The Glass Devil (12 page)

“Who said you’re a fat cow?” came a man’s voice.

Krister stood in the doorway in the white terry-cloth robe Irene had given him as a Christmas present. Neither Irene nor Katarina had heard him come down the stairs. His rusty-red hair was sticking out in all directions. Apparently he had dried it with a towel but not taken the time to comb it.

Irene made a frustrated gesture. “Micke. And that’s why she’s competing in the beauty contest.”

Krister nodded. He stroked Katarina’s cheek and said, “You are letting yourself be manipulated. We men can be real jerks, and we know exactly what hurts the most. Our society is completely obsessed with appearance, and there’s no better way to break a woman than to say that she’s ugly.”

“How do you break a guy, then?” Katarina asked, gruffly.

“Say with a voice as sweet as honey,” Irene volunteered before her husband had a chance to reply, “that he has the world’s cutest tiny little dick. And the fact that he’s a terrible lover is something he can probably fix, if only he’s willing to get help. And then you finish with a beaming smile and add that there’s always Viagra.”

Both Krister and Katarina started laughing, and Irene’s mood improved.

Krister walked over to the stove and poured boiling water through the tea strainer. The coffee had already finished percolating. He opened the refrigerator.

“Anyone else want an egg?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he put four eggs in a pot, filled it with water, and turned on the burner. Then he said to Katarina, “For once, I think you really should listen to your mother. As I said, men can be real jerks; but as you just saw, women can be, too. It usually evens out in the end.”

Katarina opened her mouth to reply, but quickly closed it. She scrutinized her parents, and then said, “Okay. Can we eat breakfast without discussing this any more?”

Her parents nodded and exchanged a look of agreement.

IRENE PHONED Rebecka Schyttelius after they had finished their weekly marketing at Frölunda Torg. The phone rang several times, and she was about to hang up when a man’s voice answered, in English. “Yes?”

Irene was nervous about having to speak English over the phone. Hesitantly, she said, in her stilted English, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Rebecka Schyttelius, but maybe I have the wrong number?”

The man laughed softly. “Not at all. This is Rebecka’s number, but she’s not home right now. Who am I speaking with?”

At first Irene couldn’t remember what her title was in English. When she had finally managed to introduce herself, there was another moment of silence on the line before the man replied, “I understand. Another police officer from Göteborg called for her a few days ago.... She’s been taken to the hospital again. The shock she received was terrible, and it’s only been a short while since she found out ... the horrific news. But I’ve spoken with her doctor, and he says that she might be allowed to come home on Monday.”

Irene thought for a moment before she asked, “May I ask who you are?”

“Christian Lefévre. Rebecka works for my company.”

“The computer company?”

“Yes.”

And what are you doing in Rebecka’s apartment? Irene was about to ask, but she refrained. Maybe it would be best to ask Rebecka first. She also noted the man’s French name, but it seemed to her that he spoke English without an accent.

“Could you tell Rebecka that I called?”

“Of course.”

Irene gave him her numbers: work, home, and cell. Then she hung up.

THEY HAD purchased a lot of good food and were preparing for a cozy evening. Krister was actually scheduled to work this weekend; but his colleague, Lenny, needed the following weekend off, so they had traded.

Jenny had disappeared early that afternoon to rehearse with her band. Before the front door closed behind her, she had informed them that she was staying at Martin’s.

“Who’s Martin?” Irene had called after her but only got the echo of her own question in reply.

Katarina shrugged when she was asked that question a little while later.

“Don’t know. They’ve been seeing each other for a while. I think he’s a musician.”

It was a guess that Irene could have made herself.

Irene dialed Jenny’s cell number and demanded to be told Martin’s full name, address, and telephone number. It was a condition for spending the night somewhere. The alternative was to be collected by the police; in plain words, by a detective inspector: in even plainer words, Mom. Irene reacted when she heard the address. Apartments in that neighborhood were not cheap. It seemed Martin was a boy with rich parents.

Katarina left for a classmate’s who was having a party. Aside from the clattering of the pots and pans and other kitchen utensils that the master chef used when he created, the peace of the weekend fell over the family home. Irene took Sammie out on an evening walk so she wouldn’t be in the way. When she returned, she would set the table. Maybe Krister would, mercifully, let her fix the salad. She didn’t complain about this arrangement, since she was a terrible cook. Before she met Krister, she had never learned how and after they had moved in together, she had never needed to.

It was almost eight o’clock and her hunger was sharp. In her imagination, she could already see the scrumptious dishes Krister was preparing. Since they had been together when he had bought the ingredients, she knew what was on the menu. The appetizer was going to be baked goat cheese encrusted in honey, served on a bed of basil on a slice of bread. The main course was grilled cod, vegetables in wine sauce stir-fried in a wok, and home-fried potatoes. The dessert was Irene’s favorite: chocolate mousse. Not exactly food for weight-watchers, but incredibly good. The wine was from South Africa and was called, oddly enough, Something Else. Intriguing, because they hadn’t had it before.

Reluctantly, she peered in through the Bernhögs’ kitchen window when she passed by. Mr. and Mrs. Bernhög were sitting at their kitchen table, with the lamp over the table lit. No candlelight dinner in there, Irene thought. The next second, she saw Margit Bernhög take a handkerchief and dry her eyes. Her husband didn’t look at her. He raised his spoon mechanically, up and down. An open can of Bong’s meat soup stood on the kitchen counter behind them.

All her joy and anticipation left her. The Bernhögs were so sad over Felix’s death that they didn’t even have the energy to cook dinner on Saturday night. Because Sammie was strutting around, carefree, on his end of the leash, she, on the other end, was the one who had to bear the feelings of guilt.

She decided not to say anything to Krister, in order not to disrupt the mood at their dinner table. Naturally, though, he immediately noticed that something was bothering her; and before they had finished the appetizer, she told him what she had seen through the Bernhögs’ window.

“They are really grieving for their cat,” she finished.

Krister nodded. “Seems so. We’ll just have to get them a new one.”

Irene felt a little twinge of hope. “Do you know anyone who has a cat they want to get rid of? Or kittens?”

“No. But we’ll have to explore the options. Maybe someone at work knows some cat people.”

Irene’s mood began to improve. They would get a new cat for the Bernhögs!

“Sweetheart,” Krister said, “this wine is far too light and dry. Shall I go to the wine cellar and get a Drosty-Hof instead?”

Irene thought the wine they had had was good, but Krister was the expert; if he said they should drink the other wine, then it would probably be better.

Krister went to the laundry room and opened the top cabinet of the closet next to the drying cabinet. An almost-empty bottle of Famous Grouse was there, along with two bottles of Drosty-Hof white wine and a small Bristol cream purchased on their last short vacation to Skagen because the blue bottle looked so nice.

DURING JU-JITSU training on Sunday, Irene gave it everything she had. She felt her heart pounding, and a great feeling of well-being streamed through her whole body. She rarely had the chance to attend more than one training session a week these days, and it was far too little.

The female officers she taught were getting to be really good. They would be tested next month. The two beginners were going for orange belts, four would be promoted to green, and three to blue. Irene felt satisfied. But they needed to schedule some extra sessions, which wasn’t easy. Most of them already worked out at least once a week with their male colleagues, but they needed to do some intensive training before being promoted. And in the midst of all this, Irene was going to England. A maximum of two days in London was all she could afford, she decided.

WHEN IRENE left the dojo, she drove down Guldheden to pick up her mother, Gerd. Krister thought it was just as well to invite his mother-in-law over for Sunday dinner this weekend, since he was going to be working the next three weekends in a row. It matched Gerd’s desires perfectly. Her significant other, Sture, was in Denmark with his poker group.

“I was actually at Pappa’s grave yesterday,” she announced when they drove past Sahlgren Hospital. Irene’s father had died there at The Jubileum Clinic almost ten years ago. The cancer had moved quickly, and he died after only two weeks in the hospital.

“I want to be buried with him and I also want to be cremated,” Gerd continued.

Irene cast a glance at her. She asked uncertainly, “Why are you talking about this now? Are you feeling sick?”

“Not at all. My health is superb. I just wanted you to know in case it goes quickly. At my age, it can strike like lightning. You know Stina and Bertil Karlsson in the building next door. . . .”

Irene nodded. She had been friends with their youngest daughter.

“He died on Friday. Heart attack. On the spot! And he’s three years younger than me.”

So that’s why Mamma Gerd was bringing this up. And if Irene thought that what she had heard so far was enough, she was wrong, as Gerd continued, “And I want them to sing ‘Day by Day’ and ‘The Beggar from Luossa.’”

“‘The Beggar from Luossa.’ But that’s not a hymn!”

“No. But it’s my favorite song, and it’s the one I want. And it would be great if someone could play the trumpet. That part that Arne Lambert usually plays. You know the one. ‘. . . home to Ukraine’s dark blue sky where the scent of. ...’”

When her mother sang the short verse, Irene recognized it.

“Doesn’t it go something like ‘...
hm-hm the little bell rings’
?”

“No idea. But I want that one.”

Irene nodded in response. She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. Even if she didn’t have time to visit her mother very often, they both knew that they meant a lot to each other. Her mother had helped out when the twins were small and Irene was working. There weren’t any part-time jobs for crime inspectors. And if Krister hadn’t reduced his hours to part-time and Mamma Gerd hadn’t helped out after preschool, Irene would never have been able to become an inspector.

BOTH KATARINA and Jenny were home. They were both very fond of their grandmother. Maybe it was because they rarely saw Krister’s parents, who lived so far away in Säffle. That and the fact that their paternal grandparents were over eighty, and had five children and eleven grandchildren. Gerd only had Jenny and Katarina, because Irene was an only child.

Krister had fixed a spring-theme dinner. The meal started with steamed fresh asparagus served with whipped butter. For the main course, he’d prepared pan-fried chicken with a rosemary sauce, and duchess potatoes. Jenny ate fried mushrooms instead of the chicken. Jenny had made the dessert, a gooey chocolate cake with whipped cream. It was something of a specialty for her, even though she didn’t eat whipped cream. (Of course the butter in the recipe had been replaced with vegetable margarine.) Jenny had inherited some of Krister’s interest in cooking. Katarina was like her mother: You ate to survive. If it tasted good, that was wonderful; otherwise it would just have to do, as long as you didn’t have to fix it yourself.

A little while after dinner, the phone rang. Jenny was the closest and answered. She gave the cordless phone to Irene, whispering, “It’s a guy who speaks English. He wants to talk to you.”

“If he speaks English, then you don’t need to whisper. He won’t understand anyway,” Katarina remarked.

Irene took the receiver and went into the hall to escape the twins’ fussing.

“Irene Huss here.”

“This is Christian Lefévre. We spoke earlier today.”

“I remember.”

“Rebecka asked me to call. She doesn’t feel well and hasn’t the strength to talk about . . . what has happened.”

“She won’t speak with me at all?”

“No.”

Irene thought feverishly. Finally, she said, firmly, “She has to. We think she can help us with our investigation.”

“She says that she doesn’t know anything.”

“She probably does. Maybe it doesn’t seem important to her, but we’ve gotten a lot of information and we know that she can help us,” Irene said, trying to sound more certain than she felt.

Christian Lefévre asked, “What have you found out that makes you think Rebecka knows something?”

The question surprised her, but she pulled herself together quickly. “I can’t tell you that.”

It was quiet on the other end of the phone. Then Lefévre cleared his throat. “Her doctor says that she needs to rest. She mustn’t get more upset. I didn’t know her family, but I know Rebecka and I care about her a great deal.”

“Is that why you were in her apartment?”

“Her apartment? It’s just as much mine.”

“So you live together?”

“No. But almost,” he answered shortly.

It was a strange answer. In Irene’s opinion, either you live together or you don’t. In a tone just as curt as his, she said, “You can tell Rebecka that I’m coming in a few days. I’ll be in touch with her and Inspector Thompson before I arrive.”

He hung up on her.

Chapter 10

“LET’S START WITH JACOB Schyttelius. Thirty-one years old. Found in a cottage, shot: one round to the chest and one through the head. No weapon was found near the body, but the technical investigation of the bullets shows that he was shot with the same weapon as his parents. The first bullet’s point of entry was a few centimeters above the heart, at an angle toward the breastbone. The bullet tore the aorta and became lodged in the spine. No carbon or gunpowder residue was found around the point of entry. The other shot went through the head. The point of entry was between the eyes, just above the bridge of the nose. The remaining portions of the face were covered with large quantities of carbon and gunpowder residue. The whole back of the head was blown away.”

That’s where Superintendent Andersson stopped his reading of the preliminary autopsy report, which he had received that morning. He peered over the edge of his cheap reading glasses. “There’s a lot of stuff here about which parts of the brain were damaged, but I’ll skip that. The end result is that the brain was destroyed.”

He cleared his throat and continued reading aloud. “The bullet was retrieved from the floor. Each of the gunshot wounds would have been fatal. The victim would have become unconscious and died immediately. At the time of examination, rigor mortis was fully developed. Body temperature indicated that Schyttelius had been dead for about sixteen hours, which means he died around eleven o’clock on Monday night, with a window of an hour before and an hour after.”

The superintendent looked up from the paper again.

“We know that he worked out at the gym until ten thirty. Then it took a little time for him to take a sauna and shower. We don’t know exactly when he left the gym. The murder most likely occurred between eleven and twelve. We can’t get closer than that yet.”

He looked down at the paper to find his place.

“The toxicology tests were negative. The absence of a weapon, the appearance of the crime scene, and the victim’s injuries make it clear that Jacob Schyttelius was murdered.”

Andersson put the paper on the table in front of him and looked at his inspectors gathered there on this Monday morning. Everyone in the division was present except for Jonny, who had called in sick during the morning.

“Any comments?”

“The murderer was cold-blooded. Despite the fact that the shot to the heart hit home, the perpetrator walked up and fired a shot through the head, which would without a doubt be fatal, while the victim was lying on the floor. An unnecessary assault,” said Tommy.

The others nodded in agreement. The superintendent also nodded before he read the two other reports.

“Sten Schyttelius. Sixty-four years old. Found dead in his bed. Shot in the head with one round. The point of entry was calculated as being just above the bridge of the nose. The remainder of the face was heavily covered with carbon and gunpowder residue. The weapon was fired from a distance of just a few centimeters. The bullet was retrieved from the floor under the bed.”

Andersson looked up again.

“The head injuries of all three victims were the same, so I’ll continue reading. Death was most likely instantaneous. Rigor mortis and their body temperature pinpoints the time of death at some eighteen hours before the victims were found, about one o’clock on Tuesday morning. The toxicology tests show that Sten Schyttelius had been drinking alcohol. His blood alcohol level was one point one. Elsa had high levels of nitrazepam and citalopram in her system, and the pathologist writes in parentheses that these are sleeping pills and anti-depressants. In Sten’s case, the bullet’s trajectory was slightly to the left. Elsa’s bullet veered more strongly to the left. Based on this, the pathologist determines that the murderer stood next to Sten Schyttelius’s side of the bed during both shots and that he’s right-handed. Comments?”

It was quiet for a few seconds before Irene asked permission to speak.

“The murderer sneaked into the bedroom after Sten Schyttelius fell asleep. He was probably sleeping quite heavily, based on his blood alcohol level. Elsa was also probably already asleep, because she was filled with sleeping pills. That’s why he shot Sten, then Elsa. What strikes me is that Elsa was also shot from a distance of only a few centimeters. He must have placed one knee on the bed and leaned over Sten in order to get so close to Elsa.

“Two shots hit Jacob, and one definitely fatal shot each for Sten and Elsa. Perhaps he didn’t want to fire more often so as not to risk being heard. One or two shots may pass as a backfire, but three or four will arouse suspicions,” Irene continued.

“The fact is that no one heard any shots at all. It was after midnight when they were shot,” Fredrik pointed out. “The rectory is in a remote location. The neighbors who might have heard something were probably in bed asleep.”

“We also have no reports of suspicious cars near the rectory. In such a small place as Kullahult, people should have noticed if an unfamiliar car showed up during the evening or night,” the superintendent said gruffly.

“But we have the car in the woods near Norssjön. And the technicians have confirmed that the woolen threads we found come from the same piece of clothing. Of course, we don’t know for sure that the clothing belongs to the murderer, but in any case someone walked between the clearing and the beach below the cottage,” said Irene.

Suddenly Andersson left the room. The others looked at each other in surprise. Since the door was open, they could hear him rummaging around in his office, mumbling, most likely swearing. He came back after about a minute, red in the face but with a triumphant smile. In one hand, he held a set of maps of Göteborg and surrounding areas.

“I found it. It’s more detailed than the road map,” he said while he was flipping through the pages to find the ones covering Kullahult and Norssjön.

“I thought about Fredrik and Irene’s walk from the position of the car in the woods to Schyttelius’s cottage, and then something struck me. If you drive on the roads, then it’s at least six kilometers between the cottage and the rectory. Let me check. . . .”

With a lot of puffing and mumbling, Andersson measured the distance on the map and tried to transform the map’s scale into kilometers.

“Twelve kilometers, round trip. Plus two hundred additional meters to the suspicious car in the woods,” he determined finally.

He tore out the page for the Norssjön area and placed it next to the map of Kullahult. He placed his fat index finger where the cottage was located and said, “But if the murderer went to Norssjön and then
walked
straight through the woods, the distance would be considerably shorter. Let’s see. . . .”

New grunting and measurements revealed that it was four and a half kilometers between the crime scenes, if one took the path through the woods.

“Add two hundred meters to reach the car. A total of nine point two kilometers back and forth. It’s not impossible to walk it,” said the superintendent.

“But terribly difficult! We were pretty tired after trudging those two hundred meters through the woods,” Irene objected.

“But we had on the wrong kind of shoes,” Fredrik said. “If this guy is used to being in the woods and had the right gear, then it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“But it must have been pitch-black in the woods if the murderer set out right after killing Jacob. He’d have to be careful not to break his ankle or get lost. But he might have felt safe if he used a flashlight,” Tommy added thoughtfully.

“The murderer seems to be very much at home. He knew where the keys were to the front doors and to the computer room at the rectory, and where the gun cabinet was. He knew of the small hiding place behind the panel in the cottage. And maybe he went through the woods between the cottage and the rectory. What strikes me is the degree of his local knowledge,” Irene concluded.

Fredrik glanced at Irene. “We never continued farther than the cottage. Maybe there’s a path or a trail there that we missed. Maybe we should go out and look again . . . ?”

“You can go out in the woods and look around,” Irene said. “I’m going to see Eva Möller.”

She really didn’t want to have him accompany her. At the same time, she wondered if she was crazy to take an airhead like Eva seriously. But she couldn’t get the cantor’s last words out of her head: “Together we can find out Sten’s hidden secrets. . . .”

Irene called Eva Möller, and they arranged to meet at Eva’s place after two o’clock. That gave Irene a few hours to spend on the files and to write her report. As luck would have it, Tommy came storming in and insisted that she listen to the latest news about the Speedy murder.

“Everything changed when I had the idea of talking to Asko Pihlainen’s neighbor across the street, an eighty-year-old woman named Gertrud Ritzman. She has serious heart problems and doesn’t have much time left, she says. But her mind is clear as a bell. She was the one who came up with the idea that we should film her testimony, in case she gets worse or dies before the trial.

“When I asked her about the morning in question, when Asko and his neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Wisköö, claim they were playing cards, she said right away that it wasn’t true. She doesn’t sleep well and often gets up during the night. She remembered this particular morning really well. At about five thirty in the morning, Wisköö’s car pulled up outside Pihlainen’s shack, and Asko jumped out almost before the car stopped. He rushed into his place as Paul Wisköö drove the car into his carport. Neither Asko nor Paul Wisköö were playing cards with their wives at around five a.m.

“I did some research on Paul Wisköö, by the way, and, as you’ve probably already guessed, it’s a fake name. Guess what good old Neighbor Paul’s real name is?”

“No idea.”

“Paul Larson, alias Pepsi!”

Irene thought she recognized the name, but it took a few seconds before she was sure. She exclaimed, “Clark Bertilsson’s old buddy! Well, I’ll be damned. His resumé must be as long as the road between Kungsbacka and here. If he’s involved, then it’s definitely about narcotics. Lots of drugs.”

“Bingo. He’s served time for narcotics violations and bank robbery at various times. And a few years ago, Asko and Pepsi were in the same jail. They hit it off and became friends. They even live next door to each other.”

“And they have quite a bit of money. They live in huge new houses near the ocean outside Kungsbacka. Officially, what do they do?”

“Cars. They work at a company which only sells luxury cars, both new and used.”

“Is there a lot of money to be made from used luxury cars?”

“Let’s put it this way: Rather a used Porsche than no Porsche at all.”

“Good point. So, is there suspicion that their income is too big for the car business?”

“Yep. And both Pepsi and Asko have served time for narcotics violations and assault. My thinking is that these guys took a contract on Speedy. Rumor has it that Speedy embezzled money from his distributors. Because Speedy was a big dealer, it must have been a lot of money. The boss decided to get rid of Speedy, to make an example.”

“Do you have any idea who the head guy is?”

“Not a clue. The idea is that we begin by investigating Pepsi and Asko. It will be a difficult job to map out the circles these guys move in, but we’ll run this investigation together with Narcotics. They’ve been doing surveillance on the importing of luxury cars to Sweden. There is clear suspicion that the drugs are being smuggled in via the cars. Welded into beams and the like.”

“Have they found anything?”

“A Jag which seems to have no owner. It’s registered in a fake name and still parked in the garage. Of course, no one is stupid enough to inquire about a car that held five kilos of heroin and twice as much cocaine.”

“You’ll be very busy now,” she realized.

“Yup. You’ll have to go to London by yourself. But you have to promise not to do any investigating on your own. We haven’t really recovered from your last trip abroad.”

It was meant as a joke and Tommy smiled, but for the life of her Irene couldn’t join him. The events in Copenhagen more than year ago were still far too traumatic.

IRENE TOOK several wrong turns, even though it had only been a few days since she and Fredrik had located Eva Möller’s isolated cottage. It wasn’t until she saw the ruined split oak that she was certain she was on the right road. The sun had hidden itself behind a thick layer of clouds during her entire trip from Göteborg, but it broke through just as she pulled up next to Eva Möller’s red car and turned off the engine. It warmed and illuminated the property, and Irene had an easier time understanding why someone would want to live like the cantor. The view took her breath away just as it had the first time. Everyone who visited Eva must do the same thing: stop to admire the fantastic view.

When Irene turned her gaze from the valley and the distant blue sky, she saw Eva standing in the doorway. She waved in welcome, and Irene walked over to her.

“I’m so happy that you wanted to visit! Come in,” Eva said, and she sounded as if she meant it.

Irene stepped into the cozy kitchen and began to unbutton her coat, but Eva said, “Keep your coat on. We’ll go outside, since it’s so warm and comfortable near the house. You can help me carry things.” Without waiting for an answer, she gave Irene the iron pot and the glass staff from the shelf above the stove. She herself took a wooden box whose contents Irene couldn’t see, since it was covered with a blue cloth. Irene, puzzled, followed in her wake. What had she gotten herself into? Now it was too late to back out.

Eva walked up to the western wall of the house, where the sun was broiling hot. She set the box down and spread a well-ironed blue cloth over the table. She pointed at two white plastic chairs, one on either side of the table.

“Let’s sit and talk first. Put the things down in the meantime.” Irene did as she was told and sat on one of the cushionless chairs, which felt cold even through her jeans. Eva gracefully sank into the other chair. The dark-blue dress she was wearing was much more dramatic than the ethereal light-blue one she had worn on Irene’s first visit. It had long slits in the straight sleeves, and the dress itself was of a narrower cut. The V-neck was deep and revealed her cleavage, where a small silver bell hung. Over the dress, Eva wore a vest made of thin black yarn. It was ankle-length, made of extremely small crocheted stars sewn together.