her short jacket, partly because it was a unisex model and also because it was still raining outside. The weather was perfect for her hair, which was supposed to look flat and boring. She inspected herself in the mirror on the inside of the closet door. No one was going to notice her.
She left the hotel and disappeared into Copenhagen after dark.
It had stopped raining. Instead, a cold, raw wind swept in from the ocean. Irene wished that she had brought along a pair of gloves, but that wasn’t something you thought about when you were packing your luggage in the middle of May. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and turned up her collar for protection. There were a lot of people out and about near Tivoli, Copenhagen’s world-renowned pleasure garden. The many bars and restaurants were already full and looked inviting to one who happened to be walking outside in the grim weather.
The closer to Colbjørnsensgade she came, the less she felt tempted to go inside one of the establishments. The signs now offered go-go girls, stripteases, and “the best sex show in town.” It wasn’t that she was a prude or had never been exposed to what the sex industry had to offer. After almost twenty years as a police officer she had seen everything, but not all at once. That was what nauseated her about this area, not least the hard-boiled marketing and the contempt it showed for mankind.
The red-faced men who bellowed and pranced through the doors, or slipped in, in an attempt not to be noticed—what was their view of women? And how did these women see themselves? Did this exploitation affect the self-esteem of other women? Was she affected?
She stopped and thought about that last question. Yes, she felt violated and degraded as a woman. The feeling actually surprised her, but that was what she really felt. She thought about her two beautiful and headstrong daughters. Was this what they would be reduced to in the eyes of many men: fuck objects?
Irene felt anger rise inside her; the last steps she took to Tom Tanaka’s gay sex shop had extra length and force due to her anger.
Maybe it was the power of that rage that made her yank open the shop door more vehemently than she had intended. Everyone in the store turned in her direction. More customers were there now than had been earlier. Tom Tanaka stood behind the counter with Emil at his side. She walked across the floor of the shop and said hello to them. The young man quickly looked away. Nervously, he rubbed his goatee and mouth with his forearm. In one hand he was holding a ham sandwich and in the other a can of Coca-Cola. Irene saw him try to chew and swallow at the same time.
Irene and Tanaka went through the employee lounge. He opened the door to the apartment and gestured for Irene to enter. Without saying a word, he walked toward his office, then invited her to sit on one of the chairs. The good cigar smell felt almost home like.
“A beer or a whiskey?” he asked.
Irene hesitated at first, but then said, “A beer, thanks.”
He bent and, to Irene’s surprise, took two chilled beers out of a little minibar in his desk. There were glasses there as well. He filled one and pushed it toward her. Tanaka raised his open bottle and clinked it against hers in a toast. The beer was amazingly refreshing and she agreed with the slogan that a Tuborg tastes best “every time.”
Tanaka set his bottle down on the desk and focused his black eyes on her. “Inspector Huss. I must be able to trust someone. You aren’t a police officer in Copenhagen and that’s why I’m willing to trust you.”
Irene lowered her head but didn’t say anything for the simple reason that she didn’t know what she should say.
“I’m pretty sure I know who the murdered man in Göteborg is. His name is Marcus Tosscander.”
Tanaka had difficulty pronouncing the last name. He held out a business card to Irene, which read:Tosca’s Design
Marcus Tosscander, Designer
in dark blue letters on a card of linen-paper. Simple, nice, and of the highest quality. The address and telephone number for Tosca’s Design were listed farther down on the card.
“Kungsportsplatsen in Göteborg,” Irene said aloud.
She looked up from the card and met Tom’s gaze.
“Why do you think it’s his body we found?”
“The tattoo. He was allowed to borrow the painting from