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