a police inspector—”
“I’ve already spoken with one policeman. Marcus is in Copenhagen. You’ll have to look for him there.”
The voice was ice-cold and dismissive.
“We have good reason to believe that Marcus has been the victim of a crime,” Irene said calmly.
After a split second, the question came like a gunshot, “What kind of crime?”
“That’s what I need to speak with you about. I’ll be there in half an hour. Good-bye.”
Before Tosscander had time to protest, Irene hung up the phone. She grabbed a cup of coffee on her way out for extra strength.
THE LARGEone-story brown brick house was located only a five-iron shot away from Hovås golf course. The whitebeam hedge around the house was several meters high, and only the flat roof of the house could be seen from the street. Irene turned in through the gap in the hedge and bumped onto the poorly maintained driveway. Both the house and the yard were characterized by slight decay.
The front door was opened before she had time to stretch her hand out and knock with the heavy bronze knocker shaped like a lion’s head.
“Criminal Inspector Irene Huss.” Irene held out her hand. Emanuel Tosscander responded with a short, firm handshake.
He was the same height as Irene. His body was slim and fit, his hair thick and silver-white. Marcus had inherited his beautiful eyes from his father. His face was deeply tanned and surprisingly wrinkle free. Emanuel Tosscander was a very handsome man.
“Senior phys—Emanuel Tosscander,” he said. He stepped aside and halfheartedly gestured her inside.
The hall was gloomy, with a dark tile floor and moss green woven tapestry hangings. Irene followed Tosscander’s straight back into an enormous living room. Large picture windows ran along the long side of the room. But no sunlight could squeeze through the heavy vegetation in the backyard. The entirety of the large room was filled with a dusky half-light. The furniture was big and heavy, made of dark wood and dark brown leather. There were large Oriental rugs in reddish brown tones on the floor. Not even the paintings on the walls could cheer up the room. They were sober landscapes and dim portraits. Not a single plant sat in the windows.
“Please sit down,” Tosscander said mechanically. As for himself, he remained standing.
Irene sank down onto an uncomfortable rock-hard leather chair. “Thanks. I’d like it if you would sit down, too,” said Irene.
At first he looked like he wanted to protest, but something in Irene’s voice made him obey. He sat on the edge of the sofa and observed her coldly. But Irene could sense some concern behind his frosty demeanor.
It was just as well to inform him of what had happened to Marcus since it would be in the papers in a few days anyway. Irene got right to the point. “It was good of you to see me. I have something serious to tell you. First, I need an answer to a question. Did Marcus contact you during the first week of March?”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you spoke with each other?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Yes, it is. We’re investigating a crime.”
“What kind of crime?”
“Murder.”
Irene looked him straight in the eye. He was the first to glance away. He stared at his overgrown yard for a long time, then he turned toward her. “We haven’t spoken with each other since the first week of December.”
“Why not?”
“We . . . had a fight.”
“Why?”
“That’s really none of your business!”
“Again, I’ll have to remind you that we are investigating a murder.”
“Of whom?”
“My condolences, but it has to do with Marcus.”
Slowly, all color disappeared from the handsome face. The even sunburn took on a sick yellowish tone. Right in front of Irene’s eyes, Emanuel Tosscander aged ten years in as many seconds. He sank backward onto the sofa without taking his eyes off her. Finally, he was able to whisper, “It . . . can’t . . . be true.”
“Unfortunately, it is. Marcus had a very unusual tattoo made in Copenhagen. The body we found a few weeks ago outside Killevik had the same tattoo. There are also other things that add up.”
“No! Not murdered and dismembered!”
Anguish could be heard in his voice and seen in his eyes. He slowly rose from the sofa. In an almost normal tone of voice, he asked, “Will Marcus’s name be published in the press?”
“Yes. We have to do so in order to find possible witnesses.”
“My name . . . ! What are people out here going to say?