Chapter 7
THE RINGING OF THE telephone woke her from a deep sleep. At first she didn’t have the faintest idea where she was. The telephone kept ringing. After a while she managed to find the receiver and answer. A faint female voice speaking English informed her that it was time to wake up. It was six thirty. Irene sank back into the pillow with a groan. Her body was sore after the last night’s skinhead fight. Sleep hung treacherously in her eyelashes, and forced her eyelids to close. . . . She sat up in bed with a jerk. It was best to get up now, otherwise Peter Møller would have to wait for her again in the reception area.
She felt more awake after a long hot shower. She put on her light yellow Björn Borg T-shirt and the blue linen pants. Together with the blue trench coat it would definitely say I’m so happy that I’m Swedish, ho ho! but she didn’t have any other clean clothes.
She called home to her boss on her cell phone. Superintendent Andersson sounded like he had just awakened but livened up a bit when he heard that it was Irene.
“I have a good tip about the victim’s identity. His name is Marcus Tosscander, thirty-one years old, and he was a designer with an office on Kungsportsplatsen. He was working in Copenhagen just before he disappeared and he had exactly the same tattoo as—”
“Wait! I don’t have pen or paper.”
She heard him rustling around, looking for something to write on. When he returned she gave him all of the information she had on Tosscander. Andersson sounded very pleased until she declined to tell him how she had gotten the information.
“Why can’t you tell me? Is the informant reliable?”
Irene didn’t have any difficulty picturing her boss’s reaction if she described her informant: a former sumo wrestler who was gay, dressed in black silk pajamas, and owned Copenhagen’s largest gay sex shop.
“The informant is very reliable. You have to trust me when I say that the whole thing is complicated. A police officer and a doctor showed up in the investigation into the murder-mutilation of the female prostitute here in Copenhagen two years ago. The peculiar thing is that, according to the informant, there were also a police officer and a doctor in Marcus Tosscander’s life prior to his disappearance. If so, it’s an amazing coincidence. The police officer seems to have a connection to Vesterbro. Which means it could be one of the colleagues I’m working with right now. I absolutely cannot tell them what I’ve found out in case it is one of them.”
“A police officer! I don’t believe it for a second!” Andersson cleared his throat a few times before he continued. “Irene. You . . . watch out. Don’t take any risks. If it really is like you say, it may be dangerous.”
His voice revealed sincere concern. Irene realized that she wasn’t going to be able to tell the whole truth about what she had been up to the previous night.
“I’ll take care of myself. Today I’m just making copies of the reports from the investigation into the murder of Carmen Østergaard and then I’m coming straight home.”
“Good. Call if anything comes up.”
“OK. Good-bye.”
When Irene opened the curtains, she could see, to her joy, that a pale sun was actually shining on the side of the house across the street. Encouraged by this, she went down into the hotel’s cafeteria and ate a delicious Danish breakfast. She discovered to her pleasure that their coffee actually tasted quite good.
Satisfied, she went up to the room and packed the rest of her things in her bag.
Peter Møller showed up just as she was in the process of checking out.
“Good morning! Everything OK?” he asked and fired off a sunny smile.
He reminded Irene of Fredrik Stridh. Both were types who always looked bright and fresh even if there was no way they could be. This was an enviable quality that she suffered a regrettable lack of. If she had only slept five hours, as she had the night before, that’s exactly how she looked in the morning. She carefully applied her makeup and gave Møller a wide smile in return. With any luck, he would buy it. If he thought that his colleague from Sweden looked a little worn-out early this morning, let him think she had plundered the minibar in her hotel room out of loneliness. None of the Danish colleagues would learn of her private reconnaissance work around midnight.
“Morning to you, too. All’s well?” she said.
Møller took her bag before she even had time to reach for it. With his other hand, he held the door open for her as usual. Polite and well mannered but difficult to get any real understanding of, thought Irene.
Maybe he was the officer? Resolutely she forced the idea away. She might become paranoid if she started thinking along those lines.
IT WAS time consuming to read the reports of the interrogations in Danish. Irene had to skim through the text and try to pick out the things that seemed important. There was a risk that she might miss something essential but she comforted herself with the fact that the copier was new and efficient. She was delighted when she found the witness reports on both the police officer and the doctor. Unfortunately, the interrogator hadn’t pushed very hard during these interrogations so the material was quite slim. One of the prostitutes had fallen into the hands of the policeman; the other had encountered the doctor.
Christine Ehlers, twenty-four years of age, a junkie and street prostitute since she was a teenager, stated that she had been threatened by a man about a week before Carmen Østergaard was murdered. He had picked her up in a car and driven her to the back lot of a house that was going to be demolished. She didn’t remember the make of the car, but described the car as being big and new. When he had stopped the car he had taken off his dark overcoat. Under it he was wearing a police uniform. He started to hit her in the face and called her a whore, a slut, and the like. He got a powerful stranglehold on her and she wasn’t getting any air. In a panic, she managed to knee him in the crotch. Apparently, it hit hard where it was supposed to, because he released his grip and Christine managed to run away.
Because she was under the influence of heroin at the time and in shock after the event, she couldn’t give a description of the assailant. The only things she remembered were that he seemed to be young and relatively tall and skinny. He had spoken Danish without an accent. Stubbornly, she maintained that he had been dressed in a police uniform, hat included. She didn’t remember if he had had the hat on from the very beginning when he picked her up, or if he had put it on later. It was the dark blue dress hat, not the white summer hat.
Anne Sørensen was twenty-five years old and had been a street prostitute for a few months. Earlier, she had worked at a club but was thrown out when her drug addiction became too obvious. Just before Walpurgis Night 1997, she had been picked up by a customer traveling in a car. She also didn’t know the make of the car, but she remembered that it was red and very stylish. He had also driven to an abandoned back lot behind a house about to be demolished and he had spoken Swedish. He had told her that he was a doctor when they were in the car. When she had asked what kind of doctor he was, he hadn’t answered.
After parking the car in the dark lot, the man had taken out a black bag that had been lying in the backseat. He took out a filled hypodermic needle from the bag.
“I want you to take this first so that you will be in good shape,” he said.
Anne had become suspicious. She tried to worm her way out of it by saying that she had already taken some earlier in the evening and it was too soon for another hit. Then the man had become furious. He had screamed and threatened her: “If you don’t take the shot, I’ll beat you to death anyway!”
The last bit had scared Anne enough that she had come to her senses. She understood the man had decided to kill her and fear gave her enough extra strength so that she managed to knock the needle out of his hand. Somehow she got the car door open and managed to leap out. She escaped by running from the scene.
Both women knew who Carmen Østergaard was but neither of them were closely acquainted with her.
Irene leaned back in the borrowed desk chair. The girls’ stories were fairly similar. The back lots could be the same; however, one assailant presented himself as a police officer and the other as a doctor. And the doctor had spoken Swedish while the officer appeared to be Danish.
Marcus Tosscander had lived with a Danish police officer and he knew a doctor. “He’s worse than my doctor in Göteborg,” he had said to Tom Tanaka when he’d spoken about the police officer. A Swedish doctor who lived in Göteborg.
The telephone on the desk started ringing. She answered since no one else was in the room. “Detective Inspector Irene Huss,” she said slowly.
She tried hard to speak extra clearly, in case the person calling had a hard time understanding Swedish.
“Wonderful that I got hold of you!” It was Yvonne Stridner.
It was unnecessary to add the last part. No one else trumpeted on the phone like the professor.
“Have just spoken with Svend Blokk. There were certain details about the dismemberment process of our body that I wanted to compare with their murder-mutilation from two years ago. He mentioned that you were going to meet him today to pick up detailed autopsy reports. You don’t need to. I’ll take care of it directly with Svend. But I can say right now, it’s the same mutilator.”
Irene could only say, “Thanks.”
Maybe it wasn’t the right answer, or Stridner misunderstood, or maybe she just wasn’t listening.
“No problem. It’s no extra trouble. You take care of the police work, and I’ll handle the pathology. But isn’t it remarkable that this type of murderer is operating in both Göteborg and Copenhagen? There is some distance between the cities, at least 180 miles. And Öresund is in between.”
At that moment, Irene realized that the professor was wrong. It wasn’t at all remarkable since they were probably dealing with two murderers. A Danish police officer and a Swedish doctor. It could, of course, also be someone who commuted between the two cities, but the few descriptions that existed indicated there were two murderers.
Stridner was saying something else into the receiver. In order to cover her lapse, Irene mumbled something inarticulate in a tone of agreement.
“Wonderful! Then we’re agreed,” Stridner said.
A click indicated that the professor had hung up. Irene did the same and wondered what she and Stridner had agreed on.
Irene was busy with the copying until almost twelve o’clock. Then Jens Metz opened the door to the office and stuck in his round face.
“Are you coming to lunch?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m finished now.”
“You’re efficient,” Metz commented, smiling jovially.
He hadn’t said a word about his visit to Scandinavian Models. Maybe he would do so during lunch? She would wait and see. She gathered up her papers and put them in her bag. It became considerably heavier but she wanted to take them along. She hoped to drive home directly after lunch.
Peter Møller kept them company. They ate lunch at a very smoky pub behind Tivoli. All three ate beef patties fried with onions, served with potatoes. Møller and Metz each had a large beer. Irene declined with the excuse that she would be driving.
“The alcohol will be gone before you get to Helsingborg,” said Metz.
“Stupid to take the risk.” Irene smiled. In order to change the subject, she said, “You’ll have to give my best to Beate Bentsen and thank her for being so accommodating. Not to mention a big thanks to the two of you for all your help.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Metz and raised his beer glass.
Mostly to have something to say, Irene said, “Not to be nosy, but what does Mr. Bentsen do?”
Metz laughed. “There’s never been a Mr. Bentsen.”
“But she talked about a son,” Irene said sheepishly.
“Yes, you’ve already met him,” Jens Metz grinned.
Irene caught the warning look Peter Møller sent his colleague, but Metz didn’t. He was fully concentrated on his beer glass. When he finally managed to tear it from his lips, Irene continued, “I’ve met Beate Bentsen’s son?”
“Of course! Emil, who hangs out at Tom Tanaka’s. Emil Bentsen. Peter said that you met him in the store yesterday.”
You could have knocked Irene over with a feather. Jens Metz wrinkled his forehead and looked uncertainly in Peter Møller’s direction.
“Didn’t you tell her about it yesterday?” he asked Møller in an irritated tone.
Møller sighed before he answered, “It didn’t have anything to do with her investigation.”
He was right about that. But it wasn’t unimportant if one happened to have the remaining information that Irene was in possession of but which her two Danish colleagues weren’t aware of. She had to speak with Tom Tanaka again before she left.
Just then notes of “The Marseillaise” fluted out of her coat pocket. “Irene Huss,” she said into the cell phone.
It was quiet on the phone, but she could hear someone breathing.
“Hello?” she said.
“It’s . . . it’s Petra. At Scandinavian Models. Bell . . . Isabell is gone.”
Irene felt her heart skip a beat. “Wait a moment,” she said.
She took the Nokia from her ear and smiled at Metz and Møller.
“Excuse me. It’s my daughter. Personal problems.”
She got up from the chair and headed for the women’s bathroom. Once there, she put the phone back to her ear. “Hi, Petra. Are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“You said something about Isabell being gone?”
“Yes. She hasn’t come back from . . . a job. . . .”
“How long has she been gone?”
“She left here around eleven last night.”
“Where did she go?”
“To the Hotel Aurora.”
“You know this for certain?”
“Yes. We write down all of the orders in a logbook. Bell was supposed to be at the Hotel Aurora before eleven thirty.”
“Do you know who asked for her?”
“I didn’t take the call, but it says here that the customer was Simon Steiner.”
“The request was made by telephone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the Hotel Aurora is located?”
“The address is listed here. Colbjørnsensgade. It’s in—”
“Vesterbro. I know.”
Irene had been in Tom Tanaka’s apartment behind the gay sex shop on the same street, at about the time Isabell should have arrived at the hotel. More accurately, it was probably just before Irene’s encounter with the skinheads. Her brain was working in overdrive but she couldn’t get her thoughts in order. Finally she asked, “Could Isabell have stayed with the customer overnight and overslept?”
“No, we never stay the night with a customer.”
“Have you called the police here in Copenhagen?”
There was a long silence before Petra answered. “No. A man came yesterday asking after Bell. He said that he was a police officer and showed his police ID . . . but Bell had already left, and then you came. But you gave me the card with your name and cell phone number, so I thought . . .”
“Petra. I’m really grateful that you called and told me about this. But I don’t have the ability to do anything here. A Swedish police officer has no authority in Denmark. I would suggest that you call the police in Vesterbro and report that Isabell never came back after an appointment at the Hotel Aurora. Only a Danish police officer can search the hotel.”
Petra said, “Do you think I could leave it as an anonymous tip?”
“Yes, but there’s a risk that they will dismiss it as a prank call. Another option is for you to call the hotel. Have you done that?”
“No, but maybe I should. . . .”
“You can start with that. By the way, did the man looking for Bell yesterday really say that he was a police officer?”
“Yeah . . . they do that sometimes . . . say that they want to inspect . . . you know . . .”
In order to get a free pass, thought Irene. Loudly she said, “Hey, I have to run now. I’ll call you in two hours and see if you have come up with anything. And please call my number if Isabell happens to show up.”
“OK. Bye.”
When Irene had hung up, she felt her stomach flutter with worry. What had happened? Was it really a pure coincidence that she and Isabell had been on the same street at the same time in this huge city?
An ice-cold chill ran down her spine. It felt as though an invisible hand was maneuvering her as if she were a marionette. Someone was playing a cleverly calculated game. Right then, she would have given almost anything for a glimpse at the script.
Could Tom Tanaka be responsible for Isabell’s disappearance? But she hadn’t mentioned Isabell to him. The only ones she had spoken with and shown the picture to were Beate Bentsen, Jens Metz, and Peter Møller. Three police officers.
Tanaka had said that he trusted her, and in turn, it now seemed as though he was the only one she dared to trust.
She got out Tom Tanaka’s calling card with his cell phone number. There was one ring before he answered. “Tom.”
“Hi. This is Irene Huss.”
“What’s new?”
It took a confused second before Irene understood what “What’s new?” meant. Stammering, she started to explain. “No. I don’t have any . . . news. But I need to ask a few questions. Is that OK?”
“Depends on what kind of questions.”
“Are you alone now?”
“Yes.”
“It’s about Emil. How long has he worked for you?”
To Irene’s surprise, he let out a short laugh. “Emil doesn’t work for me. He’s more like a volunteer.”
“Volunteer? What do you mean?”
“He has been hanging out in the store ever since I took it over. Sometimes he buys a few things. But mostly he just hangs out. We have gotten to know each other over time. Little by little, as it turned out, he started helping here.”
“Does he have any other jobs?”
“He studies law.”
“Do you know anything about Emil’s parents?”
“Not a thing. Doesn’t interest me. Why are you asking about Emil?”
“His mother is Beate Bentsen. She is the superintendent of police in the Criminal Division. A police officer with connections to Vesterbro . . . she works there.”
It became quiet. Irene heard Tanaka’s heavy breathing. When he finally took a deep breath and then exhaled, there was an explosion in the receiver. “Damn! Shit!” Then he said in a normal voice, “When are you going home to Sweden?”
“Now. I’ve just had lunch with my colleagues. Some other things have come up that I’d like to ask you about.”
“Can you stop by on the way?”
“I’ll try. We’re behind Tivoli now so it isn’t far to walk to you. I’ll call on the cell when I get there. You want me to take the back way, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Irene ended the call. She quickly touched up her lipstick before she went out again to her male colleagues.
They were in the process of paying. Irene smiled apologetically. “You can’t be away from home one day without the whole house falling apart—at least it seems that way. Naturally, I’ll pay for myself.”
She pulled her wallet out of her pocket but Metz waved it off.
“Not at all. It’s on us. You can treat us when we come and visit Göteborg.”
“Of course. Thanks a lot.”
The police officers said good-bye to each other outside the pub. Irene and the men went in separate directions. She walked up Bernstorffsgade. She should have taken a right at the large intersection in order to get to her parked car on Studiestræde. Instead, she turned left and followed Vesterbrogade for about one hundred meters, and then turned onto the next cross street, which was Helgolandsgade.
The closer she got, the more hesitant she became. She would hardly be attacked in broad daylight, but the memory of the assault half a day earlier suddenly felt very tangible. She peered into the half darkness of the doorway before she sneaked into the courtyard. Everything was fine. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Tom’s number.
“Tom.”
“It’s Irene. I’m in the backyard.”
“OK. I’ll come down and open the door.”
Tanaka’s heavy, shuffling steps down the short half flight of stairs could be heard clearly. When he looked at her his massive upper body and face filled the entire glass pane of the door. With a faint smile he greeted her and opened the door.
“Thanks for taking the time to come,” he said.
“Good that you could meet with me,” Irene replied.
“No problem. I don’t start until six today. Ole, my real employee, is working now.”
Laboriously, Tom Tanaka started to climb the stairs. His labored breathing echoed in the stairwell. He politely held open the heavy door for Irene and she stepped into his bedroom. It looked the same as it had last time. The bed was neatly made with black silk sheets. Tom had changed into a dark blue silk outfit, pajamas like the black ones he had been wearing the day before.
He showed her into his office.
The sparsely decorated room was soothing. Irene sat on one of the cloth-covered chairs and Tom in his special chair behind the desk. Without asking if she wanted any, he bent and took two cold Hofs out of the minifridge. Just like last time, Irene got a glass while he drank directly from the bottle.
“Marcus designed this room for me. Like the kitchen. It was finished last month. He never got to see the finished product,” he said.
“Was he an interior designer?”
“Among other things. He designed most things. Window and shop displays, fabrics, and all kinds of things. The big job that brought him here to Copenhagen was furnishing a gay bar on one of the cross streets to Ströget. A new and very popular place. It was unbelievably successful and he quickly got new jobs.”
“I’ve informed my colleagues in Göteborg of your information without naming you as the source. Now the investigation at home will really get going thanks to you.”
“It’s the least I can do for Marcus.”
Irene thought through what she should say about Isabell. She decided to start from the beginning, with Monika Lind’s phone call. In her broken English she tried to explain as clearly as possible. Tom listened. Sometimes he nodded almost imperceptibly.
When she came to the previous day’s skinhead attack, Tom sat up straight in his chair and looked at her sharply. The next moment he relaxed, and, to Irene’s surprise, he started laughing. The laughter rolled up out of his broad chest and rumbled out of his mouth.
“You! That was you!”
When he had finished laughing, he said, “I heard about it this morning. A police officer found two beat-up skinheads on Helgolandsgade. They said that a transvestite had robbed and beaten them.”
Tom stopped again for a new round of laughing. Transvestite! Irene didn’t think that was so funny.
“I have to admit it didn’t cross my mind that it was you. Even though I knew you practice jujitsu. But this seemed more violent.”
“It was more violent. Jujitsu and a bit more,” Irene answered.
Tom shook his big head and chuckled to himself.
Irene felt time was running out and quickly returned to the subject of Isabell’s disappearance from the Hotel Aurora on the same street as Tom’s store. He became serious and thoughtful.
“It’s a strange coincidence. But Marcus’s murder and the terrible thing that has happened to him can’t have anything to do with the girl’s disappearance.”
“No. I don’t think so either. But the coincidence worries me.”
He let his gaze rest on her for some time. “There is a connection,” he said finally.
“What?”
“You.”
He said the very thing she had been thinking. Again she was gripped by the feeling that someone was standing in the wings and playing a game with her.
They sat quietly for a while looking at each other. Tom broke the silence. “I know someone at the Hotel Aurora.”
He pulled out his Rolodex and let his index finger slide over it. Irene hadn’t noticed until then that he had on blue nail polish. He definitely hadn’t worn it yesterday. Maybe he had put it on to match the blue silk outfit. Apparently he found the number he was looking for because he pushed a button and the machine dialed. Irene could hear several rings before anyone answered.
“Hi. Tom speaking.”
The voice on the other end broke out into a long tirade that Tom patiently let go for a while. Finally he interrupted brusquely. “I know. It’s been a while. But I’m calling to ask you for information. A friend of mine is concerned. Word has it that a young Swedish girl may have disappeared at the Aurora . . . yesterday around midnight . . . tall and blonde ...yes, an escort service . . . she’s called Bell.”
He pulled the receiver from his ear and asked, “What was the customer’s name?”
“Simon Steiner.”
“Apparently a German. Simon Steiner,” said Tom.
He sat quietly for almost two minutes before the jabbering started again on the other end of the line. Tom nodded a few times and hummed. Irene thought she heard a faintly surprised tone in his voice. After a few words of thanks and an assurance that they would see each other again soon, Tom put down the receiver.
“That’s remarkable. My contact says that there isn’t and hasn’t been any Simon Steiner at the hotel. But maybe he gave the escort service a false name. And it doesn’t seem as though anyone has seen Isabell either. He will ask the night porter when he comes in later tonight.”
“I can’t say that I’m relieved. Now I’m really worried. Where can she be?” said Irene.
“No idea. Could she have been led into a trap?”
“Possibly. But why?”
Tom looked at her. Slowly, he said, “We’ll have to go back to what we said a little while ago. The connection between the murder of Marcus and the girl’s disappearance. You.”
Irene’s throat became completely dry despite the fact that she had just taken a sip of beer. When she finally got a few words out, her tongue grated against her palate like sandpaper.
“Me? What do you mean?”
“The way I see it, little Isabell was alive and well until you showed up and started asking about her. Someone found out and decided to send you a warning. Kidnap her . . . maybe something worse. But I don’t think it’s because of Isabell or her profession. It has to do with the real reason you came to Copenhagen. The murder-mutilations.”
“There are only three people here in Copenhagen that I’ve spoken to about Isabell.”
“Three police officers.”
It wasn’t a question but a statement. Irene nodded. Tom fished a little notebook out of a desk drawer and said, “Can I have their names?”
Irene gave them to him. Tom wrote them down and then looked at the paper for a long time before he said, “No. The names don’t say anything to me. Except Bentsen, of course. Emil Bentsen’s mother!”
He snorted loudly, Something told Irene that Emil was going to get an earful next time he saw Tom.
“It seems as though ‘Simon Steiner’ has taken Isabell somewhere, and Copenhagen is enormous. I promised to contact her friend Petra at Scandinavian Models. The best thing is to convince her to report Isabell’s disappearance to the police,” said Irene.
She cast a glance at the clock and realized that it was time to go. She had almost five hours of driving and a ferry ride ahead of her. They each rose at the same time. Tom led her out of the workroom, through the short corridor, and into the bedroom. He stopped in front of the door with the safety locks. They took each other’s hands and Tom said, “We’ll stay in touch by cell phone.”
“Yes. Thanks for all the help.”
“No problem.”
THE CAR was parked outside the strip club where she had left it on arriving in Copenhagen. There were barely fifteen minutes left on her twenty-four-hour parking ticket. Had she really been gone only one day? It had been an intense and eventful one. Now she just wanted to get home.
It was easier to find one’s way out of Copenhagen than in, but somewhere before Hellerup she must have taken a wrong turn because the road suddenly became narrower. The big dirty brick houses disappeared and were replaced by low white rental houses made of stone-covered white plaster, interspersed with a well-cared-for-villa here and there. The rental houses disappeared and were replaced by larger and larger residences the farther north she drove. On the right side of the car she saw water and she understood that she had ended up on Strandvejen. High walls and hedges enclosed parklike yards. What could be seen of the stately houses was impressive, which was obviously the point.
After a few kilometers Irene realized that the road she was traveling on was a border, economically speaking. The houses on the right side of the road, the ones with beachfront property, were much more impressive than the ones on the left side. Something told Irene that were they to sell the row house in Fiskebäck, they wouldn’t have enough to buy even a cabin on the left side of Strandvejen.
She decreased her speed and enjoyed the ocean view and the floral splendor of the gardens. The scent of seaweed mixed with the first lilacs of the season streamed in through the lowered window.
THE CROSSINGwas quick and uneventful and Irene had time for two cups of coffee.
Before the ferry put in at Helsingborg, Irene called Scandinavian Models as she had promised. To her relief, Petra answered.
“Hi, Petra. It’s Irene Huss. Have you heard anything from Isabell?”
“No, but it’s so damn strange. . . . I called the hotel and they said that no one named Simon Steiner had stayed there. And no one has seen Bell either. But it says in the logbook—That’s what we call it, the logbook—it says Simon Steiner. Of course he could have made up a name.”
Petra sounded more angry than upset. She had probably been insulted when her information had been questioned by the Hotel Aurora.
Irene tried to sound friendly and firm. “That sounds odd. What if she’s been kidnapped? I think you should report her missing to the police. Or have you already done that?”
“No.”
“I think you should do that. For Isabell’s sake,” Irene urged.
“OK. I guess there isn’t anything else to do.” Petra sighed and hung up.
Worry creased Irene’s brow. Was it really possible that Isabell’s disappearance had been caused by her visit to Copenhagen? Or was Isabell hiding of her own free will because somehow she had found out that Irene was asking about her? She hoped that was the case. Then Isabell might show up at any time.
Just before eight that evening Irene turned into the row-house parking lot. When she stepped out of the car and stretched, her joints and muscles popped in protest.
As usual, Sammie was the first who threw himself at her in greeting. To her disappointment, he was also the only one. After having refreshed her memory at the calendar in the kitchen, Irene realized that Krister was working late and the twins had extra practice for basketball. But the girls should be home at any moment. And how could Katarina play basketball with her injured neck? Not to mention the Junior National Championship in jujitsu.
She discovered a note on the refrigerator door.
Hello, dear!
There is some vegetarian lasagna in the fridge. Just need to heat it. Do you remember our neighbor Monika Lind? She called around three and wanted to talk to you. She said that you have her number.
Your strategy worked! Tommy and Agneta (mostly Agneta) are taking one of the girl puppies. Lenny is taking the other girl. The lady is threatening to drop off the male puppy with us if we don’t find anyone who wants him.
XXXXXX
Krister
A sigh and a soft growl from the kitchen door made Irene turn around. Sammie was standing in the doorway, his head tilted a bit to the side. His brown eyes were expectant. Of course his mistress wanted to go on a really long and restorative walk, didn’t she?