene’s surprise he was as dark as ebony. He flashed a brilliant smile and introduced himself as Bill Faraday. He was tall and wiry. If Irene had been asked to guess his profession, she would have said he was a dancer. The last thing she would have guessed was that he was a real estate lessor.
Faraday pulled an enormous set of keys out of the pocket of his expensive-looking leather coat. He searched for a long time among the different keys before he fished out one with a joyful exclamation. The key slid easily off the ring and, with a click as it turned in the lock, the door opened.
Beate stepped in front of Faraday. Brusquely, she said, “Thanks, Bill. We’ll go in ourselves. Can we keep the key?”
If he was surprised by this dismissal, he didn’t show it. With another beaming smile, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the elevator. Bentsen waited until it had started descending before she opened the door completely and, with a wave of her hand, invited Irene in.
The smell was evident in the hall. Irene turned on the light and looked around. It was big and airy and the ceiling was very high. A soiled folk art rug in shades of wine red lay under the large pile of mail and newspapers. The only furnishings were a hat and coat stand and a large mirror with a gilded frame. A naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling.
At random, Irene chose the closest door on the left. It turned out to lead into a large dirty bathroom, which smelled stale. A sour-smelling terry-cloth towel had been thrown on the floor among empty toilet-paper rolls and shampoo bottles.
The next door led into a kitchen, which was equally messy. Encrusted dishes and smelly pizza boxes overflowed the filthy counter. But this wasn’t the dominant smell in the apartment. Irene realized that Beate Bentsen was following right at her heels. Irene understood. The superintendent was afraid of the nauseating smell and of learning where it was coming from. She didn’t dare find out on her own.
As if she had read Irene’s thoughts, Bentsen took a step toward a closed door and said, “Emil’s music room is in there. The door next to it leads to the living room and over there is the bedroom.”
Irene went directly to the bedroom door. It wasn’t completely closed.
The stench hit her as she opened the door wide.
