to Copenhagen.
“Jonny contacted the father yesterday,” Andersson said to Irene.
Jonny got ready to take over: “I drove out to Pappa Tosscander’s after lunch yesterday. He didn’t want to meet with me earlier because he was going to be out golfing. This despite the fact that I told the old man it had to do with his son when I called him in the morning. Golf was more important. He lives alone in a damn big shack by the ocean right next to Hovås golf course. But I understood that the old man and his son don’t have any contact at all. He seemed like he didn’t want to know anything about Marcus. He said several times, ‘My son lives his life and I live mine.’ ”
“Had he heard anything from Marcus during the past few months?” asked Irene.
“From what I understand, they haven’t spoken with each other since Marcus moved to Copenhagen.”
“But he moved at New Year’s!” Irene exclaimed.
“Yes. But apparently that’s the way it is.”
“Strange not to have any contact with your only son for five months. . . .”
Irene stopped herself. Marcus had said to Tom Tanaka that he might be moving to Copenhagen for good. Had that decision been based on a break with his father? Yet another thought struck her. The father was a doctor. In Göteborg. She decided that she would try and talk with him when she had a chance.
“Has anyone reported Marcus missing?” Birgitta asked.
“No,” answered Hannu.
“It could be that the publication of the tattoo drawing confused people here in Göteborg. Marcus Tosscander had it done in Copenhagen before he disappeared. Apparently no one here saw Marcus’s new body decoration,” said Irene.
“You mean that even if people had missed Marcus, no one would put his disappearance together with the discovery of the body parts out at Killevik? But where do people think he is? He can’t have been in contact with anyone since the end of February or possibly the beginning of March,” said Birgitta.
The superintendent cleared his throat and started showing signs of wanting to say something.
“Even if we’re almost certain that the victim at Killevik is Marcus Tosscander, I want to wait to release his identity to the media. We’ll collect all the information we can in the next few days and maybe we’ll release his name after the weekend.”
“It’s a long weekend, Pentecost. That won’t be until Tuesday. Five days,” said Hannu.
Irene agreed. Five days felt like way too much time to wait. But she could understand the superintendent’s unwillingness to be hasty. There was a microscopic chance that the victim wasn’t Marcus Tosscander. A mistake like that could be disastrous. They had to have watertight proof that it really was him.
“Has anyone been to his office or his apartment?” she asked.
“No. I was thinking that you should start there today,” said Andersson.
IRENE SPENT several hours writing up the report on her trip to the other side of Øresund. It was difficult since she constantly had to think ahead and make sure that she didn’t write too much. Meanwhile, Jonny and Hannu were chasing after permission and keys so they could enter Tosscander’s residence and workplace.
By lunchtime everything was done.
“We’ll take a look at the office first. It’s the closest, and then we’ll have time to eat lunch before we head over to Lunden,” said Jonny.
Hannu and Irene nodded.
The offices of Tosca’s Design were located on the second floor of a house between Kopparmärra and the canal. A house telephone and keypad lock were supposed to keep unwanted visitors outside, but since the police officers had keys, access wasn’t a problem. Wide marble steps with massive balustrades stretched upward in the light yellow stairwell. There was no elevator. Apparently, Marcus Tosscander didn’t have any handicapped clients, unless they used the telephone or Internet.
TOSCA’S DESIGN, it said on the enamel sign, in elegant dark blue writing against a white background. Hannu had keys to the ASSA deadbolt lock and the burglar alarm.
A stale smell of stagnant, dust-filled air hit them when they opened the door. It seemed as if no one had been here for months. Hannu turned on the light in the long windowless corridor.
The door to the right led into a small room with a glass wall facing the corridor. It had probably been intended as a switchboard operator’s or secretary’s room but Tosscander had made it into a comfortable room for visitors. The window was large and uncurtained, evidently in order not to block the magnificent view of