The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 by Helen Tursten Page A

body.
    Along the short side of the room there was a glass cabinet containing knickknacks and prize buckles. Irene observed, “You must be a good sumo wrestler.”
    One of the corners of Tom’s mouth twitched and Irene took it to be an amused smile.
    “ Was a good sumo wrestler. I’m retired.”
    Irene looked at him, surprised. He couldn’t be older than she was.
    “We retire at age forty.”
    She didn’t know why she volunteered, “I’ve also worked with Japanese wrestling—jujitsu.”
    Tanaka didn’t respond. He pointed at two cloth-covered chairs next to the desk.
    “Please,” he said.
    Irene and Peter Møller sat. Then Irene realized that Møller hadn’t said a word since they’d entered the store. She looked at him but he remained silent so she started talking about the dismembered male corpse they had found in Sweden. She emphasized that the only clue they had to the man’s identity was a dragon tattoo, and raised her gaze over Tanaka’s head to look at a silk painting that was evidently the original of both the sign and the tattoo.
    There was one important difference: there was no sign for man on the painting. Instead, a pointy mountaintop could be seen. Irene recognized the holy mountain, Mount Fuji. She said so and Tanaka nodded.
    “Colleagues here in Copenhagen contacted us when we sent out the picture of the tattoo via Interpol. That’s why I’m here. Do you know who the man might be?”
    “No. No idea.”
    “You don’t know of anyone who has had a tattoo done based on your sign or this painting?”
    He shook his head in denial.
    “I’ve had the store for less than two years. I inherited it from my cousin. He was the one who started it, years ago. Maybe the tattoo was made during his time. The idea for the sign and for replacing Fuji were also his,” he said.
    Irene thought a moment, then asked, “Do you know of any tattoo artist in the area who is especially skilled?”
    “A master? No.”
    They rose at the same time, and Tanaka led the way. At the kitchen door he stopped with his hand on the door handle and turned to Irene.
    “Keikoku. Uke. Okata?” he asked softly.
    He warned her of enemies and asked if she had understood. She didn’t know the Japanese language but these words and expressions were used in martial arts. In a calm voice she answered, “Hai.”
    Tanaka let them out through the shop, which now contained many more customers. With a neutral “good-bye,” he closed the door after them.
    “What was it he said in Japanese?” Møller asked when the door shut behind them.
    Irene concluded that he hadn’t understood Tanaka’s warning. She didn’t know anything about him, and he, too, might have been familiar with Japanese martial arts. But she was willing to take the risk.
    “He asked if I remembered any terms from jujitsu,” she said indifferently.
    They walked back to the Police Department in silence.
     
    “ THIS IS Inspector Jens Metz.”
    Peter Møller introduced Irene to the heavyset, reddish blond colleague in an office that smelled like stale smoke. Jens Metz looked so typically Danish that Irene had to hold back a giggle. Instead, she gave him a friendly smile and let her hand be encircled by his sausage-like fingers. He wasn’t in Tanaka’s class, but he was heading in that direction. Irene guessed his age to be somewhere around fifty-five.
    “Welcome to Copenhagen. But the reason could have been more pleasant.” Metz smiled with nicotine-stained teeth.
    He appeared to be friendly and efficient. Out of nowhere he magically made three steaming cups of coffee appear on the desk. This sort of thing always earned bonus points in Irene’s coffee-dependent existence. That the coffee tasted like it had been brewed from crushed pieces of vinyl was a completely different matter. One can get used to Danish coffee, Irene tried to tell herself.
    Jens Metz tapped a pile of thick folders that was lying on the table.
    “Here is the material from the case of the