he’s known as Laban. He’s a guy who has been in trouble for years and has a lot of drugs on his conscience. It was probably the result of some argument over a deal. A witness heard loud cries for help from behind Flora’s Hill. He called the police on his cell phone. The patrol found Laban’s dead body in the park. On the ground under him there was a open bag full of ready-to-sell heroin. Most likely the culprit is a client who hadn’t gotten the credit he wanted.”
“Did the witness see anyone running from the scene?” asked Andersson.
“No. The murderer probably disappeared in the direction of the Big Theater via the park; he may have gone along the canal.”
“OK. You and Birgitta are in charge of that investigation. Get in touch with Narcotics if you haven’t already done so. Irene, Jonny, and Hannu will continue with the murder-mutilation case. We’ll meet this afternoon around five.”
SEVEN TATTOO artists had placed advertisements for their services in the Yellow Pages. It was possible to get piercing done at some of the places. Painful treatments, which people subjected themselves to voluntarily, thought Irene. Personally, she hadn’t even dared get her ears pierced.
“There’s no point in running around to tattoo parlors before we have a picture to show them,” said Jonny.
“I’ll find out if Andersson has found an artist and if Stridner has called yet.”
Irene needed to stretch her legs a bit. Neither she nor Jonny had any good ideas when it came to the continued investigation. They needed a way to trace the victim’s identity.
On the way to Andersson’s office she ran into Hannu. He politely held the door open and she curtsied jokingly as she passed through it.
“Do you have to make a fuss about just walking through a door?” the superintendent said sourly.
There was a distinct feeling in the air that nothing of importance had occurred. Irene hurried to ask her question.
“No. No artist. And Stridner hasn’t—” He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He quickly grabbed the receiver. “Superintendent Andersson. Yes. Oh? Hmm.” Andersson listened to the voice on the phone. From his stiff facial expression and the chattering voice that could be heard, the two listeners could tell he was speaking with Stridner herself. The superintendent’s sulky expression was slowly replaced by one of surprise. He hemmed and hawed monosyllabically before he managed to interrupt the sharp voice on the other end of the line.
“We have a slight problem. We need a drawing of the tattoo . . . no, preferably not a photo . . . drawing, yes . . . would be a bit clearer. Oh, really? Great!”
With the last sentence he brightened up and gave both his inspectors a triumphant look.
“Thanks a lot.”
He put down the receiver and unconsciously rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.
“Stridner will arrange for the sketch. One of the autopsy assistants is working on a degree in art. He’s there today. They’ll send the picture over when it’s finished.”
“Do they know if the victim is a man or a woman?” asked Hannu.
“A man. They did a chromosome test.”
Without changing his expression, he took away the top pages in the pile of missing persons information he was carrying.
“That leaves three,” he said.
“Stridner has also measured the skeleton. She says that the victim is a rather broad-shouldered man between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age, and between one hundred and seventy-five and one hundred and eighty-five centimeters in height. The body hair that was left on the chest was relatively dark. The man probably had dark hair, but not black according to Stridner.”
“A foreigner?” suggested Irene.
“Maybe. But he wasn’t dark skinned and didn’t have black hair. Probably brown to dark brown hair.”
Hannu flipped through his papers and placed yet another page farther back in the pile. “That leaves two,” he said calmly.
Irene could not contain her curiosity and asked, “Was it a man you weeded out?”
Hannu nodded. “Seventy-two years old. White haired. Heavy. One hundred and sixty-seven centimeters. Disappeared in Hindås in January. It’s not him.”
“Hardly. But which ones do you have left?” Andersson interrupted impatiently.
“Steffo Torberg. Thirty-two years old. Disappeared during a furlough from Kumla, March 13. In prison for seven years for bank robbery and manslaughter. He had one year left and had handled all of his furloughs excellently up till then. We know that he took a train to Göteborg to visit his family. Has two children down here with his ex-girlfriend. All traces disappear at the Central