photographer could be. However, several people had recognized Marcus. Apparently, he had done a lot of modeling before the design company got off the ground.
Now she was both sweaty and thirsty. The early summer heat had been pleasant at lunchtime but it had become oppressive during the afternoon. It was the first real summer day of the year, and one that had been longed for, but as far as Irene was concerned, it could definitely have held off a while longer. The car was boiling hot and her clothes were sticking to her body. Her deodorant sure wasn’t lasting twenty-four hours, like the commercial had promised, a fact of which she had become awkwardly aware during the last couple of hours. She longed intensely for a cool shower.
Without any expectations whatsoever she slowly trudged up the worn steps to E. Bolin’s Commercial Photography Company, Incorporated, on Kastellgatan. “Corporation” always sounded fancy, but the facade of this office was not impressive. The outer door was insignificant and its paint had peeled off in big patches. The bell didn’t work, so Irene had to knock hard.
The man who opened it was a surprise. Her first thought was that he must be a photo model. He was a bit taller than average, slim, and looked like he was in good shape. His eyes were amber brown and matched his short hair perfectly. The bangs were longer and stood straight up in straggling pieces. The look was so nonchalant and sporty that it must have taken him at least half an hour to arrange it. After more scrutiny, she realized that he was older than he had seemed at first glance, over thirty rather than under.
He smiled charmingly and said, “Hi. What can I help you with?”
“Hi. Irene Huss, from the police.” She had her ID ready and pulled it out of her pocket.
The man raised his eyebrows slightly but didn’t move from the doorway.
“Really?” he said.
“I’m looking for the photographer Erik Bolin,” Irene said.
“At your service,” said the man at the door.
He made a slight bow and took a step into the hall so that she could get past. Irene entered his studio.
If the exterior wasn’t impressive, the interior certainly was. It was obvious that the entire premises had recently been renovated.
The walls in the hall were painted light gray, and the floor was a warm cherrywood. The studio itself, a large illuminated room, was located straight ahead. Those walls were white but the floor was the same as in the hall. The door to the right stood open and led into a rather large and airy kitchen. Black, steel, and cherrywood flooring.
“When did Marcus Tosscander design this interior?” she asked.
Now Bolin arched his eyebrows. “Did you know about it or could you tell?” he asked.
“I could tell.”
“Bravo. He has, or had, his own style. Absolutely luscious. I love it.”
“When did he design it?”
“A little more than a year ago. The renovation itself was done last summer. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
They went into the ultramodern kitchen. Irene sat on a kitchen chair, which certainly wasn’t any ordinary kitchen chair. The welded-steel frame and the skillfully woven chair seat of sturdy hemp told her that it was “designed.” Erik Bolin turned on an espresso machine. He was busy for a long time with all of the utensils required to press out an itty-bitty cup of coffee from the sputtering and puffing machine. Irene preferred huge buckets of Swedish coffee but for lack of anything better, this would have to do. Caffeine was caffeine.
Apparently the machine could make two cups at a time, because Bolin set down two minicups on the kitchen table’s slate top. He placed a small plate with rice cakes between them. Was the man dieting? He didn’t look like he needed to. Or maybe that’s why he looked like he did?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Bolin’s question. “Is this about Marcus?”
“In a way. Did you know each other well?”
He smiled sorrowfully. “Yes. We were very good friends.”
“How long had you known each other?”
Bolin thought a bit. “Four years.”
“Were you together?”
“Together. . it happened in the beginning. . but we’ve just been friends the last two years.”
“Did you take any pictures of Marcus?”
His dark amber eyes began to glow.
“Tons! He loved being in front of the camera, and the camera loved him. It’s like that with some people.”
Irene pulled out the envelope with the two Polaroid pictures.
“Did you take these?”
He picked up the pictures and cast a fleeting look at them. “Of course.”
Irene was close to yelling, “Bingo!” but she managed to stop herself. She apologized to Erik Bolin and excused herself for a little while. Then she called her colleagues on their cell phones and told them that she had found the photographer.
“Do you know who the other man is?” she asked when the phone calls had been taken care of.
“Nothing more than that Marcus called him Basta.”
“Basta? What is that a nickname for?”
“No idea.”
“When were the pictures taken?”
“Last summer, at the beginning of August.”
“Almost a year ago. Where did you take them?”
“In Lokken.”
Lokken was in Denmark, on the west coast of Jylland, quite a ways from Copenhagen. But it was in Denmark! Irene had to force herself to concentrate on the follow-up questions.
“How was it that you happened to choose Denmark specifically? And Lokken? It’s a ways to drive.”
“Because of the amazing sand dunes. I took lots of wonderful pictures!”
“There aren’t any sand dunes in these two photos,” Irene pointed out.
“No. Marcus chose the pictures he wanted to have. He wasn’t at all interested in the sand,” Bolin answered knowingly.
“I’ve seen another picture of Marcus. Where he’s leaning back against some large pillows. He’s a little fuzzy but his-”
“Oh, that old picture. We took that one here in the studio. It was one of the first naked studies I did of Marcus. Personally, I didn’t like it but Marcus loved it. I enlarged it and gave it to him as a Christmas present. I took it at the beginning of our friendship.”
“What were the photographs used for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were they going to be printed in magazines or did you make posters or. .”
“Come,” said Bolin.
He got up quickly and went out into the hall and then led her farther into the large studio. He gestured toward the walls.
Framed black-and-white pictures hung all around them. Some were of naked people, both men and women, but most of them were portraits. All proved Irene’s first thought correct: a very skillful artist had taken them.
“I take a lot of commercial photos since I work with advertising. It feels like a great privilege to work as an artist sometimes. I’ve had some exhibits that have gotten good reviews. The pictures from Lokken were displayed at my last exhibit half a year ago. I called it
Irene felt completely uncultured.
“Come,” Erik Bolin said again.
He went over to a door that was built into the white wall. When he opened it, Irene caught a glimpse of
