and ordered the car to the street behind the back lot.
He rose from the bed in a cumbersome fashion and went to the door that led to the stairwell. Before he opened it, he turned toward Irene and said, “We’ll keep in touch, like before. But be on your guard. Keep a good lookout.”
“The same goes for you.”
Tom nodded. “I understand.”
She called Scandinavian Models from the taxi. Petra didn’t answer. Instead, a hoarse, sexy voice introduced herself in Danish as Heidi. Irene explained who she was and asked for Petra but was told that she was unavailable. Irene quickly decided to take a chance. In an official, neutral tone she said, “Petra told me what time Jens Metz arrived on Wednesday the nineteenth. But I happened to write it down sloppily and I can’t see if it says eleven thirty or eleven forty.”
Irene could hear Heidi flipping through the logbook. Her smoky, dark voice said, “Eleven thirty.”
Irene was overjoyed. But her voice didn’t reveal a thing when she thanked Heidi for her help.
Irene saw Peter Moller outside the entrance to the church before he saw her. He was standing on the top step next to the entrance, peering out at the people passing by. She knew that she was late and she quickened her steps. Peter caught sight of her and raised his hand to wave. Without haste, he sauntered down the steps toward her.
“Sorry, Peter. I went into a store and forgot the time.”
She smiled apologetically and tried to look female and scatterbrained. Peter nodded, but she felt him subject her to careful scrutiny. Without wasting unnecessary words, he piloted her over to the parked BMW. As usual, he held open the passenger-side door for her.
He slid smoothly into the heavy stream of traffic.
“Did you find out anything new?” he asked.
“I couldn’t get Petra. She wasn’t there. But I got confirmation for something I had been wondering about.”
She explained that she had been outside Scandinavian Models at about the same time Isabell was murdered and that she had seen a man who looked strikingly like Jens Metz go into the bordello. After forty-five minutes he still hadn’t come out. Heidi had admitted that it really had been Jens Metz.
“How should we deal with this information?” she asked.
Peter sat quietly for some time.
“Don’t say anything to Jens. His visit to a bordello doesn’t have anything to do with Isabell’s murder.”
“But don’t you think it’s an amazing coincidence?”
“Maybe not. Jens could have become curious about Scandinavian Models after you mentioned it. Maybe he went there to get a closer look. And then he thought about other things when he was there. . ”
“You don’t think it’s the least bit suspicious?” Irene persisted.
Peter gave her an amused look before he said, “As I see it, he has a perfect alibi. You were standing outside keeping an eye on him.”
He had a point there.
They turned onto a wide avenue with impressive beech trees lining both sides. The immense network of branches met in the middle and had braided themselves together like an enormous vaulted ceiling. The half-light of the avenue contrasted sharply with the sun-drenched surroundings.
An arrow pointed toward a parking lot. Peter turned in and stopped inside a white marked box.
Tall oaks shadowed the well-tended flower beds in the hospital garden. The hospital itself was a low yellow stucco building. Even though the building looked idyllic and romantically old-fashioned, the barred windows on the bottom floor dispelled this impression.
A discreet brass sign next to the entrance informed visitors that they had come to Queen Anne’s Hospital.
“This is a psychiatric hospital,” Peter informed her.
“I’d assumed that.” Irene had to try not to sound sarcastic.
The heavy entrance door was open and led to a spacious hall with pillars in a Roman style supporting the white painted ceiling. It looked fresh and newly decorated.
“She’s in Ward Three,” said Peter.
The door on the left bore the number one, and that on the right, number two. Consequently, Beate Bentsen should be located one floor up.
There weren’t any bars on the windows of the second floor, but the door to the ward was locked. They had to ring the bell and wait for a nurse.
One of the largest men Irene had ever seen-even compared with Tom Tanaka-filled the doorway when the door was finally opened. Under his curly blond beard and tangled head of hair, which seemed to be joined, a deep voice emerged. “Who are you looking for?”
Neither Peter nor Irene managed to reply. The giant was used to this reaction.
“I’m Erland. One hundred and sixty kilos, two meters ten. An old basketball player who has gained a few kilos.”
Irene heard a hint of a titter in his bass voice. Peter had finally managed to get his act together and said, “Crime police. We’ve been given permission to visit Beate Bentsen.”
The superintendent was half sitting in a raised hospital bed. Her hair lay, uncombed, over the pillow like a mass of copper red steel wool. Her eyes were closed when they came in, but when she heard them she turned her head and looked at them.
Beate Bentsen had aged several years in the past day. Her skin was gray, and her face, free of makeup, had a sunken look to it. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought she was suffering from a fatal disease. But in reality her soul and her mind had received a deadly blow, thought Irene. No parent should have to see his or her child in the condition Emil had been in when they’d found him.
Beate’s gaze cleared when she saw who it was. She raised herself up on one elbow with difficulty and nodded to them. “Good of you to come. I thought about calling you.”
Her lips were cracked and dry and her hand shook when she reached for the water glass on the nightstand. She took a greedy gulp. She put the glass back, coughing.
“We should have brought flowers,” Irene said apologetically.
The superintendent waved off the idea with her hand as she finished coughing.
“Not necessary. I’m going home tomorrow.”
Was that really possible? She didn’t look like she was in any condition to be released. As if she had read their thoughts, Beate continued, “I had an acute psychological crisis. But my doctor was here after lunch and he says that it’s over. I’ll have to continue with the medicine but I’m not sick anymore so I don’t need to be in the hospital. But I’ll be on sick leave for a while.”
The long speech seemed to wear her out. She sank back onto the pillow.
Peter inhaled as if he was about to say something but Beate was ahead of him. “I thought about calling you because there is something important I haven’t told you.”
She looked Peter straight in the eye. “You will remember that I told you about the real estate agent Simon Steiner. He was my father’s best friend and died of lung cancer four years ago. All of that is true but there is something else. He was Emil’s father.”
Last week someone who claimed to be Emil’s dead father called and requested that Isabell go to the Hotel Aurora. The killer must have known who Emil’s father was, thought Irene.
“Who knew that Simon Steiner was Emil’s father?” she asked.
“No one. It says ‘father unknown’ on his birth certificate. I never even told my parents that it was Simon.”
“Did Emil know who his father was?”
“Yes. He inherited the apartment and a good deal of money when Simon died.”
Beate sighed before she continued. “I might as well start from the beginning. I had known Simon all of my life. He was a few years younger than my father but they had been friends since they were kids. My father met my mother and married her. Simon married my mother’s sister Susanne a few years later. Susanne was diagnosed with MS the same year they were married. They didn’t have any children. My aunt was very sick off and on.”
