The Glass Devil (19 page)

“Did your parents know you were coming?”

“No. Short notice. I thought about surprising them. Idiot-proof . . . they never went anywhere. And just that day, they drove to see Pappa’s old school friend in Värmland. Went to a market, I think.”

“Did you tell them later that you had been in Kullahult?”

“Actually, I don’t think so. We just drove by.”

“Did you see Jacob?”

“No. He didn’t move down until August.”

“When did you and Christian go to Stockholm?”

“The end of July.”

“So Christian has never met your family?”

“No.”

“And he isn’t your boyfriend?”

Rebecka shook her head weakly in reply.

“Who were you going to visit in Stockholm?”

Rebecka turned her head away and didn’t answer for some time. Finally, she whispered, “Save the Children Sweden.”

Dr. Fischer hit the armrests on the chair firmly with the palms of his hands and said, “No. Now this is enough. Rebecka can’t handle any more.”

Irene saw that he was right. Rebecka lay in the armchair like a punctured balloon.

“Thank you, Rebecka, for helping me. I know how difficult this has been for you,” she started, but was interrupted by Rebecka mumbling something that sounded like “... no one can understand,” but Irene wasn’t completely sure.

Irene quickly took out her card and handed it to Glen.

“Glen, please write down the telephone number of the Thompson Hotel and your number in case she wants to reach me later in the day.”

Glen did as she asked. Irene held the card out to Rebecka.

“You can reach me at the numbers on the back of the card until five thirty tonight. Then I have to fly home. After that, you can reach me at the numbers on the front. And you can, of course, always reach me on my cell phone number. Don’t forget to dial the country code, plus forty-six, if you call my cell number.”

Rebecka nodded. She let the hand with the card sink into her lap without taking a look at it.

“I HAVE a meeting at three o’clock. How about going to eat lunch now?” Glen suggested.

Irene thought that sounded like a good idea. Breakfast had been on the meager side.

“I’ll pick you up at the hotel just after five thirty tonight. You can keep your room until then. Then you’ll have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat at the airport before the flight home. What do you want to do on your own this afternoon?” Glen asked when they were in the car again, weaving their way through the heavy traffic.

“Actually, no idea. What do you suggest?” Irene said.

“Do you like old buildings, or shopping, or what?”

“Shopping I did yesterday, and old buildings really aren’t my thing. Something fun that doesn’t cost a lot of money,” Irene concluded.

Glen thought about it for a little while. Then he brightened up. “I know! The Tate Modern. Then we can eat at a good restaurant nearby.”

They drove over the Thames and turned to the left at the bridge abutment. Glen found an empty parking space where he managed to insert the Rover by a feat of advanced parallel parking. They went into a three-story building which turned out to be one restaurant on three levels. The top floor was, for the most part, made up of a terrace. A large sign explained that one could rent the entire top floor for large parties. The wind and gray weather outside didn’t really inspire such use on that particular day. Irene preferred the delicious pub warmth of the bottom floor.

They found an empty table and hung their coats over the chair backs to show that they were taken. At all four corners of the table, a metal disc with an engraved number had been inserted. They had to go up to the bar to order, state their table number, and await table service. One didn’t walk back to the table empty-handed, though: Instead, one carried a glass of beer.

Irene had chosen lasagna; Glen, potato and tuna salads. The servings were extremely generous and the food very good. The stereotype that Englishmen couldn’t cook seemed mistaken to Irene. She had eaten well during her two days in this country. She actually hadn’t eaten typical English food, though, but Chinese, South American, and Italian, consumed in the company of a dark-skinned half Scottish/half Brazilian named Glen. Nothing during her trip had really been “typically English.” Maybe the beer would be.

“What impression did you get of Rebecka?” Glen asked.

“She’s really sick; it’s obvious. But I don’t know if she’s suffering from a normal depression or if she’s simply overcome with fear. It seemed to me as if terror has sapped her strength. She was completely exhausted.”

Glen nodded. “I, too, sensed that she felt anguished. But she actually spoke with you and answered your questions.”

“Yes, she answered the questions. Not that it added much to what we already knew. But I have the feeling that she still hasn’t told us everything. What is she afraid of? Who is she afraid of? Why won’t she talk?”

“A lot of questions without answers,” Glen said.

“I still don’t know if she fears for her own life. She denied that anyone in the family had been threatened. Yet three of them have been murdered.”

Glen looked at her thoughtfully. “Rebecka is a mystery. She fascinates me. She’s beautiful, intelligent, but so frightened and isolated. You must speak with her again; you should wait a while but then you must get her to talk. One problem is that she doesn’t want to hear about the funeral or that she should go to Sweden. It hasn’t even been possible to bring it up,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“The pastor from the Seaman’s Church who was with me when we first told her what had happened. He asked her to get in touch if she wanted help finding someone who could assist her, like a funeral director. I called him to find out if Rebecka had been in touch with him. She hasn’t. He was concerned, because there are certain practical arrangements to be made as to funerals and estates.”

“I can call him if you want. It might be a good idea to ask him to contact Dr. Fischer. He can raise the question with Rebecka when he sees that she feels a bit better and has the strength to discuss it.”

“That might be a good solution.”

Glen took out a notebook and flipped through it for a while before he found the number he was looking for. “Here! The Swedish Seaman’s Church, Assistant Rector Kjell Sjönell,” Glen read aloud.

Irene laughed when Glen tried to pronounce the Swedish
sj
sound. She wrote down Kjell Sjönell’s number and his office hours.

THEY WALKED along the Thames and talked about the dramatic occurrences of the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m going to write down your account of the attack. I’ll fax it to you so that you can read through it and sign it. I don’t know yet if you’ll need to come here again to testify at the trial against those villains, if they happen to recover enough for there to
be
a trial. I’ll find out,” Glen told her.

“Why do you think they chose me as a victim?” Irene asked.

“Well, they saw a woman leaving a restaurant alone, a restaurant that seemed to be quite lively. There was a good chance that she was intoxicated. A perfect robbery victim.”

Suddenly, Irene remembered the taxi she had seen just as she’d reached the street. She had left her jacket open because it had been warm inside the restaurant. Gravedigger and the Butcher would have seen the reflection of their headlights on her gold jewelry. Instinctively, she grabbed the golden pendant which was hanging around her neck.

After a walk of about a kilometer or so, Glen pointed at a large building that rose up a short distance from the Thames. “That’s the Tate Modern. It’s an old electrical station that was converted into a modern museum. The ceiling height in the old turbine hall is thirty-five meters. But it’s actually fun to walk and look around. Kate and I were there just a few weeks ago. There’s a lot to see. And it’s free.”

“How come it’s free?”

“Built with donations. From the Guggenheim Fund, I think.”

Irene had never heard of that fund, but there appeared to be a lot of money in it if it could finance the massive building that rose in front of them. Of course, the fund hadn’t built the building itself, but made sure it was renovated and filled with art.

IRENE SPENT several pleasant hours at the Tate Modern, among the works of some of the most famous modern artists. For the first time, Irene saw original paintings by Picasso, Monet, Dalí and van Gogh, Leger and Mondrian. She realized that most of the artists she’d thought of as “modern” weren’t actually very recent: Most of them had been productive at the end of the nineteenth century and then up to the middle of the twentieth century. Despite that, they were known as the groundbreakers of modern art. Irene felt the power in the images and understood that they were about what had been “New” around the turn of the twentieth century, which had transformed art forever.

Wandering among the artworks felt instructive, but was also tiring for the feet. She finally ended up in the overcrowded cafeteria at the top of the building, on the seventh floor. She managed to find an empty barstool and order a beer. Sitting and looking at a mixture of people from all corners of the world was intriguing. If she grew tired of them, she could gaze out over London’s rooftops and at the boats below on the Thames. Time flew by until she had to head toward the hotel and the airport.

GLEN DROVE her to Heathrow. Before they parted, Irene said, “I reached the pastor, Kjell Sjönell. He promised to get in touch with Dr. Fischer and then to contact me. We’ll have to see if Rebecka recovers sufficiently to be able to come home to Sweden. Otherwise, I might have to return here once more.”

Glen smiled. “It would be very nice if you could visit us again. But, of course, I hope Rebecka gets better. I’ve been thinking about her and her mystery. I think she holds the key to the truth. Whether she knows it or not.”

Irene nodded. “That’s exactly what I think as well.”

Chapter 14

IRENE STORMED INTO HANNU Rauhala’s office with Sunday’s edition of
GT
in front of her.

“Hannu! Explain!”

He looked at the black headlines on the front page:
“Church accountant who was questioned in SATANIC MURDERS is suspected of EMBEZZLEMENT!”

“Can’t. I only saw it yesterday too.”

Irene was so upset that her voice shook. “How could you talk to Kurt Höök about this?” Höök was
GT
’s famous crime reporter, and he had his sources. If you had a tip about a criminal activity, Höök was the person you called.

“I haven’t.” Hannu leaned back in his chair and looked her straight in the eye. Irene knew he wasn’t lying. Even if he might need money for the new house and the baby, he would never do something like that.

She threw the paper on Hannu’s desk and sat in the visitor’s chair.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you had. But who else could it have been? Only you and I and Sven knew about these rumors. I’ve been in London. And Sven would never speak with Kurt Höök. They detest one another. By the way, did you find anything that might point to there being some truth behind the accusations?”

“Nothing. The auditor showed me everything, going back ten years. There have never been any suspicions of embezzlement.”

“But this is still a catastrophe for Louise and Bengt Måårdh! It’s going to take a long time before they’re cleared.”

“Who has something to gain if these rumors come out?”

Irene wrinkled her brow. “Urban Berg.”

Hannu nodded.

Irene went into her office and did some serious thinking. She made her decision and placed a phone call. Later on in the day, she would make another, but it was still too early.

LOUISE MÅÅRDH bore obvious traces of the happenings of the last day. Her hair wasn’t combed, and her only attempt at makeup was sloppily swiped-on red lipstick, which clashed with her rust-colored sweater. She was wearing a light green T-shirt with a damp coffee stain on the front. Her dark-blue jeans were wrinkled and her feet were covered only by slippers which were worn at the heel. With a tired gesture, she motioned for Irene to come in.

The Måårdhs didn’t live in a rectory, but in a relatively new house outside Ledkulla. The house was decorated in pastels, which worked well with the modern furniture in light-colored birch. Bookshelves, filled with volumes, towered along the walls. The house had a soothing but sophisticated atmosphere. Even to Irene’s untrained eye, the rugs and art appeared to be of exceptional quality. She understood why suspicions and jealousy had grown over the years. “How can they afford it? It can never add up.” “She manages large sums of money. Think how easy it would be to let a thousand disappear from time to time.”

Louise led Irene into the light, airy living room. “Please, sit down,” she said dully.

Irene sat in a graceful armchair that was covered in light-gray suede. It was really comfortable. Louise sank down heavily onto the gray leather couch across from her. Irene felt uneasy and started, rambling, “I understand that this is terrible. We’re doing everything we can to try to find out what might have happened. It was one lead among many others we were looking into. Just routine. . . . How
GT
got ahold of it, we don’t know.”

“I can’t go to work. We’ve been hung out to dry in the press and already judged and found guilty. It doesn’t matter if I’m cleared eventually. People will always whisper ‘No smoke without fire’ and the like. Anonymous calls have already begun. I don’t even dare to go out and get the mail.”

“Has the press called?”

As if in reply, the sound of a ringing telephone cut through the room. After two rings, it fell silent. Someone at the other end of the house answered. Bengt must be home, thought Irene.

“They call all the time. It’s not that difficult to figure out which church accountant has been involved in the investigation of the Satanic Murders. There’s just one. Me.”

Her voice was still creepily toneless. But she couldn’t maintain her self-control any longer. Heavy sobs were wrenched from her and tears ran down her cheeks. Irene managed to find a clean tissue in one jacket pocket; she held it out to Louise, who took it.

Irene’s sympathy for Louise was mixed with growing anger. False rumors are evil, unpleasant, cruel . . . and impossible to defend oneself against. Resolutely, she moved next to Louise on the sofa. Anger toward the person who had caused all this unnecessary pain made her voice sound cold.

“Listen and I’ll tell you what happened. Urban Berg came to see me at the police station and told me that Sten Schyttelius suspected you of embezzling money from the parish. Because this is a major homicide investigation, naturally we have to follow every lead we get. The risk of someone’s being revealed as an embezzler would theoretically be a motive for murder—”

Irene didn’t get any farther. Louise jumped up, her apathy and tears replaced by anger.

“Urban Berg! That drunken, hypocritical fool! I’m going to kill him!”

It probably wasn’t the wisest choice of words under the circumstances, but Irene understood. However, Bengt Måårdh looked startled when he stopped, hesitantly, on the threshold to the living room.

“But sweetheart, who is it who’s . . .” he said awkwardly. His brown eyes behind his glasses were helplessly confused.

“Urban Berg! That damned Urban! He’s the one who’s behind the whole thing!”

It took them almost ten minutes, using all their powers of persuasion, to calm Louise sufficiently so that Irene could explain.

“Listen, Louise. This is what I think we should do,” Irene said at last.

THE FIRST thing Irene did when she entered her office was to call him. She had his direct number.

“Höök!” he answered briskly.

“Irene Huss here.”

“Well, hello!”

He sounded sincerely happy and Irene felt a stab of guilt for what she was about to do. But for Louise and Bengt’s sake, she had to pull herself together. None of this how’s-it-going-let’s-go-have-a-beer nonsense! Though it was usually fun to do that with Kurt. That would have to come later. First, he needed to make things right.

“Hello to you. I’m calling because you’re going to do an interview.”

A brief, surprised silence ensued. “I am? An interview with who?” he asked.

“Me.”

The next pause was considerably longer. It was obvious that he was on the defensive. “Really? About what?”

“You’re risking a prosecution for slander! And you’ll lose.”

“Wait a second, sweetheart. . . .”

“I’m not your sweetheart! You didn’t check your source, and it has had disastrous consequences for the persons identified. Your information is based on pure lies and spite. Louise Måårdh has never been suspected of embezzlement or been the subject of a police investigation.”

“But I called and checked with the auditor. He wasn’t there, but . . . a person close to him confirmed that the police had been there and checked the accounts.”

“That’s correct. We checked out the tip. But we didn’t find any irregularities whatsoever. Neither the auditor nor anyone else has any suspicions either. There’s no official police report or even a decision to investigate, so there’s no reason for prosecution. No one has ever put forth any valid suspicions about Louise Måårdh, just malicious slander and nothing else!”

Höök was silent. Irene continued, and in a pedagogical tone. “Assistant Rector Urban Berg tricked you, and me too. He came here and told me that Sten Schyttelius suspected that Louise Måårdh had embezzled money. No one else has ever heard anything like that and, as is commonly known, Sten Schyttelius is dead. Urban Berg probably thought it was safe to claim that a dead man had uttered suspicions about financial swindles. He lied to my face.”

“But why? Who could conceive of a pastor who lies?”

“In order to get rid of his toughest competitor for the rector’s position. Berg has two convictions for drunk driving. The only thing Bengt Måårdh has is a reputation as a ladies’ man—and actually, now that I think of it, that charge also came from Berg. Even if it is finally established that the accusations against Louise are unfounded, the decision about the new rector will have been made: Urban Berg would have become the rector of Kullahult. We’ve been joking during the investigation and saying that the pastors in this case are ‘petty gossiping pigs,’ but Urban Berg is something else. He’s a liar and a schemer.”

Kurt sighed. “And what do you think we should do about it?”

“Expose Urban Berg. We’re going to tell the public just what happened. I’m going to pull out the old drunk-driving convictions. I’m going to recount exactly what he said when he came to see me last week. Of course, we’re going to make it very clear that Louise Måårdh is innocent. You’re going to write the whole truth.”

“Is there any foundation to the charge that Mr. and Mrs. Måårdh spent a suspicious amount of money in the last few years?”

Irene smiled as she replied. “Bengt told me that he and his brother inherited a large sum of money from a childless uncle a few years ago. Neither Louise nor Bengt told anyone else about this inheritance, so that there
wouldn’t
be a lot of gossip.”

“And I’ll write that as well,” Kurt determined.

“Of course.”

“Poor Urban Berg. And poor me.”

“No one feels sorry for either of you. The least you can do is try to make things right. Innocent people have been hurt. Remember, there must be bold headlines on the front page!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it.”

“WELL. TWO days in London at our expense, and the only thing you come home with is a bandage on your forehead.”

Superintendent Andersson drummed his fingers on his desktop. Irene had just finished her account of her trip to London. They were reviewing the case in the afternoon, since morning prayers had been cut short because the superintendent had had to go to a superintendents’ meeting. With good reason, it could be assumed that this was one cause of his bad mood.

Another was that Jonny Blom had called in sick again. Since the unit was understaffed, if a single person was missing it was immediately felt. The ones who remained nearly collapsed under the requirements of the job. Work accumulated on their desks. Prioritizing was tough. It wasn’t easy explaining to the little old lady who had been threatened with a knife and robbed of a hundred and forty-three SEK, when she called for the seventh time in three days, that this investigation didn’t have the highest priority. For her, what had happened was a nightmare. For the police, it was yet another piece of paper on their desks. Maybe they would catch the culprit if there were further similar attacks in the area. If they were lucky, they might get a good description. If not, that report would just sink farther down under the pile of new cases.

“I actually think it provided us with a lot of new information. For example, I learned that Rebecka brought Christian Lefévre to Sweden last summer. They drove to Kullahult but never met her parents or brother. They drove up to Stockholm to discuss a job for Save the Children. Then they flew straight home to London again from Stockholm, without getting in touch with her parents,” said Irene.

“She never told her parents that they had been by the rectory?” Fredrik asked.

“I asked, and she said no.”

“What did they do for Save the Children?” Hannu wondered.

“No idea. That was the last question I was able to ask before she collapsed. Maybe we should contact Save the Children in Stockholm?”

“What the hell? They can’t have anything to do with the murders!” the superintendent exclaimed.

It really wasn’t one of his better days. Irene was overcome by a strong desire to send him over to Donna Thompson. Partly to get rid of him for a while, and partly because it probably would do him some good. But Donna would be disappointed. A pale and chubby bald superintendent with high blood pressure wasn’t what she had wished for. It was probably better for all involved if Andersson remained at the station in Göteborg.

“I know that it may be a dead end. But we don’t have any other leads, except for the computers, in this investigation. The only thing we know is that the computer screens were marked with bloody pentagrams. And that all the information on the hard drives was erased. Sten Schyttelius used computers. Jacob Schyttelius used computers. Rebecka works with computers at the highest level, as does Lefévre. The only one who didn’t have anything to do with computers was Elsa Schyttelius.”

“Where are the removable disks?” Hannu interjected.

“We haven’t found a single one,” Fredrik said.

“Exactly. There should be loads of them. Not least for backups,” Irene agreed.

“What exactly do Rebecka and that guy do?” Fredrik asked.

“Lefévre was communicative when I asked about their work. Apparently, most of it has to do with Internet security questions. How to stop sabotage and things like that.”

“What does that have to do with the murders?” the superintendent wanted to know.

“Perhaps nothing at all. But maybe it has to do with other things. When it comes to the Satanic lead, we’ve hit a dead end and can’t get any farther. What if Sten Schyttelius came across something completely different when he was searching for the Satanists? Something that was threatening enough to one or several people that they decided to kill him? That would explain why Elsa and Jacob were also killed. The murderer didn’t want to risk that Sten Schyttelius might have told the people closest to him about what he had found.”

It became quiet in the room. Eventually, Hannu said, “Then Rebecka is still in danger.”

“I’m afraid so. The murderer can’t know if Sten or Jacob had time to reveal anything to her. She seemed to feel a great deal of anguish
and
she was very frightened.”

“But why can’t the chick spit out what she knows?” Fredrik asked.

“Rebecka is a private person. Maybe she has no idea what it’s all about. Maybe she has a faint idea but doesn’t want to admit it to herself, suppressing everything that’s threatening. Maybe she’s in denial. I don’t know.”