coat. He searched for a long time among the different keys before he fished out one with a joyful exclamation. The key slid easily off the ring and, with a click as it turned in the lock, the door opened.
Beate stepped in front of Faraday. Brusquely, she said, “Thanks, Bill. We’ll go in ourselves. Can we keep the key?”
If he was surprised by this dismissal, he didn’t show it. With another beaming smile, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the elevator. Bentsen waited until it had started descending before she opened the door completely and, with a wave of her hand, invited Irene in.
The smell was evident in the hall. Irene turned on the light and looked around. It was big and airy and the ceiling was very high. A soiled folk art rug in shades of wine red lay under the large pile of mail and newspapers. The only furnishings were a hat and coat stand and a large mirror with a gilded frame. A naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling.
At random, Irene chose the closest door on the left. It turned out to lead into a large dirty bathroom, which smelled stale. A sour-smelling terry-cloth towel had been thrown on the floor among empty toilet-paper rolls and shampoo bottles.
The next door led into a kitchen, which was equally messy. Encrusted dishes and smelly pizza boxes overflowed the filthy counter. But this wasn’t the dominant smell in the apartment. Irene realized that Beate Bentsen was following right at her heels. Irene understood. The superintendent was afraid of the nauseating smell and of learning where it was coming from. She didn’t dare find out on her own.
As if she had read Irene’s thoughts, Bentsen took a step toward a closed door and said, “Emil’s music room is in there. The door next to it leads to the living room and over there is the bedroom.”
Irene went directly to the bedroom door. It wasn’t completely closed.
The stench hit her as she opened the door wide.
Irene whirled around and tried to keep Beate away but she had glimpsed enough and rushed past Irene. Bentsen stopped by the bed as if frozen in place and stood stock-still without making a sound. Irene hurried to stand beside her.
Emil lay with his hands and feet bound. Rope this time, instead of handcuffs, Irene registered automatically. He was naked. The killer had left his mark on Emil’s abdomen. Beate Bentsen began moaning; soon her moans had risen to a hysterical scream. “It’s gone! He’s taken . . . It’s gone. . . . .”
Irene also saw that body parts were missing. The murderer had mutilated his victim.
IT WAS along night. Irene didn’t get back to the Hotel Alex until just before 4:00 a.m.
I’m never going to fall asleep, she thought. She didn’t remember anything after that until she was awakened by the telephone at eight thirty. Half asleep, she fumbled the phone to her ear. She came awake after she heard Superintendent Andersson’s booming voice. “Naturally, I called the police station to talk to you since you’re supposed to be there working. But I didn’t get you or Jonny so I had to try and understand a gruff-speaking Dane. At least I’ve understood that you found another dismembered victim! What the hell are you doing?”
Irene felt offended and tried to protest. “I’m not the one going around killing people!”
Andersson ignored her objection and continued. “And where are you and Jonny? You’re lying in bed at the hotel sleeping!”
Irene was finally awake enough to get angry.
“I was there last night when the latest victim was found, and I didn’t get to bed until five o’clock!” she hissed angrily. She added an hour while she was at it because it sounded better. Andersson wouldn’t be able to refute this information. There was a short silence on the phone before the superintendent started speaking again. In a considerably calmer tone, he said, “You were there?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the victim?”
“Superintendent Bentsen’s son.”
The silence that followed was very long, but she knew her boss and was preparing for another explosion. “What the hell are you saying? Bentsen’s son! It can—”
She interrupted him. “This murder bears the signature of our killer. His victim was bound, split open, defiled and mutilated.”
When the superintendent’s voice could be heard again, it sounded serious and sensible. “Irene. He’s working close to you. He’s probably still in Copenhagen and he has struck again at someone connected to you.”
“That’s not entirely certain,” said Irene. “The medical examiner