THE GIRL IN THE lab was a godsend. By nine o’clock she had made five sets of copies of Tom Tanaka’s Polaroid pictures, as well as a good enlargement of both pictures. Irene had gone around among her colleagues with the picture of the man with the ponytail, and asked if anyone had seen him before. No one recognized him. Only she and Hannu seemed to have a feeling of familiarity. Or was it just their imagination?
Irene focused on the picture and tried to be objective. Yes, there was certainly something familiar about the high cheekbones and the contour of the ear, the chest and the arms. She stared at the picture until her eyes started burning.
She gave up. His identity was somewhere in the back of her mind, she was certain of it. She would eventually come up with it. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long. They were working under a time constraint; the risk that the murderer would kill again was constantly increasing. It was obvious that the man in the backlit picture had known Marcus Tosscander. It was possible that he knew quite a bit about both Emil and Marcus. It was even conceivable that he was involved in the murders. It was very important to find this man.
Hannu was going to try to reach Anders Gunnarsson, and Birgitta was going to try Hans Pahliss. Irene took it upon herself to get in touch with Pontus Zander since she needed to speak with him anyway. There was a good chance that one of them would recognize the man in the photo. Maybe he moved in the same circles they did.
Irene realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t possible to divide up photographers based on their areas of specialty. So they divided those listed in the Yellow Pages in four, with the same number of names in each. They would have to go through each list methodically, one by one. It was just a matter of getting started.
Irene started writing in the photographers’ addresses on the map, in order to work out a systematic route. If she didn’t get any leads quickly, it would take up most of the day and a good portion of the next one. But it would be worth it if they could put a name to the man in the backlit picture.
IT WAS three thirty and Irene had begun to feel a bit dejected. None of the men or women she had met during the day as she wandered between photography studios had been able to give her any tip as to who the 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 Løkken.”
Løkken 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 Løkken? 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 Løkken were displayed at my last exhibit half a year ago. I called it Affirmations. It was shown at the Pic Ture gallery.”
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 frames lined up in the closetlike space. He started flipping systematically. Occasionally, he stopped with a soft triumphant shout and pulled out a picture, which he leaned against the wall. When he had finished rummaging and selected six of them, he seemed satisfied.
“These, plus five more, which are hanging on the wall behind you, were part of the exhibit,” he said.
Irene heard the pride in his voice, and in her estimation it was justified.
All of the pictures were very sensual. The picture of Marcus was somewhat different from the one Tom had on his wall. Here he sat leaning forward more, with his arms freely resting on his knees. His left hand loosely held his right wrist, and his right hand obscured most of his genitals. He was smiling a confident, sexy smile and looked right into the camera with eyes glittering mischievously. The wind was tousling his damp hair, and the sun glittered in the sea spray on his body. A perfect body, thought Irene. The body of a Greek god. Which Emil and his partner had turned into a torso.
One of the pictures represented a young woman sitting on a chair with two small children. The smallest child appeared to be almost a newborn and slumbered, leaning against her chest. The older child stood with his head leaning against her knee and looked directly into the camera. At the most, he was two years old. All three were naked. The woman was a stunning beauty with Asian features. Her long black hair billowed around her and the children. Without doubt she could sit on her hair. The whole picture breathed love and warmth.
“My family,” Erik said with pride in his voice.
Irene’s chin dropped. She had thought that Bolin was gay. But now, if the woman and the children were his family-! She asked, “Is that really your wife and children?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know about. . you and Marcus?”
Erik Bolin suddenly looked serious.
“She knew that I was bisexual when we got married. With Marcus it was a short-lived passion. Though he and I kept in touch afterward.”
Irene would have loved to have continued to dig into their relationship but she suspected that his answers wouldn’t be completely truthful. Instead, she concentrated on the picture of the backlit man. It was the same photo that had hung on Tom’s wall.
“Did you take several pictures of this man?” Irene asked.
“Yes. But there wasn’t much time. This was the best picture. It’s the kind of picture you dream about being able to time just right. With the sun rays spreading out from his glans. Wonderfully sexy! I named it Penis Power but the gallery didn’t think it could be called that, so it was changed to Manpower.”
“Tell me about the meeting with Basta.”
Bolin seemed to be searching his memory before he spoke. “Marcus’s cell phone rang. He answered and seemed really happy when he understood that Basta wanted to get together. Marcus explained where we were. It was easy to find us because there was an old lighthouse right next to where we were hanging out. After about an hour, I saw a jeep approaching on the beach. It turned out to be Basta.”
“Weren’t there a lot of curious people standing around and watching what you were shooting? Marcus was naked after all.”
“We were working a bit toward the north where there aren’t all that many people. And it was quite late in the afternoon. I started taking the first pictures of Marcus around five o’clock.”
“And Basta came later?”
“Yes, around seven. I finished the last roll of Marcus, and when that was done he suggested that I should photograph Basta. He was a good-looking guy so I agreed. It was actually Basta himself who came up with the idea of leaning with his back against the stone wall at the base of the lighthouse tower with his dick in the air. It turned out really well.”
“How long did Basta stay?”
“Max, two hours. He watched when I shot Marcus and then I took the pictures of him. Then he left.”
“Did it seem like they had a relationship?”
At first Bolin looked uncertain, but then he shrugged. His voice sounded rough when he said, “Before Basta left they had a go behind the lighthouse.”
Again Irene felt a strong desire to press him about his relationship with Marcus, but she stopped herself. That wasn’t what was most important right then. What was urgent was trying to figure out Basta’s identity.
“Marcus never called him anything but Basta?”
“No.”
“Describe Basta.”
“The same age as Marcus and me. Tall. Over six feet. In good shape. Probably lifts weights. Shoulder-length hair, relatively blond. Yellowish blond, you would probably call it. He had it pulled back in a ponytail.”
“Did he speak Swedish or Danish?”
“Swedish.”
“Dialect?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but I think he was from Göteborg. Yet he didn’t have the typical thick dialect. I would have remembered if that had been the case.”
“Were his license plates Swedish or Danish?”
“No idea. He parked the jeep on the beach, maybe a hundred meters away.”
“Eye color?”
“Blue. I think.”
“Could I borrow this one from you?” Irene said and held up Manpower.
“Sure.”
“Do you still have the other pictures you took of him?”
There was a chance that Basta’s face might be clearer on one of the other pictures.
“Yeah. . somewhere. But I only took one roll of him.”
“How many pictures are there on one roll?”
“Twelve.”
“Can you try and find the pictures for me?”
“Certainly. But a major client is coming here in a while. I’ll have to look after he’s left.”
“If you find them, maybe you can leave them in reception at the police station. Put them in an envelope and write my name on it.”
Irene held out her card. Erik Bolin took it and put it in the pocket of his jeans.
“A WHOLE day wasted! Couldn’t you have found him earlier?” Jonny grunted.
Was he serious? Irene gave him a sharp look and determined that he was. It was late and her blood sugar was low and she was tired. Her anger rose and she snapped, “Be happy I found him. Otherwise you would have had to trot around town tomorrow, too!”
“About tomorrow. How are we going to organize it?” Birgitta interrupted in order to break up the quarrel.
Strange, she was usually the one who became most upset at Jonny and his comments. Maybe things were different now that she had become Mrs. Rauhala. But of course she was thinking about keeping her last name and continuing to be called Moberg. Nothing could be seen yet of her pregnancy, even though she had purchased new pants in a slightly looser style than the jeans she usually wore.
“Are you going to get the other pictures of that Bastu guy? What did the photographer say?” Andersson asked.
“Basta. Yes. Bolin is going to leave them at reception tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll have to hit the street looking for Basta. Strange name,” the superintendent muttered.
“Has anyone managed to access Marcus’s computer yet?” Birgitta wondered.
“No. We haven’t found anyone who is good enough with computers,” said Andersson.
“I can give it a try,” Birgitta offered.
Irene made a note to herself that she should try to reach Pontus Zander. Maybe the feeler put out at the meeting for gays in the health-care field had yielded some profit.
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 Göteborg 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. So I went to bed. I was very tired and must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.”
Irene agreed it was worrisome that Erik Bolin was missing. “Do you have a key to the studio?”
“No. Erik has the only key.”
Irene was about to ask why they didn’t have an extra key at home, but realized that was a question she should ask Erik and not his wife.
She made up her mind. “I’ll go to the studio and see if I can get inside.”
“Thanks.”
She almost collided with Hannu on the way out.
“Come on. Erik Bolin has disappeared,” she said quickly.
Without asking any questions, Hannu went to get his jacket.
DURING THE car ride to Kastellgatan, Irene briefly went over what she knew about Erik’s disappearance, which wasn’t all that much.
“He quite simply never came home last night,” she concluded.
“So, according to the wife, he’s often late but always calls home,” Hannu ascertained.
“Exactly.”
“So he has time to meet boyfriends.”
“You mean in the evenings? Before he goes home to his family?”
“Yes.”
Hannu was right. The previous day, Irene had had a strong feeling that she should have dug deeper into Erik Bolin’s relationship with Marcus and Basta. Now she regretted her omission.
“Could it be a triangle drama?” she asked.
Hannu asked, “How so?”
“If Marcus loved Basta and Erik loved Marcus and Basta loved Erik. .”
She stopped and thought the sequence through to see if she had said it correctly. She had. Resolutely, she continued, “. . then maybe Basta murdered Marcus. In order to get Erik.”
Hannu said, “Hardly. Remember Carmen Østergaard. And Isabell and Emil. It doesn’t fit.”
Irene had to admit that he was right. But there was something in the thought that she didn’t want to let go. Would Erik and Marcus have continued their relationship on a friendship basis for several years?
The pictures of Marcus were taken through the eyes of a man in love. And would the man in love let his lover go to have sex with another man behind an old lighthouse? Not on your life. Even if, according to Anders Gunnarsson, homosexuals could sometimes have a more relaxed view of unfaithfulness, they still weren’t immune to jealousy.
Something in Erik Bolin’s story didn’t add up. She had sensed it yesterday but hadn’t really realized it until now. Now she was more concerned and unconsciously increased her speed, despite the heavy traffic.
“Fifty,” Hannu pointed out.
A glance at the speedometer showed sixty-five. Embarrassed, she eased off the gas pedal.
THE OUTER door of the studio was just as it had been the day before. Irene knocked hard and long without any response. Hannu opened the metal lid of the mail slot and peered into the hall. He stood for a long time and looked without saying anything. When he turned toward Irene, he looked very serious.
“We have to call a locksmith,” he said.
Irene pulled out her cell phone and did as he had said. The locksmith would come within half an hour. She ended the conversation and leaned forward in order to see what Hannu had seen.
Inside the door were a lot of newspapers and mail. Glass shards and a piece of a broken silver-coated wooden frame could be seen at the periphery of her field of vision. Several large rust brown stains were visible on the light pinkish-colored floor.
“There’s been a violent struggle in there. It looks like dried bloodstains on the floor. There weren’t any pieces of glass or a broken frame on the floor when I left yesterday around four thirty,” said Irene.
Hannu nodded, expressionlessly, an unfailing sign that he was worried.
While they were waiting for the locksmith, they read the names of the other tenants in the building. The house had five stories, with two apartments on every floor. They decided to wait to question the neighbors until they had more information about what had happened in the studio.
The locksmith arrived and opened the door. He disappeared as quickly as he had shown up.
The light in the hall was on. Both Irene and Hannu stopped in the doorway in order to get an overview of the situation. One of Bolin’s framed gallery photos was lying on the floor, completely broken into pieces. The glass was crushed, the frame was broken into small bits, and the picture itself had been cut into strips. They were wide enough that Irene could make out the shape of an infant’s head against a woman’s chest in one of them. It was the photo of Erik Bolin’s family.
From a door on the left, which had been closed when Irene had been there the day before, a trail of rust red stains led to the outer door.
Hannu saw it first. He gave a start and Irene followed his eyes to a point above her right shoulder. She screamed. The floor rocked.
Erik Bolin’s head lay on top of a hat rack, gazing at them with half-closed eyes.
“Stand still,” said Hannu.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called for backup.
“WELL, WELL. Now Irene is home again and they’re starting to drop like flies here in Göteborg,” said Jonny.
He laughed loudly in order to show that it was a joke but none of the others were smiling. Andersson gave him a dark look that effectively silenced any more such comments. The superintendent turned to Irene and said, “Could you sum up your actions yesterday and today?”
Irene gave an account of her visit to Bolin’s studio. She went to get Manpower from her office since Fredrik Stridh and Birgitta Moberg hadn’t seen it. Then she told them about her conversation with Sara Bolin that morning. She briefly mentioned the visit she and Hannu had made to Björnekulla in order to inform the widow of her husband’s death.
“She had a complete breakdown. A pastor and relatives are there with her now. We’ll have to wait to ask any new questions for a couple of days.”
Irene tried to gather strength for what was coming. She was still under the effects of the scene that had met them when they went into the studio.
THEY HAD carefully stepped up to the closed door. Hannu had opened it with his toe cap. There was a spacious bathroom inside. A naked, headless body lay in the huge bathtub. From her position in the doorway, Irene saw that the body looked like Emil’s, except for the fact that the head was missing. Hannu took a few steps inside the room, watching where he put his feet. There was a lot of blood on the floor.
“Cut open. Trauma to the pelvic area. Genitalia and chest muscles are cut away,” he ascertained.
“Can you see if the buttocks are missing?” she said.
“No. There’s a lot of blood and. .”
He stopped and shook his head before retreating.
“We can’t do much before the technicians have done their stuff,” he said.
Irene was grateful to have avoided seeing the mutilated body. It was an accusation against her, personally. She should have known that Erik was in danger. He had taken the picture of Basta, and that picture had almost cost Tom Tanaka his life. Manpower was the connection between Tom and Erik Bolin.
Everything was as it had been in the studio, except that the place where the destroyed photo had been hanging was empty. A blank. The police patrol arrived and the technicians came soon after.
Hannu stood in front of the salt-sprayed study of Marcus for a long time before he turned to Irene and said, “You’re right. Erik was in love with Marcus.”
They heard a commotion at the outer door. Irene and Hannu turned and saw Professor Yvonne Stridner in person sail into the hall. This was highly unusual.
“Where’s the body?” she said in a high voice to no one in particular.
She expected that one of the servants would answer. Police technician Svante Malm gestured silently toward the bathroom door and then returned to the blood trail under the hat rack. Stridner was in such a hurry that she missed the head on the shelf, but no one stopped her in order to draw her attention to it.
After barely a minute, the professor asked in a loud voice, “Have you found the head?”
Without taking his eyes from what he was doing, Svante Malm pointed up at the ordinary wire hat rack with its macabre decoration. Even Stridner became speechless at the sight.
“STRIDNER SAYS that she thinks Bolin has also been strangled but she wasn’t sure. She’ll be in touch when she has taken a closer look at the body,” Irene concluded.
No one interrupted her while she was talking, but now the superintendent sighed. “To cut off the head! What a sick thing to come up with!”
“A new element,” said Hannu.
“It was Emil’s job to cut off the head and limbs. We’ve seen that in the videos. And the murderer didn’t bother to do so in Emil’s and Isabell’s murders.” Irene said.
“Then why is he starting with this now?” Andersson asked.
Irene remembered what Yvonne Stridner had said that time when Irene visited her at Pathology. Stumbling, she attempted to explain. “His inner images have changed. He sees things inside that he needs to act out. According to Stridner, it’s an incredibly strong urge. Clearly, he has added this thing with the head to his inner image.”
Andersson nodded and tried to look like he was following this explanation.
Jonny asked permission to speak. “About this thing with the pictures, one of Marcus’s videos is different from the others. It’s more like one Emil would have liked. Lots of blood and slaughter. Interestingly enough, it’s of women, not a lot of queers. Damned sick, anyway.”
“What’s it called?” Hannu asked.
“Don’t remember,” Jonny answered.
“Go get it,” said Andersson.
Reluctantly, Jonny sauntered off to his office. He came back with a video in hand. Hannu reached out for it.
“It doesn’t say anything on it,” he determined.
“It’s a copy of a feature-length film. The title is at the beginning,” Jonny informed them.
Hannu disappeared into a room with video equipment. While they were waiting, Birgitta informed them that she had found Marcus’s password.
“He had saved it in Netscape Bookmarks. Guess what it is?”
She paused for effect and looked around at the curious faces in the room. She slowly turned her notebook, which she had in her lap. In black ink it said: 69 Hotnights.
“Hot nights? That’s ridiculous!” Irene exclaimed.
“I’ve found a customer and address list, different jobs, and so on. I’ll print out the things that seem interesting,” Birgitta continued.
“Have you found any names we recognize yet?” asked Irene.
“Not yet. But I’ve barely had time to look at them.”
Hannu came in with the videotape in hand. He had put the cassette back in the cover.
“It’s The New York Ripper,” he said.
Everyone looked puzzled, and finally he realized that he would have to explain himself.
“It’s illegal. It shows real murders.”
“A snuff movie?” Fredrik asked.
“Yes.”
“But aren’t those just tall tales? I was under the impression that it was never proved that there were actual murders in the films,” said Birgitta.
“I know the names of three of them that show actual killings. One of them is The New York Ripper,” Hannu said firmly.
Irene turned toward Jonny.
“Was this the only movie with this kind of content?” she asked.
Jonny nodded sullenly.
“Was there any element of sadistic sex in the other films?”
“Yes. Sick types with leather whips and several guys on top of one guy and that sort of thing. Disgusting!”
“They’re not very different from heterosexual porn films,” Irene said dryly.
“Of course, you’re very familiar with those,” Jonny sneered.
“Yes. As everyone is well aware, I’ve spent a good deal of time in Vesterbro. You don’t need to see the films. It’s enough just looking in the display windows,” she countered coldly.
Jonny snorted but didn’t continue the dispute.
“I’ll leave this with the technicians,” Hannu said and disappeared again with the video cover in a careful hold.
“Maybe I should try and call Copenhagen? It would be interesting to know if The New York Ripper is among Emil’s videos,” said Irene.
The superintendent nodded.
“Do that. And inform them about this latest murder.”
He turned toward Fredrik Stridh.
“Take some guys and start knocking on doors as soon as possible. This bastard has had incredible luck but it has to run out at some point. And this time the trail is fresh and we can go after him quickly.”
Irene nodded. “And he has actually left evidence behind. He must have been panicked when he destroyed the photo of Bolin’s family. Why? Well, the picture he wanted wasn’t in the studio. Because it’s standing here.”
She pointed at Manpower, which was leaning against the wall just inside the door.
“Do you think that picture is so important that he’s willing to kill for it?” Andersson objected skeptically.
“Yes. Think about what happened to Tom Tanaka. There are probably only two enlargements of Manpower. Marcus had one of them. He deposited it, along with the picture of himself, at Tom Tanaka’s before he left for his supposed vacation. For some reason he let the other picture of himself leaning against the pillows hang in Emil’s apartment. Either Emil got it from Marcus or he took it after Marcus was dead. But Basta found out where Manpower was, probably through Emil. And he knew that Erik Bolin had the other enlargement along with some small pictures and negatives. But there wasn’t as much of a hurry with Bolin. Basta probably didn’t think that we would find out who had taken the pictures.”
“According to the preliminary report from Stridner, Bolin has been dead for more than twelve hours. That means the murderer must have arrived pretty early in the evening. Someone may have seen him,” said Birgitta.
Irene wasn’t so sure about that. Kastellgatan was relatively quiet and calm, without many shops. But there was always a possibility.
PETER MØLLER answered the telephone despite the fact that it was after six o’clock. Irene couldn’t hear any guardedness in his voice; instead, it sounded as though he thought it was nice that she was calling. She started by asking if The New York Ripper was among Emil’s films. Peter promised to find out. When she had relayed the day’s discovery of the latest murder he became very serious.
“He’s following you,” he said.
That wasn’t what Irene wanted to hear. The short hairs rose up on her neck and she shivered, despite the summer heat. Peter wasn’t the first one to point this out. And she had thought about it herself many times lately. The murderer was close by.
“How’s Tom?” she asked in order to change the subject.
“He’s conscious but very tired. The doctor said that he had to be sewn up with over a hundred stitches. Your friend Tom is beautifully embroidered.”
Irene’s heart ached in sympathy. Poor Tom, who was so appearance conscious. She remembered the silver threads he had twisted around his hair knots and his blue nail polish.
“Could you please say hello to him from me? Actually, can you buy a bouquet of flowers from me? I’ll send money.”
“Buy flowers! If I could understand what you and that. . OK. I’ll do it.”
It was quiet for a moment and Irene was just about to end the phone call when Peter said, “Jens told me that you had asked him about my trip to South Africa. That you thought I became cross and strange when you asked about it.”
“Yes. . it had to do with the fact that Marcus had talked about a police officer who worked in Vesterbro, and then he was tricked into going to Göteborg with the promise of a trip to Thailand. . and you were tan,” she tried to explain.
She quietly blessed the fact that the Göteborg police didn’t have videophones. A blush spread across her cheeks. Peter’s answer strengthened her wish that videophones might never become standard.
“The trip to South Africa was an attempt at patching up my marriage. But it didn’t work. The trip was a catastrophe from beginning to end.”
He paused and then added, “It’s too bad that you brought up that trip. I became. . upset. Otherwise it could have been a very pleasant evening …and night, for both of us.”
Irene was surprised. At the same time she became aware of the tingling warmth spreading between her thighs. Peter was beautiful. His eyes were so blue and his body so muscular and agile. He smelled good and he moved in a sexy way. Her breathing quickened. God! Two police officers almost having phone sex, while talking about a bestial murderer!
She couldn’t help but laugh. Half joking, she said, “Maybe I should drive down to Copenhagen and visit my good friend Tom?”
“Do that. I promise to take good care of you.”
Before they hung up they agreed to call each other again soon.
Irene was forced to sit in the room for a while, until the pressure in her pelvis ebbed.
“IT SEEMS as though the first part of the address list is customers but at the end there are several pages with names and addresses of different guys. I found Anders Gunnarsson and Hans Pahliss listed there. They were listed together. Erik Bolin is also there and a lot of other names that I don’t recognize since I haven’t been involved in this investigation,” said Birgitta.
She set down a bundle of papers on Irene’s desk.
“Thanks. I’ll take them home and read them tonight. Krister is working and the girls aren’t home either. It’ll be a perfect time to sit and work,” said Irene.
But she suspected that her concentration would be disturbed by fantasies of what might have happened that night in Copenhagen.