You must understand. I forbid you to publish his name in the newspapers!”
He got to his feet upset and pointed an accusing finger at Irene. She was getting angry. Sharply she said, “Sit.”
The command word usually worked on Sammie and it also did on the surprised Tosscander.
“Marcus probably came home to Göteborg during the first week in March. That’s when he met his killer. A killer who we have good reason to believe has murdered before. There is a significant risk that he will continue. That’s why we must find him. You should also be anxious to catch your son’s murderer.”
Tosscander looked as though he had just been boxed on the ear. “Why were you not getting along?” Irene repeated.
He didn’t answer.
“My guess would be that he told you he was gay. Is that what happened?” The jaundiced look of Tosscander’s face gave way to a blush that spread up from his throat.
“That’s not true! It was just a passing fixation. I don’t know how many girlfriends he brought home over the years! He isn’t gay!”
“How many girlfriends has he brought home over the years?”
“What business . . . I don’t know.”
“Try and count.”
Tosscander glared at Irene but looked like he was thinking. Finally he said, “Four or five.”
“Four or five girlfriends in thirty years. Can you give me their names?”
“No. Just one. The others I only met once or twice. Angelica Sandberg was a kid from the neighborhood with whom he was together for several years.”
“When was that?”
“Well . . . it was probably about ten years ago. She’s married now. Lives in the States.”
“But her parents still live here?”
“Yes.”
Irene wrote the name in her notebook. There were reasons for trying to get in touch with Angelica.
“He never brought any male friends here?”
Tosscander stiffened. Guardedly he said, “No. Not the last few years. When he was younger he did, of course . . . but not since he moved away from home.”
“Was he always alone when he came to visit?”
“Yes.”
“He never spoke with you about a male friend?”
“No.”
“No name ever came up?”
“No.”
Tosscander sat crumpled on the sofa as if he had given up the battle. It seemed as though the truth had begun to sink in.
“Mr. Tosscander, I need to ask a few routine questions. Is that all right?”
He nodded weakly.
“How old are you?”
“Sixty-nine.”
Irene would never have guessed. He looked considerably younger. “Where were you senior physician before you retired?”
“I was an ear, nose, and throat specialist at Sahlgren Hospital.”
That kind of a specialist couldn’t be all that familiar with autopsy methods, thought Irene.
“Does Marcus have any siblings or half siblings?”
“No.”
“I understand that your wife died . . .”
“Ten years ago. Breast cancer.”
Suddenly, he stood up and looked sharply at Irene. “Now I’m glad that she’s dead so she doesn’t have to experience this . . . disgrace!”
That’s how he felt about his only son’s death. It was a disgrace to him.
THE VISIT to Emanuel Tosscander depressed Irene. Since Hovås wasn’t that far from Fiskebäck, she decided to drive home for lunch.
It was strange to come home in the middle of the day to an empty house. The mailbox was overflowing with advertisements. She almost threw out a card along with them, but just before she dropped the whole pile into the paper recycling bag she saw a glimpse of it inside a double-folded advertisement for Hemglass ice cream. Curious, she took a closer look at the colorful card. It was a picture of the familiar view of Copenhagen with the Little Mermaid in the foreground and glittering water behind. The message itself as well as Irene’s name and address, was written with a black India ink pen. The street and postal code were perfectly correct.
The Little Mermaid is dead.
That’s all it said. The card had been postmarked in Copenhagen two days earlier. Irene quickly dropped the card onto the table. Normal mail handling had probably resulted in a lot of fingerprints on the card but there could still be something useful left.
What did it mean? Was it a warning or a threat? Who had sent it? The answer had to be Isabell’s killer. No one else would send that message.
But why? Several police officers were working on the case, both here and in Copenhagen. Why had the murderer chosen her?
She got an envelope and carefully placed the card inside.
A thought struck her. The message was in English. Maybe it was from Tom Tanaka, who was trying to contact her. The idea seemed rather far-fetched but she decided to