IRENE MADone last attempt just after eleven o’clock, right before she was going to go to bed. Pontus answered at his home number.
“Did you get any information?” Irene asked straight out.
“No. But, God, what a discussion we had!” he exclaimed.
“Start from the beginning.”
“OK. I pretended to be upset after being questioned by you. ‘As if there were gays in the health-care field who devoted themselves to necrosadism,’ I said in a loud voice. There really was a hot discussion, just as you’d hoped. You should have heard it! But no one said anything about necrophilia or other horrid things. Everyone agreed that this was a result of the police’s general homophobia. Ha ha!”
Irene didn’t feel that she was particularly homophobic and didn’t really understand what was so funny. She giggled politely into the receiver so that he would continue.
“We usually wrap things up around ten o’clock. No one had any interesting gossip. At least none that I could hear. But now the hook is baited and lowered. It’s not too late to get a bite. Goodness! This is really exciting!”
Exciting wasn’t the word Irene would have used when she thought of the murderer and his victims. She thanked Pontus for his help and asked him to be in touch if he heard anything interesting.
She set down the receiver and she crawled into bed. An irritating thought was gnawing at her that made it impossible for her to sleep.
It was something she had overlooked. Something she should have thought of during the day. But she couldn’t come up with what it was.
It was nearly twelve thirty when she fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. “IS THERE anything for me?” Irene asked.
She leaned forward toward the window in reception and was so prepared for a positive answer, she already had her hand stretched out to take the envelope.
“Let’s see. . Huss. . Irene Huss. . No. There’s nothing here.”
The friendly brunette behind the glass windowpane smiled apologetically. Irene was incredulous.
“Are you sure? A photographer by the name of Bolin was supposed to leave an envelope for me here during the morning.”
“Sorry.”
Irene was crestfallen, but had to pad away empty-handed. Maybe Bolin hadn’t found the roll of film? She decided to call the photographer and find out what had happened. She would have time; five minutes remained before morning prayers.
While she was dialing, her eyes rested on the framed photo of the man in the backlit picture. She knew she should recognize him. If only he had shown a little more of his face, and if only the picture hadn’t been taken in direct sunlight, then. . She sighed and gave up. The picture, which stood against the wall, had already been the source of many witty comments from people who had been in the room.
Irene let the phone ring ten times before she hung up. Seven thirty was probably too early for the advertising business. She would have to wait until after morning prayers.
SUPERINTENDENT ANDERSSON held a short morning review. The bright sun flooded the room. A premonition of the approaching end of the school term hung in the air. The superintendent didn’t seem to notice the beautiful weather outside the window. He was deeply engrossed in some papers lying in front of him on the table. He looked up from them and searched for someone with his eyes, peering from behind lowered reading glasses. He stopped at Irene.
“The technicians send greetings. The investigation of the postcard from Copenhagen hasn’t provided anything more than an interesting thumbprint on the stamp. The other fingerprints on the card probably came from you and the mailman. But they’ll keep the card in case we find other fingerprints or other written messages that we want to compare. Our colleagues in Copenhagen are going through Tosscander’s car. They’ll be in touch when they have something interesting to say.”
“Did they say anything about how Tom Tanaka is doing?” Irene asked.
“No,” the superintendent said shortly.
Tom was apparently still a sensitive topic for Andersson. Irene decided to try and call Copenhagen to inquire as to Tom’s condition.
“Today Birgitta is going to attempt to get into Tosscander’s computer. Irene is in touch with the photographer Bolin and is trying to get pictures of that guy with. . well, you know. . in the air. Jonny is going through the last of Marcus Tosscander’s videos-”
The superintendent was interrupted by Jonny’s irritated mumble. “What is it?” Andersson said, irritated.
“Those films are damn difficult! A lot of queers jumping each other! Damn!”
“I realize that you don’t think they’re terribly amusing to watch. But you have to. We can’t miss a single film. Think about the movies we found in Copenhagen!”
“Yes, but all of Tosscander’s movies are commercial videos. Not home movies,” Jonny tried to protest.
“Watch them! All of them!” Andersson ended the discussion.
Jonny continued to mumble discontentedly, though in a somewhat lower tone.
“Hannu will have to help Irene look for that Basta guy. And Tommy has informed me that there are some developments in the search for Jack the Ripper,” Andersson continued.
Irene sent a questioning look at Tommy, who responded with a thumbs-up. It would be great if they could catch that idiot. He hadn’t been out on the prowl the previous weekend. Maybe the young women in Vasastan had become more careful. Or maybe something else was keeping him off the streets.
“Fredrik is at Financial Crimes. Apparently there’s a good chance of pulling in Robert Larsson for economic fraud. Since we don’t have witnesses anymore we’ll never get him for murdering Laban,” Andersson informed them before they rose from morning prayers.
THE FIRST thing Irene did when she returned to her office was to dial Erik Bolin’s number. There was still no answer. She remembered that he had a family. He might still be at home. After a brief search in the phone book she found Erik, photographer, and Sara Bolin, dental technician, at an address very close to where she lived.
Irene only heard one ring before the phone was answered.
“Sara Bolin,” a strained woman’s voice said in a proper Goteborg dialect.
“Good morning. My name is Irene Huss. I’m looking for Erik Bolin.”
“Who are you?”
Irene was surprised by the question but answered, “I’m an Inspector with the Crime Police and I’ve been in touch with Erik about a case and. .”
“For goodness’ sake! Don’t be so long-winded! Have you found him?”
Irene was dumbstruck and couldn’t come up with anything more intelligent than “Who?”
“Erik, of course! I called early this morning!”
“Wait a second. Has Erik Bolin disappeared?”
It became quiet for a moment before Sara Bolin’s shaking voice could be heard again. “Yes. Didn’t you know?”
“No. I’m looking for him with respect to a case. . a person he knew.”
Now Sara’s voice became guarded. “I understand. Marcus.”
“Exactly. Did you know him?”
“No. I’ve never met him. He was. . Erik’s.”
There was a pause.
“Did I understand you correctly? You have reported Erik missing?” she asked carefully.
“Yes. When I woke up this morning, his bed was empty. He didn’t come home last night.”
“Is he gone overnight occasionally?”
“Yes. But he always calls. And he always calls if he’s going to be late. He often is, at his job.”
“Didn’t you miss him last night?”
“Yes. But he called earlier yesterday afternoon and said that he would be late. So I wasn’t all that worried when it was nine o’clock and he hadn’t come home. I was mostly irritated. I called the studio but he wasn’t there.
