on an enormous glassed-in veranda that faced the open Rådhuspladsen. The atmosphere was cozy, with lots of green plants, and the staff was pleasant.
Jens Metz and Jonny Blom ordered beer and a Danish schnapps straight away. Peter Møller and Irene satisfied themselves with one large beer apiece while Beate Bentsen ordered a glass of white wine.
Irene had tried calling Emil Bentsen several times during the afternoon without success. Jonny had had time to sleep for two hours at the hotel before Irene phoned his room and woke him up. Now he was sitting jovially exchanging toasts with Jens and looked as though he was really enjoying himself.
“When are you leaving tomorrow?” asked Jens.
“After lunch. We’re just going to take copies of some of the interrogations and of the technical examinations. It’s definitely your case, but it will be best for us to have information, too, since the murderer is still at large. No one knows what he’ll do next,” Irene replied.
A gloomy silence swept over the table but was quickly brushed aside by Jonny’s comment. “He can do whatever he wants, as long as he stays in Copenhagen. Then we can come here every now and then.”
Jonny and Jens drank to that. Their laughter resounded from the glass walls.
Irene noticed that Beate Bentsen seemed withdrawn. She was slowly rotating her wine glass between her fingers, staring down at the swirling liquid. Her thoughts seemed to be very far away. She looked tired, there were deep furrows in the corners of her mouth.
“Did you reach Emil?” Irene asked.
The superintendent gave a start and looked at Irene, confused. “What? Emil? No.”
With the last word she bent over her glass again.
Irene felt strongly that something was wrong. But she couldn’t stop now. “Do you think we can reach him tonight or tomorrow morning?” she asked.
Beate looked irritated. “I don’t know. He lives his own life.”
“I understand that. But for the sake of the investigation, it’s important to clarify who knew that I was looking for Isabell. We need to know whom he told.” Irene tried to sound calm and reasonable.
Beate looked at her sharply, then she nodded and looked away. “I can’t get ahold of him.” she admitted. “I was at his apartment today but he wasn’t home.” she sounded worried.
Irene thought quickly, then asked if he had left a note or a message for her at his apartment.
“I don’t have a key,” Beate Bentsen said.
Irene almost gave it away. The sentence was already rolling off her tongue—but doesn’t he have a tenant who can open it for you—when she realized what she was about to reveal. She quickly swallowed the sentence and became mute out of sheer terror. She had come close to exposing Tom Tanaka! She could feel that she was starting to sweat.
Beate didn’t seem to have noticed anything. Almost whispering, she continued, “He says that he doesn’t want me to come and go in his life just as I please. That’s why I don’t have a key.”
Irene could come up with several reasons why Emil wouldn’t want a mother who was a police superintendent to suddenly show up at his home. She nodded, without saying anything.
Beate suddenly burst out, “It’s so strange! He seems to have disappeared!”
The three men turned their heads simultaneously and looked at her. Jens peered good-naturedly from the depths of his fatty jowls and asked, “Who has disappeared?”
Bentsen took a deep breath and looked morosely. “Emil. I haven’t heard from him in a week.”
Clearly Beate was worried, and Irene had a feeling that she had good reason to be. Impulsively, she put her hand on the coarse linen-clad arm of her colleague and said, “When we’re finished here, we’ll take a taxi and go to Emil’s apartment. I’ll come along. If he’s home, I can ask him my question directly. Then it’ll be taken care of.”
Beate shrugged at first. Then she nodded.
Chapter 11
THE DINNER HAD BEEN superb. Jens Metz had entertained them with stories about the work of the Copenhagen Police Department, and Jonny had countered with glimpses from the everyday lives of his Göteborg colleagues. They had laughed and passed a very enjoyable couple of hours.
Just before eleven o’clock, Beate Bentsen touched Irene’s arm and said in a low voice, “Shall we go?”
Irene nodded. They got up and excused themselves. Peter Møller asked if he should escort them but they assured him that it wasn’t necessary.
After the increasing warmth and cigarette smoke of the restaurant, the night air of Rådhuspladsen felt refreshing. They hailed