The Glass Devil (11 page)

“I did, at Christmas. But only a few words.”

“How did he seem to you then?”

Eva wound a strand of hair around one index finger while she thought back. “Neutral. Low energy. He didn’t make much contact.”

A look at Fredrik was enough to determine that full contact had been made there. His face was aglow. To finish the questioning, Irene asked, “Have you ever met Rebecka?”

“Yes. At the same time I met Jacob and his wife.”

“What impression did you have of Rebecka?”

Again Eva was quiet for some time. “She has a great deal of inner energy. It isn’t darkness, like her mother. But she hides it. Inside she is more like her father, but on the outside no likeness is visible.”

“Oh, Rebecka is very much like her father in appearance,” Irene objected.

“In appearance, yes. I’m not speaking about appearances, but about her spirit. On the surface, she’s very reserved. She never lets anyone inside. Not a single person.”

Irene started thinking that it was high time to say good-bye. Fredrik still bore a smile that didn’t show any signs of fading away.

Irene thanked Eva for the coffee. Fredrik reluctantly got up as well. They walked over to the front door and put on their coats, taking their muddy shoes with them to the porch before putting them on. Irene’s zipper got stuck. Sweat broke out on her back while she stood and yanked at it. Fredrik wandered over to the car. Then Eva touched Irene’s shoulder lightly and said, “You have the right energy and you can reach your inner being. Contact with your spirit is strong. You can meditate and lose yourself.”

Astonished, Irene could only nod. How could Eva know that she used meditation in jujitsu?

“Together we can discover Sten Schyttelius’s hidden depths. I can’t do it alone, because it requires too much energy. Contact me when you want to try.”

Before Irene had time to gather her thoughts, Eva stepped backward across the threshold. She smiled and waved at Fredrik, who happily waved back. Then she closed the blue door.

“THE GLADIATOR Gym on Mölndalsvägen has confirmed that Jacob Schyttelius was there and worked out from eight to ten thirty on Monday night. No cashier at Hemköp remembers whether he shopped there. But since they close at ten o’clock, he must have been there before he worked out. What did you get from the questioning of Jacob and Rebecka’s cousins?” Superintendent Andersson asked Hannu.

“The cousins barely knew each other. Too much of an age difference. The youngest of the brothers is nine years older than Jacob.”

“Could they tell us anything about their uncle?” Irene asked.

“Not much. Sten Schyttelius was a surprise child. Didn’t spend a lot of time with his sisters as an adult. Their father was a pastor in a small congregation outside Skövde.”

“So Sten came from a pastor’s family?”

“Yes. Just like Elsa. Her father was a pastor in a neighboring parish. She was the only child. Elsa and Sten knew each other from childhood.”

Irene took a bite from her cheese sandwich while she pondered over the new information from Hannu. Aside from the two of them, only Sven Andersson and Fredrik Stridh were present. The sun was setting, and Friday evening began to descend on Göteborg. Soon, happy expectations would be followed by dashed hopes and drunkenness, police sirens would begin to sound, and everything would be as it always is on any ordinary Friday night.

Hannu broke the silence. “I’ve received Rebecka’s telephone number. I’ve not spoken with her directly. Chief Inspector Thompson has apparently tried to get Rebecka to talk. She says that she isn’t up to it. Thompson has been in touch with her doctor, who says that she’s very fragile. It’s going to take some time before she bounces back.”

He handed a note with Rebecka’s address and telephone number to Irene. The street she lived on was called Ossington Street, which didn’t mean anything to Irene. In London she’d heard of Carnaby Street and Oxford Street, and of a few famous places: Piccadilly Circus, New Scotland Yard, and Buckingham Palace. That was about it.

“If she works with computers, she should have an E-mail address,” said Irene.

“Probably, but Thompson didn’t give it to me,” Hannu replied.

“I’ll wait to telephone her.”

Irene folded the note and put it in her jeans pocket.

“How do we proceed?” Andersson asked shortly.

They shared the old familiar feeling of having reached a dead end. Finally, Irene said, “I’ll get in touch with Rebecka over the weekend. On Monday, I’m going to meet with Eva Möller again. Alone.”

She added the last word when she saw how Fredrik brightened up.

“Why?” the superintendent wanted to know.

“She’s some kind of New-Ager, but she’s actually the only one close to the Schyttelius family who believes in such hocus-pocus. And she owns at least two pentagrams. Maybe she knows more than she’s telling us.”

Irene avoided mentioning what Eva had whispered to her when she and Fredrik were about to leave. It was better to keep some information to herself for the time being.

“Okay. Talk to her. Hannu and Fredrik will follow up summarizing the door-to-door questioning. Possibly you’ll have to make another try,” said Andersson.

It was a boring job, but it had to be done. Fredrik nodded and shrugged in dejection. As usual, Hannu provided no clues as to what he was thinking. Hannu and Fredrik were experienced investigators and knew that it was ordinary routine chores like this that often resulted in the capture of a killer.

Chapter 9

“SAMMIE RECEIVED A DEATH threat from the stupid idiot
bajshög,
that shitpile!”

Jenny was standing with her legs shoulder-width apart in the hall, her arms crossed over her chest. The light from the ceiling lamp reflected from her temporarily platinum-blond hair with bright blue highlights. Since she was a singer in a pop band on its way to stardom, she had to do something extra to her appearance: hence the nine gold rings in her left ear and the miniature glass penis which hung from the right.

Irene stopped in the process of hanging up her jacket. She looked down at her happy dog. Sammie didn’t seem to have been adversely affected by the death threat.

“Why?” she asked, surprised.

“He killed Felix.”

An icy hand clutched Irene’s heart. The only Felix she knew was their neighbors’, the Bernhögs, fat red cat. Please don’t let it be that one!

“You know,
bajshög
’s red cat,” Jenny continued.

Unconsciously, Irene fumbled for support.

The relationship between the neighbors wasn’t good. Truth be told, it was really quite awful. Ever since she and Krister had moved to the row-house area fourteen years earlier, there had been little battles. Since the childless Bernhögs had lived in the area ever since it was built, they felt that everything should be on their terms. To them, two lively four-year-old twin girls had not exactly been the ideal next-door neighbors. The girls attracted the neighborhood children and played wild games and laughed and screamed. Mrs. Bernhög’s migraines became worse, and Mr. Bernhög had his well-tended flowerbeds destroyed by the trampling feet of children. He yelled at both children and parents. As a result, all the children suddenly
had
to cut through just those flowerbeds and Mr. and Mrs. Bernhög got the nickname
Bajshög
--excrement
.

The Bernhögs had put up a high fence in front and back of their row house. They didn’t speak to their next-door neighbors when they saw them on the street. However, they left angry notes in their mailbox when something didn’t suit them. Usually the notes were about things like poor snow-shoveling and improper sanding of ice patches on the communal porch in front of the house. But after Sammie had joined the Huss family nine years ago, the battles had stepped up. Now they suddenly complained that there was dog crap everywhere, despite the fact that the Huss family always picked up after Sammie with doggie poop bags.

“Who picks up after all the stray cats?” Irene had ventured to ask Mr. Bernhög one time when she had gotten yet another a note of complaint. A dark red flush had suffused his quivering cheeks, and his small pursed mouth had opened and closed without managing to produce any audible sounds. Irene thought that he looked like a fat, worried goldfish.

Sammie was an Irish soft-coated wheaten terrier, a long and complicated breed name whose last word was the most important: he was a terrier. All terriers are bred for hunting and fighting. They are happy and devoted, while at the same time they have an intense temperament. Sammie loved to chase everything that moved. His absolute favorite prey was cats; he was a notorious cat-chaser. Irene had even spoken with a dog psychologist once. According to him, it wasn’t possible to get rid of an inbred hunting instinct; they just had to make sure the dog didn’t get loose. That was easier said than done. According to Krister, Sammie could well have been the master-of-escape Houdini’s dog: like master, like dog. . . .

The Bernhögs had always had cats. The first one had died of old age a few years ago, and they had immediately replaced him with Felix, who was spoiled, overweight, and infinitely loved.

And now Sammie had killed this cat.

“How . . . how did it happen?” Irene asked weakly.

“We went out for a walk about an hour ago. Sammie was completely calm and well-behaved. Suddenly he yanked on his leash like you wouldn’t believe and threw himself into our evergreen hedge, and Felix was sitting inside. I didn’t have time to react. It happened in, like, two seconds. Can you believe it? Sammie just shook it a few times and the cat was dead. It didn’t even have time to make a sound. Sammie bit him right on the throat and he bled . . . totally gross!”

As a vegan, Jenny was a huge fan of animals; now she looked at her dog accusingly. Sammie didn’t seem the slightest bit guilty, but he noticed that the charge in the air was negative and not to his advantage. He did what he usually did in this situation: He quickly headed up the stairs to the second floor and crawled under a bed. He usually stayed there until the storm had blown over.

“Did Baj . . . Mr. Bernhög see Sammie kill Felix?”

“Yes. He was only a few meters away, sweeping outside the gate. When he understood what had happened, he started chasing me and Sammie with his broom, but I ran in here and locked the door. Then he yelled outside that he was going to kill Sammie.”

Irene started to get angry. “Did he also swing the broom at you?”

Jenny looked surprised. “Of course. I was holding on to the leash.”

Irene didn’t bother putting her jacket on when she went out again. She went through the Bernhögs’ gate and stepped up to the always freshly painted front door. It was thrown open before she had a chance to ring the doorbell.

“This is going to cost you—” Bernhög started.

Irene interrupted him in an authoritative police voice. “Be quiet! I understand that you’re upset that Felix is dead, and I apologize for that, but you are partly to blame. Your cat was running around loose outside, and that always presents a risk. It could have been run over or killed in a fight with other animals. The only way to avoid such risks is to have an indoor cat. My dog was on a leash. It wasn’t running and chasing your cat. That Felix wasn’t able to keep himself out of Sammie’s reach is something neither we nor Sammie can do anything about.

“What is, however, very serious is that you threatened my daughter and chased her with a broom. If this happens again, I’ll report you!”

Bernhög did his goldfish imitation again. He looked like he might be about to have a stroke, but at that moment Irene was so angry that she didn’t care. His health was supposed to be so bad, yet he was able to chase people and dogs with a broom! After having remained silent and clenching her fists in her pants pockets for so many years, it felt really good to blow off some steam. She stared at him one last time before she turned on her heel and walked back to her house.

SHE HAD overreacted. She had to admit it. At the time, it had felt good to vent many years’ worth of pent-up anger, but now the pale ghost of reflection appeared in the innermost corner of her conscience. The poor Bernhögs had, after all, lost their dearly beloved cat. And it was the Huss family’s fault. Or, anyway, that of certain members of the family. Irene sent an accusing look in Sammie’s direction, but it didn’t affect him. He lay under the glass table, snoring loudly and digesting his dinner. Irene had crawled onto the couch with a cup of coffee after dinner. The TV poured out these incessant game shows with the chance of winning millions or nothing at all, but the thought of the dead cat was unavoidable and she paid no attention to the TV.

Jenny had gone off somewhere, and Katarina was expected to be home from her training at any moment. Krister was working late; in the best case, he wouldn’t arrive home until after one.

Her thoughts shifted to the Schyttelius case. She was going to try to contact Rebecka the next day, and then she would have to decide when she was going to London. She must not forget to get in touch with Thompson at the Yard. What was the weather like in England this time of year? What should she wear? She couldn’t forget her passport. It was new, applied for because of the trip she and Krister were going to take to Greece in August. It would be their first trip abroad since the twins were born. It would be warm and pleasant on Crete. . . .

SHE WOKE with a start. A police car with flashing blue lights was chasing a white van on the TV. The blaring of the police siren had awakened her. Dazed with sleep, she looked at the clock on the VCR; it was almost midnight.

She got up with stiff, creaking limbs and turned off the television. Sammie came jumping up from his place under the glass table and immediately informed her that he needed to go out. There was nothing that could be done about it. He hadn’t been out since the cat murder.

Irene put on her jacket and boots with a sigh. The cool night air woke her. It was a clear night with shining stars and a nearly half moon.

They passed the Bernhögs’ house on the way back. Through the kitchen window, Irene could see Margit Bernhög sitting at the kitchen table with an untouched glass of milk in front of her, staring out the window with red eyes. It was clear that she had been crying. Irene realized that Margit couldn’t see her because of the light over the kitchen table.

Irene felt miserable when she reentered her own house. Sammie ran ahead of her into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and pretended that he was sound asleep.

Irene peeked into Katarina’s room and heard her daughter’s steady breathing. The bed in Jenny’s room was still empty.

THE WHOLE family slept in on Saturday morning. Just before ten o’clock, Irene awakened because Sammie was licking her right foot, which had ended up outside the cover. He could never resist feet, the sweatier the better.

“Yuck! Dogs are so disgusting!” she hissed at him and slapped him on the nose.

Krister mumbled something unintelligible and turned over. Irene would have to walk the dog. No activity could be heard from the girls’ rooms; Irene hadn’t expected any.

The sun was shining and it was almost perfectly still. Irene walked down toward Fiskebäck’s small boat harbor. Snowdrops and crocuses bloomed in front yards, and Easter lilies were shooting up close to house walls. A slight breeze blew down by the ocean, heavy with the scent of salt and rotten seaweed. Irene filled her lungs and felt revitalized. This was true wealth: having free admission to the ocean.

KATARINA WAS in the process of setting the table and fixing breakfast when Irene came home. As soon as she had taken Sammie’s leash off, he rushed into the kitchen to say that a liver paté sandwich or two would be just the thing. One of the other two members of the family was also up; Irene could hear the shower running upstairs.

“Hi, sweetie. Did you see me sleeping on the couch last night when you got home?” Irene asked.

“Couldn’t miss it. You were snoring,” Katarina replied, smiling teasingly.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“But hello! I was talking to you, but you were sleeping like you were drugged.”

Irene had to admit that she had probably been very tired. She’d had to put in a lot of overtime on the Schyttelius case during the past week. She and Katarina had hardly seen each other for several days; Irene took this opportunity to bring up a ticklish subject.

“Pappa said that you were thinking about participating in a beauty pageant,” she mentioned in a casual tone of voice.

Katarina’s smile was instantly erased. “Yeah. Fun to try.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?” Katarina said.

“Why are you competing in a beauty pageant?”

“You get to meet a lot of interesting people and travel. You get to be like an ambassador for your city and a role model for other girls. An anti-smoking role model. And you get twenty-five thousand SEK,
³
cash. And a chance at a modeling job. It’s really well paid.”

Irene stared at her in shock. About a year ago, this girl had said that all beauty pageants were degrading. What she was saying now sounded memorized and was not particularly convincing. Irene posed the question again: “Why are you
really
competing?”

Her daughter’s face froze in anger but when their eyes met, to her surprise Irene saw that Katarina’s were filled with tears.

“To show him that he’s wrong,” she whispered.

Irene took her in her arms. Unconsciously, she rocked Katarina just as she had done when she was small and had come running to her for comfort.

“‘He’? Micke?” she asked.

Katarina nodded and sniffled. They stood like that for a long time.

The sound of the shower upstairs stopped, and Krister could be heard singing in his falsetto bass voice: “
I can’t get no da-dada-da-da-daaa sa-tis-fac-tion, I can’t get no bam-bam-bam-bam-bam sa-tis-faction, but I’ll try and I’ll try and I’ll try-haj-aj
. . . .”

Irene pushed her daughter a short distance away and made eye contact. Katarina was forced to smile through the tears.

“He always sings Stones songs in the shower,” she said.

Mother and daughter burst out laughing. Katarina went to get some tissues to dry her eyes and blow her nose. She stood with her back to Irene. Without turning around, she said in flat voice, “When we . . . Micke broke up, he said I was a fat ugly cow.”

“Fat cow! You know that’s not true! That’s the kind of thing people say when they’re upset and angry,” Irene said.

Katarina turned around and looked straight at her.

“No. He was ice-cold. Not a damn bit upset.”

“That can also be a way of showing your anger.”

“He wasn’t angry! Just damned mean!”

Irene nodded and tried to calm the tone of the conversation. “Okay. He was mean. But why do you need to start dieting, and compete in—”

“Like I said, to show him that he’s wrong!”

“What do you prove by competing in this contest?”

“That I’m beautiful and not some stupid fat cow!”

“You don’t prove anything by competing. If you don’t get any farther, you’ll feel like a failure. But it would almost be worse if you won, because life as a beauty queen isn’t the kind of life you really want to live.”

“I want to—” Katarina started, but then stopped herself.

“No, you don’t. You’re good-looking enough, but you’re so much more than that. You’re athletic and active and do well in school. You have a lot of friends and hobbies and I don’t know what all. You’re more than enough as it is. You don’t need to prove a damn thing to yourself, or to anyone else.”