a larger table. The remaining furniture consisted of a large stereo system and a wide-screen TV. Two oil paintings hung on the walls, probably painted by the same artist who had painted the watercolor at the office.
“Nice,” said Hannu.
Irene was a bit surprised. He rarely aired his opinions.
They searched the apartment without finding anything interesting except for three photo albums that were on a shelf of the bookcase. One turned out to contain pictures of a single man in various poses and outfits. The heading on the first page was MARCUS TOSSCANDER. He had posed nude for the pictures on the last two pages.
He had been very attractive, with thick dark brown hair, clean and symmetrical facial features, big deep blue eyes, and a beautiful smile. Irene had expected him to be effeminate but his looks were completely masculine. From the nude photos, Irene noted that he was muscular with six-pack abs. He was very sexy.
The two other albums contained pictures taken at parties and on trips. There was a good deal of writing next to the pictures so Jonny, Hannu, and Irene decided to take them back to the station.
Hannu remarked on their failure to find an address book here either.
“We’ll have to ask the technicians to come and collect evidence. I assume that the big bathtub might have been suitable for the dismemberment of the body,” Irene said, although they had found nothing to indicate it had taken place there, but it was best to go by the book.
There weren’t many clothes in the bedroom closets. It looked as though Marcus had taken both summer and winter clothes with him. Odd, since he had left in the middle of winter. Maybe he was counting on staying away till the summer. Then again, the distance between Göteborg and Copenhagen wasn’t that far. If nothing else, he had both his office and his apartment to look after. Had he really not planned to return to Göteborg a single time during the spring? Yet that’s exactly what he must have done: returned home, only to be murdered and dismembered.
In the beautiful apartment, Irene shivered.
“Only one of us has to talk with the old lady,” said Jonny.
“OK, I’ll do it,” Irene volunteered.
Hannu and Jonny had found two keys in a drawer of the tall dresser in the hall. One of them was marked “Basement” and the other “Attic.” They each took a key and on the landing they split up. Jonny unlocked the door to the attic, Hannu went down the stairs, and Irene rang the bell of the door across the hall. It opened at once.
“Did you find anything?” asked Gretta Svensson.
There was concern, not curiosity, in her voice.
“Nothing that tells us where he might be,” Irene answered truthfully.
She entered the apartment. The hallway was the same size as the one in Marcus’s apartment, but the color scheme was completely different. Deep purple velvet flocked wallpaper revealed that the last renovation had taken place sometime during the late sixties. All the interior doors were painted a dark brown. Gretta Svensson showed Irene into a large living room, the same size as Marcus’s. This was not a corner apartment so there was only one window and the room was not as bright. The furniture was a mixture of dark oak pieces and IKEA recliners. The window was framed by thick rose-patterned chintz curtains. The impression was dark and oppressive.
“Please sit down. I’ll get the coffee,” said Ms. Svensson.
Irene didn’t protest because she was longing for a cup of coffee. As she sank down on the pink sofa she noticed that the coffee cups had already been set out. She had never had a chance to decline.
The little woman came flying out of the kitchen with a coffee pot made of glass in one hand and a plate of Marie biscuits in the other.
“I don’t have any coffee cake in the house. This was a bit unexpected,” Gretta Svensson apologized.
Irene nodded understandingly and inhaled the scent of coffee. The biscuits weren’t important as far as she was concerned; the main thing was that she got some caffeine.
“Please start by answering a few routine questions that we always ask people in cases like these,” Irene said.
“That’s fine.”
“Your full name?”
“Anna Gretta Svensson.”
“Thanks. Your date of birth?”
“October 19, 1921.”
Irene quickly did the math and determined that the woman sitting in front of her was seventy-eight years old. Before she was able to ask another question, Gretta continued. “I was born a few houses down on this