way there could have been a connection, even if the dismemberments were identical and extreme. But the sign is located here in Vesterbro. Everyone at the station has seen it,” said Metz.
Møller started talking about their visit to the gay sex shop. Irene noticed that he didn’t mention Tom Tanaka’s short sentence in Japanese. She hoped he had forgotten about it. He finished up with his own theory about the tattoo, “I think the victim in Sweden had taken a photo of the sign. The tattoo looks like the sign and not like the painting in Tanaka’s office.”
Irene nodded.
“That’s not impossible. We have to find the tattoo artist,” she said.
“But if the tattoo was based on a souvenir photo, it could have been made anywhere in the world,” Metz pointed out.
“That’s true but we have to begin somewhere. I’m going to start in Vesterbro,” said Irene.
She unfolded the picture of Isabell Lind and put it on the desk in front of the two Danish crime investigators. “At the same time, I’m thinking about trying to locate this girl. She’s the daughter of a friend.”
She briefly went through the story about Isabell. Møller and Metz examined the picture thoroughly while she was talking. When she was finished, Metz said, “I understand why the mother didn’t find a photographer or agency for photo models that recognized her. You’ll probably find her in one of the clubs. Usually they call the girls at these establishments hostesses or models.”
“Scandinavian Models . . . I think it must be an escort service,” said Peter.
Metz gave the picture back to Irene. With a big yawn, he stretched his arms out and straightened his back. “My friends, it’s almost six o’clock, and I want to go home to my dinner. See you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”
Peter and Irene went into the corridor. He walked beside her in silence. Finally he said, “And you . . . where are you going to eat dinner?”
“Superintendent Bentsen has invited me to a restaurant not far from my hotel.”
“Good . . . I mean otherwise I would have asked you . . . but as you’ve already made plans with Beate . . .”
The relief in his voice couldn’t be missed, and Irene was just as relieved. There was a reserve about Peter Møller that was difficult to overcome and she didn’t feel particularly motivated to try. She didn’t have that kind of time here in Copenhagen. There were other more important people to focus on.
Møller drove her back to the Hotel Alex. The traffic was heavy but he was accustomed to it and navigated skillfully. He parked quickly in front of the hotel entrance. Before Irene got out he offered, “I can pick you up here tomorrow at a quarter to eight.”
“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:Please come at 10 p.m. Important!
T. T.
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