“Overlappers?”
“People who are part of the goth culture and also active on the fetish scene, and let me tell you something. The goth scene may be open, but the fetish scene is hermetically sealed, like a frightened oyster. That club is called Inkognito. The same people are behind the monthly club events, but strict rules govern fetish arrangements. There’s a total ban on pictures. Fetishists are usually older than people from the goth scene and typically more established with families and senior executive jobs, so consequently they’re more protective of their privacy. The fundamental difference between the goth and fetish scenes is obviously sex. Fetish events take place in dark rooms where people can enjoy themselves anonymously. The sexual activities are fairly hard-core. You can be spanked, have clamps attached to your nipples, be suspended from the wall by pulleys and weights, there’s Japanese bondage and things I had—obviously—never heard of until I read about it on the net late last night.” Sten grinned at Søren. “But anyway, everyone’s anonymous, even when they’re having sex. You find a partner and do your thing. Johannes received several e-mails announcing fetish events, so I believe there’s a good chance he was active on both scenes. I imagine Orlando met YourGuy at an event in one of the two clubs and has now gone missing because he’s hiding from YourGuy. He sounds creepy to me,” Sten added, snapping his fingers against the printouts.
Søren pondered this. “And you don’t think YourGuy is just suffering from a regular crush and his tone is a bit rough because people on that scene talk to each other like that?”
Sten nodded. “You may be right, but what really got me thinking is that YourGuy’s address is anonymous, or fictitious. He lists it as ‘Donald Duck, 2200 Ducktown.’ You can do that with free e-mail accounts. You can create an anonymous address, just like the person who e-mailed threats to Helland, and you can call yourself anything, Donald Duck or Bill Clinton, and if you also use an Internet café, well, then you’re completely untraceable. The account was created on the eighth of September this year, and only three e-mails were ever sent from it: on the twelfth and the sixteenth of September, and four days ago, on the seventh of October. Of course I’ve spoken to the owner of the Internet café, whose server I’ve traced the e-mails to, but he just laughed when he heard my request. The café has twenty computers spread across three small rooms and has approximately two hundred users per day. They’ve no idea who comes and goes, so anyone could have written those e-mails. All we can be sure about is that he definitely didn’t want to be identified, but why be secretive if it’s just a regular crush?”
Søren nodded slowly.
“Why do you think that Johannes is gay? You’ve suggested this a couple of times.” Sten wanted to know.
“It hasn’t been confirmed yet. I think he might be, but Anna Bella Nor says he isn’t. Why?”
Sten looked pensive. “I googled Orlando. It’s the name of the central character in a novel by Virginia Woolf, written in 1928. Orlando is a young man who lives for four hundred years and is transformed into a woman along the way . . .”
“And?” Søren looked at Sten.
“I don’t think Johannes is gay at all,” Sten replied. “Members post comments after parties on the homepage of the Red Mask. Johannes is clearly a big hit among the women, and he flirts so much the temperature rises in cyberspace. I think he’s experimenting with his feminine sides, and we’re sufficiently ignorant to confuse it with homosexuality.”
There was a knock on the door. Sten rose and Henrik entered.
“I think we’re done, anyway,” Sten said and nodded to Henrik. He stopped on his way out.
“Good luck with your shiny new clue,” he said, shaking his head as he left.
Søren banged his forehead against the desk.
“Er, what’s going on?” Henrik asked him. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking like a tough guy.
“I’ve lost my touch,” Søren groaned into his blotting pad.
They left the station and Søren drove down Frederikssundvej.
“Why didn’t you take Borups Allé? I thought we were going to Vesterbro?”
“There’s something we need to check out first,” Søren replied. “Johannes Trøjborg isn’t our only missing person. Dr. Tybjerg hasn’t responded to telephone calls, to e-mails, or even the friendly note I left on his desk. He lives on Mågevej, so I thought we might drop in on the way.” They drove on in silence.