Beate laughed hoarsely and lit a cigarette at the same time. She lifted the extra-long filter cigarette that was already glowing, gesturing toward Irene, and asked, “You aren’t offended?”
Irene shook her head.
“I just remembered that the Swedes are so touchy when it comes to smoke. Do you smoke?”
She held the pack out to Irene, who politely declined.
The superintendent inhaled greedily and peered at Irene through the smoke. “A list where you may find Scandinavian Models? I would suggest that you look in the tourist guide in your hotel room. There are usually advertisements in the back for. . everything. The worst places aren’t allowed to advertise, but people find their way there anyway.”
Neither of them wanted to have dessert. They ordered two cups of coffee. It was almost eight thirty when they finished. Irene excused herself by saying that she needed to call home.
Beate remained sitting there, smoking a newly lit cigarette, as Irene walked out into the drizzle.
“IT’S BEENtaken care of. Mrs. Karlsson across the street is going to take him on a walk around lunchtime. The kids have chicken pox and are at home,” said Jenny.
“Can she leave them to go out with Sammie then?”
“It’s fine. The kids are doing pretty well now. When are you coming home?”
“Tomorrow night. How are things with Katarina?”
“She has pain in her neck and is stiff. But she has an appointment tomorrow at the clinic.”
“Good. I’m turning off the cell phone tonight. If there is an emergency you can call the hotel.”
After sending extra hugs and kisses, Irene hung up. At least things were sorted out with Sammie. Now her own evening rounds would start.
“COPENHAGEN THISWeek-May 1999,” it said on the thick tourist guide on the desk. The cover was illustrated with a badminton player against a lime green background: healthy and sporty. Irene quickly flipped past the museums and cultural attractions to the pages farthest back. A black page with some stars and a half-moon announced, “Copenhagen After Dark.”
Color pictures of naked young girls were lures to tourists. The businesses were called go-go bars, nightclubs, sauna clubs, escort services, and other creative euphemisms but it was obvious that young girls were for sale and, in some of the ads, boys. None of the pictures showed girls who looked older than twenty-two. They stood sticking out their breasts and tilting their hips, either wearing thongs or, in some cases, totally nude.
She found the advertisement for Scandinavian Models on the last page. The illustration was in black and white and showed a group of four girls standing tightly together with their arms around each other. They smiled invitingly at the camera with pouting lips, wearing only thongs and short T-shirts on their upper bodies that barely covered their nipples. Their names appeared above their heads: Petra, Linn, Bell, and Heidi. Bell was Isabell Lind.
“This is an actual photo of our models you will meet here in Copenhagen-guaranteed or your money back!” the advertisement proclaimed.
Irene felt her stomach knot. The pouting girl in the picture who was selling herself had been her daughters’ playmate.
With great effort she forced herself to continue reading. “We are always ready to visit you. Or, alternatively, you are welcome to visit us at our luxurious, newly built, one hundred percent safe and discreet studio. We are located in the beautiful central Nyhavn area of the city.” The address was Store Kongensgade.
After searching for a long time on the small map in the tourist guide folder she found the street. The letters were tiny and blurred. Could it possibly be time to get reading glasses? Nope, that was for old ladies. But Irene had to turn on the desk lamp and hold the map close to the light with arms outstretched in order to make it out.
Store Kongensgade was located past Kongens Nytorv. It was in exactly the opposite direction from Vesterbro if one walked from the hotel. She would have to go to Tom Tanaka’s first and then visit Scandinavian Models. It was difficult to say which of the visits would be most uncomfortable.
First, she needed to be able to move around unnoticed in the Copenhagen night. That’s easier said than done when you’re a woman who is nearly six feet tall.
Irene removed all of her makeup. A few passes through her hair with a wet comb gave her an androgynous hairstyle. She changed to jeans and tennis shoes and decided to put on the trench coat instead of her short jacket, partly because it was a unisex model and also because it was still raining outside. The weather was perfect for her hair, which was supposed to look flat and boring. She inspected herself in the mirror on the inside of the closet door. No one was going to notice her.
She left the hotel and disappeared into Copenhagen after dark.
It had stopped raining. Instead, a cold, raw wind swept in from the ocean. Irene wished that she had brought along a pair of gloves, but that wasn’t something you thought about when you were packing your luggage in the middle of May. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and turned up her collar for protection. There were a lot of people out and about near Tivoli, Copenhagen’s world-renowned pleasure garden. The many bars and restaurants were already full and looked inviting to one who happened to be walking outside in the grim weather.
The closer to Colbjørnsensgade she came, the less she felt tempted to go inside one of the establishments. The signs now offered go-go girls, stripteases, and “the best sex show in town.” It wasn’t that she was a prude or had never been exposed to what the sex industry had to offer. After almost twenty years as a police officer she had seen everything, but not all at once. That was what nauseated her about this area, not least the hard-boiled marketing and the contempt it showed for mankind.
The red-faced men who bellowed and pranced through the doors, or slipped in, in an attempt not to be noticed-what was their view of women? And how did these women see themselves? Did this exploitation affect the self-esteem of other women? Was she affected?
She stopped and thought about that last question. Yes, she felt violated and degraded as a woman. The feeling actually surprised her, but that was what she really felt. She thought about her two beautiful and headstrong daughters. Was this what they would be reduced to in the eyes of many men: fuck objects?
Irene felt anger rise inside her; the last steps she took to Tom Tanaka’s gay sex shop had extra length and force due to her anger.
Maybe it was the power of that rage that made her yank open the shop door more vehemently than she had intended. Everyone in the store turned in her direction. More customers were there now than had been earlier. Tom Tanaka stood behind the counter with Emil at his side. She walked across the floor of the shop and said hello to them. The young man quickly looked away. Nervously, he rubbed his goatee and mouth with his forearm. In one hand he was holding a ham sandwich and in the other a can of Coca-Cola. Irene saw him try to chew and swallow at the same time.
Irene and Tanaka went through the employee lounge. He opened the door to the apartment and gestured for Irene to enter. Without saying a word, he walked toward his office, then invited her to sit on one of the chairs. The good cigar smell felt almost home like.
“A beer or a whiskey?” he asked.
Irene hesitated at first, but then said, “A beer, thanks.”
He bent and, to Irene’s surprise, took two chilled beers out of a little minibar in his desk. There were glasses there as well. He filled one and pushed it toward her. Tanaka raised his open bottle and clinked it against hers in a toast. The beer was amazingly refreshing and she agreed with the slogan that a Tuborg tastes best “every time.”
Tanaka set his bottle down on the desk and focused his black eyes on her. “Inspector Huss. I must be able to trust someone. You aren’t a police officer in Copenhagen and that’s why I’m willing to trust you.”