The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (36 page)

“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.