“How long did Basta stay?”
“Max, two hours. He watched when I shot Marcus and then I took the pictures of him. Then he left.”
“Did it seem like they had a relationship?”
At first Bolin looked uncertain, but then he shrugged. His voice sounded rough when he said, “Before Basta left they had a go behind the lighthouse.”
Again Irene felt a strong desire to press him about his relationship with Marcus, but she stopped herself. That wasn’t what was most important right then. What was urgent was trying to figure out Basta’s identity.
“Marcus never called him anything but Basta?”
“No.”
“Describe Basta.”
“The same age as Marcus and me. Tall. Over six feet. In good shape. Probably lifts weights. Shoulder-length hair, relatively blond. Yellowish blond, you would probably call it. He had it pulled back in a ponytail.”
“Did he speak Swedish or Danish?”
“Swedish.”
“Dialect?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but I think he was from Göteborg. Yet he didn’t have the typical thick dialect. I would have remembered if that had been the case.”
“Were his license plates Swedish or Danish?”
“No idea. He parked the jeep on the beach, maybe a hundred meters away.”
“Eye color?”
“Blue. I think.”
“Could I borrow this one from you?” Irene said and held up Manpower.
“Sure.”
“Do you still have the other pictures you took of him?”
There was a chance that Basta’s face might be clearer on one of the other pictures.
“Yeah. . somewhere. But I only took one roll of him.”
“How many pictures are there on one roll?”
“Twelve.”
“Can you try and find the pictures for me?”
“Certainly. But a major client is coming here in a while. I’ll have to look after he’s left.”
“If you find them, maybe you can leave them in reception at the police station. Put them in an envelope and write my name on it.”
Irene held out her card. Erik Bolin took it and put it in the pocket of his jeans.
“A WHOLE day wasted! Couldn’t you have found him earlier?” Jonny grunted.
Was he serious? Irene gave him a sharp look and determined that he was. It was late and her blood sugar was low and she was tired. Her anger rose and she snapped, “Be happy I found him. Otherwise you would have had to trot around town tomorrow, too!”
“About tomorrow. How are we going to organize it?” Birgitta interrupted in order to break up the quarrel.
Strange, she was usually the one who became most upset at Jonny and his comments. Maybe things were different now that she had become Mrs. Rauhala. But of course she was thinking about keeping her last name and continuing to be called Moberg. Nothing could be seen yet of her pregnancy, even though she had purchased new pants in a slightly looser style than the jeans she usually wore.
“Are you going to get the other pictures of that Bastu guy? What did the photographer say?” Andersson asked.
“Basta. Yes. Bolin is going to leave them at reception tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll have to hit the street looking for Basta. Strange name,” the superintendent muttered.
“Has anyone managed to access Marcus’s computer yet?” Birgitta wondered.
“No. We haven’t found anyone who is good enough with computers,” said Andersson.
“I can give it a try,” Birgitta offered.
Irene made a note to herself that she should try to reach Pontus Zander. Maybe the feeler put out at the meeting for gays in the health-care field had yielded some profit.
IRENE MADone last attempt just after eleven o’clock, right before she was going to go to bed. Pontus answered at his home number.
“Did you get any information?” Irene asked straight out.
“No. But, God, what a discussion we had!” he exclaimed.
“Start from the beginning.”
“OK. I pretended to be upset after being questioned by you. ‘As if there were gays in the health-care field who devoted themselves to necrosadism,’ I said in a loud voice. There really was a hot discussion, just as you’d hoped. You should have heard it! But no one said anything about necrophilia or other horrid things. Everyone agreed that this was a result of the police’s general homophobia. Ha ha!”
Irene didn’t feel that she was particularly homophobic and didn’t really understand what was so funny. She giggled politely into the receiver so that he would continue.
“We usually wrap things up around ten o’clock. No one had any interesting gossip. At least none that I could hear. But now the hook is baited and lowered. It’s not too late to get a bite. Goodness! This is really exciting!”
Exciting wasn’t the word Irene would have used when she thought of the murderer and his victims. She thanked Pontus for his help and asked him to be in touch if he heard anything interesting.
She set down the receiver and she crawled into bed. An irritating thought was gnawing at her that made it impossible for her to sleep.
It was something she had overlooked. Something she should have thought of during the day. But she couldn’t come up with what it was.
It was nearly twelve thirty when she fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. “IS THERE anything for me?” Irene asked.
She leaned forward toward the window in reception and was so prepared for a positive answer, she already had her hand stretched out to take the envelope.
“Let’s see. . Huss. . Irene Huss. . No. There’s nothing here.”
The friendly brunette behind the glass windowpane smiled apologetically. Irene was incredulous.
“Are you sure? A photographer by the name of Bolin was supposed to leave an envelope for me here during the morning.”
“Sorry.”
Irene was crestfallen, but had to pad away empty-handed. Maybe Bolin hadn’t found the roll of film? She decided to call the photographer and find out what had happened. She would have time; five minutes remained before morning prayers.
While she was dialing, her eyes rested on the framed photo of the man in the backlit picture. She knew she should recognize him. If only he had shown a little more of his face, and if only the picture hadn’t been taken in direct sunlight, then. . She sighed and gave up. The picture, which stood against the wall, had already been the source of many witty comments from people who had been in the room.
Irene let the phone ring ten times before she hung up. Seven thirty was probably too early for the advertising business. She would have to wait until after morning prayers.
SUPERINTENDENT ANDERSSON held a short morning review. The bright sun flooded the room. A premonition of the approaching end of the school term hung in the air. The superintendent didn’t seem to notice the beautiful weather outside the window. He was deeply engrossed in some papers lying in front of him on the table. He looked up from them and searched for someone with his eyes, peering from behind lowered reading glasses. He stopped at Irene.
“The technicians send greetings. The investigation of the postcard from Copenhagen hasn’t provided anything more than an interesting thumbprint on the stamp. The other fingerprints on the card probably came from you and the mailman. But they’ll keep the card in case we find other fingerprints or other written messages that we want to compare. Our colleagues in Copenhagen are going through Tosscander’s car. They’ll be in touch when they have something interesting to say.”
“Did they say anything about how Tom Tanaka is doing?” Irene asked.
“No,” the superintendent said shortly.