The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (12 page)

“I’ll definitely say yes to that.”

They took leave of each other. In the reflection of the door’s glass she saw the elegant BMW engulfed by the flow of traffic as it disappeared.

When Irene asked for her room key, to her surprise, she was given an envelope by the receptionist. It was made of thick white linen paper and was glued securely shut. She resisted the temptation to open it in the elevator. In her room, with equal parts curiosity and impatience, she tore open the envelope. It contained a stiff white card with the message:

Tom Tanaka. He wanted her to come to his place tonight. It was important. With some trepidation she remembered his words,
Keikoku. Uke. Okata?

 

AS THE clock struck seven, Irene stepped into Restaurant Vesuvius. She had to revise her misgivings about having been invited to a pizzeria. Obviously they served pizzas but they were the size of mill wheels and smelled wonderful. The restaurant was big and packed with customers. In broken Danish a dark-skinned, harried young man asked if he could help her.

“I’m meeting Beate Bentsen here,” said Irene.

The man bowed and led her into a smaller room with about ten tables. The walls were decorated with black-and-white photos and posters from Italian films. Under a large picture of a young Sophia Loren sat Beate Bentsen. The actress smiled seductively straight into the camera with her bare arms stretched over her head and her hands clasped behind her neck. The ideal of feminine beauty changes, Irene thought, when she noticed that the film star had small tufts of hair in her armpits.

The waiter politely pulled out the chair for Irene, placed a menu in her hands, and quickly disappeared.

Irene shook hands with the superintendent. To Irene’s surprise, Beate Bentsen’s slender hand was ice-cold despite the warmth of the room. Irene judged that the woman sitting across from her was a few years older than she was but tall, attractive, and in good shape. She had twisted her coppery red hair into a bun but a few stray wisps had gotten loose and curled around her forehead and ears. The linen dress suit she was wearing was a sober tan. Under its jacket she wore a low-cut silk top in light green that perfectly matched the eyes behind her black-framed eyeglasses.

“Forgive me for not being able to meet you this afternoon. But I assume that Peter and Jens took good care of you,” Beate began.

“They have been great.”

“Good. Maybe we should order before we talk.”

With a hint of a nod she called the waiter over. Irene understood that Beate was one of the regulars. Irene ordered saltimbocca à la romana and a large beer, and the superintendent ordered a seafood dish and a glass of white wine.

While they were waiting for the food, Irene told Beate what had transpired during the day but she didn’t mention Tom Tanaka’s warning or that he wanted to meet her later that evening. Beate sat and observed her and sipped her wine. Sometimes she nodded as if confirming something she had already suspected.

When Irene had finished she said, “It’ll be difficult to find the person who made the tattoo. It may not have been made in Copenhagen. But the similarities between the dismemberment of Carmen Østergaard and the male corpse in Göteborg are remarkable. I participated in the investigation as an inspector; I’ve since been promoted. We’ve never seen anything like what Carmen was subjected to, even here in Copenhagen.”

“Then you’re familiar with the witnesses’ reports that Carmen had spoken about a policeman and a doctor?”

The superintendent said, “It was in all of the papers. Someone leaked it to the media and was well paid. As usual.”

“A doctor would be able to completely empty the body.”

“Yes, the pathologists picked up on that as well. But there were some complicating factors. You’ll find out more from Blokk tomorrow. He’s a pleasant fellow.”

Irene remembered that the name of Professor Stridner’s friend and colleague was Svend Blokk.

The food came and the delicious smells made Irene realize how hungry she was. Her veal with Parma ham and noodles in a white wine sauce was wonderful. They concentrated on the food for a long time. When they were almost done, Beate said, “Tomorrow you can read through the investigation file on Carmen. You can make copies of whatever you think is important. The same thing goes for the autopsy report itself. You’ll get that from Blokk. And you—”

She was interrupted by the first bars of “The Marseillaise.” It took a few confused seconds before it occurred to Irene that it was her cell phone that was blaring. Blushing, she dug through the pockets of her coat, which hung next to them on the wall.

“This is Irene.”

“Hi, Mamma. It’s Jenny. The dog sitter has the stomach flu. Who can take Sammie tomorrow?”

“Goodness . . . I don’t know. I’m sitting at a restaurant eating dinner right now. Can I call you in an hour? Are you at home?”

“Sure.”

“Sounds good. Bye for now, sweetie.”

She hung up and started mumbling an apology. Beate Bentsen stopped her. “I know how it is with kids. How many do you have?”

“Two. Twin girls who are sixteen.”

“My son is twenty-two.”

They nodded in motherly understanding, raised their glasses, and drank the last few drops. Irene had an idea and dug through her other coat pocket. She pulled out the picture of Isabell Lind and set it in front of the superintendent. Briefly, she went through the story about the missing girl. Summing up, she said, “Peter and Jens think that Scandinavian Models might be an escort service and that Isabell is working as a prostitute.”

Beate studied the picture before she answered.

“Unfortunately, it’s quite likely. Copenhagen lures hordes of young girls, consumes them, and spills them onto the trash heap after a few years. They often come here with the dream of making a career in the theater or as photo models. The reality is something completely different.”

“Have you heard of Scandinavian Models?”

“No. There are countless places like that. Usually they disappear after a while or change their name and owner. It’s impossible to keep track of all of them.”

“Where do I look for a list of porn clubs, strip bars, escort services, and the like?”

Beate laughed hoarsely and lit a cigarette at the same time. She lifted the extra-long filter cigarette that was already glowing, gesturing toward Irene, and asked, “You aren’t offended?”

Irene shook her head.

“I just remembered that the Swedes are so touchy when it comes to smoke. Do you smoke?”

She held the pack out to Irene, who politely declined.

The superintendent inhaled greedily and peered at Irene through the smoke. “A list where you may find Scandinavian Models? I would suggest that you look in the tourist guide in your hotel room. There are usually advertisements in the back for . . . everything. The worst places aren’t allowed to advertise, but people find their way there anyway.”

Neither of them wanted to have dessert. They ordered two cups of coffee. It was almost eight thirty when they finished. Irene excused herself by saying that she needed to call home.

Beate remained sitting there, smoking a newly lit cigarette, as Irene walked out into the drizzle.

 

“IT’S BEENtaken care of. Mrs. Karlsson across the street is going to take him on a walk around lunchtime. The kids have chicken pox and are at home,” said Jenny.

“Can she leave them to go out with Sammie then?”

“It’s fine. The kids are doing pretty well now. When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow night. How are things with Katarina?”

“She has pain in her neck and is stiff. But she has an appointment tomorrow at the clinic.”

“Good. I’m turning off the cell phone tonight. If there is an emergency you can call the hotel.”

After sending extra hugs and kisses, Irene hung up. At least things were sorted out with Sammie. Now her own evening rounds would start.

 

“COPENHAGEN THISWeek—May 1999,”
it said on the thick tourist guide on the desk. The cover was illustrated with a badminton player against a lime green background: healthy and sporty. Irene quickly flipped past the museums and cultural attractions to the pages farthest back. A black page with some stars and a half-moon announced, “Copenhagen After Dark.”

Color pictures of naked young girls were lures to tourists. The businesses were called go-go bars, nightclubs, sauna clubs, escort services, and other creative euphemisms but it was obvious that young girls were for sale and, in some of the ads, boys. None of the pictures showed girls who looked older than twenty-two. They stood sticking out their breasts and tilting their hips, either wearing thongs or, in some cases, totally nude.

She found the advertisement for Scandinavian Models on the last page. The illustration was in black and white and showed a group of four girls standing tightly together with their arms around each other. They smiled invitingly at the camera with pouting lips, wearing only thongs and short T-shirts on their upper bodies that barely covered their nipples. Their names appeared above their heads: Petra, Linn, Bell, and Heidi. Bell was Isabell Lind.

“This is an actual photo of our models you will meet here in Copenhagen—guaranteed or your money back!” the advertisement proclaimed.

Irene felt her stomach knot. The pouting girl in the picture who was selling herself had been her daughters’ playmate.

With great effort she forced herself to continue reading. “We are always ready to visit you. Or, alternatively, you are welcome to visit us at our luxurious, newly built, one hundred percent safe and discreet studio. We are located in the beautiful central Nyhavn area of the city.” The address was Store Kongensgade.

After searching for a long time on the small map in the tourist guide folder she found the street. The letters were tiny and blurred. Could it possibly be time to get reading glasses? Nope, that was for old ladies. But Irene had to turn on the desk lamp and hold the map close to the light with arms outstretched in order to make it out.

Store Kongensgade was located past Kongens Nytorv. It was in exactly the opposite direction from Vesterbro if one walked from the hotel. She would have to go to Tom Tanaka’s first and then visit Scandinavian Models. It was difficult to say which of the visits would be most uncomfortable.

First, she needed to be able to move around unnoticed in the Copenhagen night. That’s easier said than done when you’re a woman who is nearly six feet tall.

Irene removed all of her makeup. A few passes through her hair with a wet comb gave her an androgynous hairstyle. She changed to jeans and tennis shoes and decided to put on the trench coat instead of her short jacket, partly because it was a unisex model and also because it was still raining outside. The weather was perfect for her hair, which was supposed to look flat and boring. She inspected herself in the mirror on the inside of the closet door. No one was going to notice her.

She left the hotel and disappeared into Copenhagen after dark.

It had stopped raining. Instead, a cold, raw wind swept in from the ocean. Irene wished that she had brought along a pair of gloves, but that wasn’t something you thought about when you were packing your luggage in the middle of May. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and turned up her collar for protection. There were a lot of people out and about near Tivoli, Copenhagen’s world-renowned pleasure garden. The many bars and restaurants were already full and looked inviting to one who happened to be walking outside in the grim weather.

The closer to Colbjørnsensgade she came, the less she felt tempted to go inside one of the establishments. The signs now offered go-go girls, stripteases, and “the best sex show in town.” It wasn’t that she was a prude or had never been exposed to what the sex industry had to offer. After almost twenty years as a police officer she had seen everything, but not all at once. That was what nauseated her about this area, not least the hard-boiled marketing and the contempt it showed for mankind.

The red-faced men who bellowed and pranced through the doors, or slipped in, in an attempt not to be noticed—what was their view of women? And how did these women see themselves? Did this exploitation affect the self-esteem of other women? Was she affected?

She stopped and thought about that last question. Yes, she felt violated and degraded as a woman. The feeling actually surprised her, but that was what she really felt. She thought about her two beautiful and headstrong daughters. Was this what they would be reduced to in the eyes of many men: fuck objects?

Irene felt anger rise inside her; the last steps she took to Tom Tanaka’s gay sex shop had extra length and force due to her anger.

Maybe it was the power of that rage that made her yank open the shop door more vehemently than she had intended. Everyone in the store turned in her direction. More customers were there now than had been earlier. Tom Tanaka stood behind the counter with Emil at his side. She walked across the floor of the shop and said hello to them. The young man quickly looked away. Nervously, he rubbed his goatee and mouth with his forearm. In one hand he was holding a ham sandwich and in the other a can of Coca-Cola. Irene saw him try to chew and swallow at the same time.

Irene and Tanaka went through the employee lounge. He opened the door to the apartment and gestured for Irene to enter. Without saying a word, he walked toward his office, then invited her to sit on one of the chairs. The good cigar smell felt almost home like.

“A beer or a whiskey?” he asked.

Irene hesitated at first, but then said, “A beer, thanks.”

He bent and, to Irene’s surprise, took two chilled beers out of a little minibar in his desk. There were glasses there as well. He filled one and pushed it toward her. Tanaka raised his open bottle and clinked it against hers in a toast. The beer was amazingly refreshing and she agreed with the slogan that a Tuborg tastes best “every time.”