The Glass Devil (2 page)

Chapter 2

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, IRENE and Superintendent Andersson told the remaining inspectors in the unit about the murder in the cottage. Irene began. “The body we found was that of Jacob Schyttelius. We’ve not succeeded in reaching his parents for a positive identification, but his boss gave us a description which matches the victim’s exactly. He was thirty-one years old. Sven and I found him at twelve thirty, shot, in a summer cottage. We found the key to the front door under a large plant on the steps and unlocked the door. The body was lying in the hall and didn’t didn’t appear to have been moved after the murder. A gunshot wound to the chest near his heart had been inflicted by a large-caliber weapon, and the head was partially blown away. We didn’t find a weapon. We made a quick survey of the area while we were waiting for the technicians. The house has two small bedrooms, and apparently he used one of them as an office. He’d squeezed a desk into it, and there was a computer on top of the desk. Someone had drawn a symbol on the monitor, probably in blood.”

“What kind of symbol?” Fredrik Stridh interrupted to ask.

“A star inside a circle. Svante says that it might be a magical sign, the kind that witches and Satanists use during their rituals. He has come across similar ones in past investigations of church fires and the like. The technicians are still working out there.”

“Satanists! What a bunch of shit!” Jonny Blom snorted.

Irene shrugged and nodded at Hannu Rauhala, who had raised his hand.

“Why was the victim living in a summer cottage?” he asked.

“According to the principal of the school where he worked, he had recently been divorced and moved back to Göteborg after spending a few years up north. It’s hard to find housing, so he borrowed his parents’ cottage, which is winterized. He’s lived there all fall and winter. The last time he was seen was yesterday afternoon when he left work at around four thirty. Some damp gym clothes were in a bag, so he may have worked out at a gym. We found a membership card to a gym in his wallet and will check with them to see if he went there after work. He had bought food at Hemköp on Mölndalsvägen, and we’re also going to check there to find out if someone remembers him. His school was somewhere near Heden. His parents don’t live far from the cottage but, as I said, we haven’t been able to reach them yet. The father is rector of the church in a small community called Kullahult. We’re thinking about how to tell the parents that their son has been murdered. I mean, after all, normally we take a pastor with us when we deliver the news. But what do you do when the recipient of such news
is
a pastor?”

Irene stopped her report and looked at her colleagues around the conference table. It was just after five in the afternoon. As usual, Jonny Blom was half asleep in his chair. When his head nodded, Irene noticed that his bald spot had become larger. The careful comb-over and fix with hair gel from that morning had lost its hold. The unit’s youngest man was sitting next to him and looked alert—as well as thick-haired: Fredrik Stridh was becoming as skillful as he was energetic, and Irene had begun to appreciate him. Hannu Rauhala sat quietly on Irene’s right, but she knew that he was registering everything. His wife, Birgitta, was the unit’s other female inspector. She was on maternity leave and wouldn’t be back for a few more months. When she started working again, Hannu was planning on taking paternity leave to care for their son. This information had been leaked a few days earlier, and Superintendent Andersson’s mood had darkened considerably. Amid his furious mumbling, some phrases like “babies need their mothers” and “men shouldn’t be nannies” could be discerned. Tommy Persson was also absent but might show up at any moment. He had devoted a large part of the day to questioning a suspect in the murder of a drug peddler, Ronny “Speedy” Olofsson. Speedy had embezzled some money from his connection. Since the sum was large, his punishment had been execution.

Speedy had been shot in the head early one Saturday morning. The only witnesses were some ornithologists in a car. Two of the birdwatchers had seen the murderer’s face. He had had a large scar, running from the bridge of his nose down his right cheek. With this description, the investigators knew right away who they should look for. The suspect, Asko Pihlainen, had already served several sentences for aggravated assault as well as narcotics violations, threatening witnesses, and grand theft auto. It was, however, the first time he had been connected to a murder. According to Asko, he wasn’t connected to it
;
he’d never set foot at the scene of the murder. And, incidentally, he had witnesses to state that he had been at a neighbor’s playing poker at the time of the murder.

That’s where the problem was: The neighbor, and two women, stated that Asko had been playing cards with them at five o’clock on Saturday morning. They stuck to their statements, and the investigation had come to a halt.

Irene didn’t envy Tommy’s task. Asko Pihlainen was notorious for always proclaiming his innocence. Those who testified against him almost always recanted. Asko hadn’t discovered the birdwatchers’ identities yet but it was only a matter of time. Irene sighed, but she had to concentrate on her own case.

She repeated her question. “Do you think that we should take another pastor along to Jacob Schyttelius’s parents’?”

“Aaah. If he’s a pastor, he can manage on his own,” said Jonny Blom.

Hannu asked permission to speak. “It’s one thing to provide assistance professionally. But when it comes to yourself, it’s something completely different.”

Fredrik Stridh nodded in agreement. “Exactly! And as he’s a pastor, one has to assume he’s religious.” He stopped when the others started laughing, but quickly continued his line of thinking: “I mean that a religious person may have a greater need than others to speak with a pastor.”

“Fredrik has a point there. I agree that we should take a pastor with us to the Schytteliuses’,” said Irene.

Superintendent Andersson spoke for the first time. “His name is Sten. Sten Schyttelius. I don’t remember what her name is.”

Fredrik Stridh arched his eyebrows. “Do you know them?”

“Not really. Friends of friends.” His tone of voice said that this subject was closed. Fredrik got the message and didn’t ask any more questions. He gave his boss a long contemplative look.

Andersson cleared his throat and said, “Irene, you’ll have to find a pastor and drive out to the Schytteliuses’. Take someone else with you.”

Fredrik volunteered. With a teasing look in Hannu’s direction, he said, “It’s right to help out a friend, and Hannu is going for training tonight. Guess in what.”

He looked so mischievous that Irene became curious. Certainly, the white-blond Finn with ice-blue eyes was slender and in good shape, but she had never thought about what sport he trained in. His colleagues suggested strength training, weight-lifting, hardening for the Finnish championships in sauna, the last-man-standing Koskenkorva championship, but no one was right.

“Baby swimming!” Fredrik announced.

A faint blush could be detected on Hannu’s cheeks, but there was no emotion in his voice when he asked, “How did you know?”

“We’re detectives, aren’t we? Seriously though, Birgitta called a while ago. You weren’t in, so she asked me to remind you that you were going to baby swimming tonight. I must admit that I had forgotten about it, but now I can give you her message: Don’t forget baby swimming!” Fredrik laughed.

The superintendent said, “Okay. Get the address and drive out to Schyttelius’s parents’. I’ll stay at the station. The press will probably be in touch soon.”

IRENE WAS lucky: The pastor of the neighboring parish was home. His name was Jonas Burman, and he had a friendly voice. When he understood what it was about, he offered to accompany them and provide support when they delivered this news of the death of a son. He gave them detailed directions to his home. He would direct them from there to the rectory in Kullahult, where Rector Schyttelius lived.

They found Burman’s house in Slättared without any problems. A tall figure bent against the biting breeze stood outside the gate. The wind had picked up during the last few hours and brought with it a great deal of whirling snow, though the flakes melted as soon as they touched wet ground. Irene pulled in and put the transmission in park. Both she and Fredrik got out to greet Burman.

He was much younger than he had sounded on the telephone. His hair was light and rather long and kept blowing in his face. When he took Irene’s hand in greeting, his was cold but his handshake was firm. His slender fingers reminded Irene of a musician’s. Enlarged by the lenses in his rectangular, thin-framed glasses, the friendly look in his blue eyes was comforting.

The three of them drove off in the police car. During the ride, Fredrik informed him of what they knew of Jacob Schyttelius’s death. Jonas Burman listened without interrupting. When Fredrik was finished, the minister said, “I’ve met Jacob several times. He is . . . was . . . a very nice guy. It’s completely incomprehensible that someone would want to shoot him. Why? Could it have been a burglary?”

“No idea,” Fredrik replied. “We’re going to try to find out both why, and who. But right now we don’t have the faintest lead. His parents may know something.”

“You aren’t going to question them tonight, are you?” Jonas asked, concerned.

“Only if they are up to it. Otherwise we’ll wait,” Fredrik said.

The minister pointed at a sign. “That’s where we turn off.”

The sign read “Kullahult 2.”

IN THE growing twilight, the floodlit church could be seen from far away. It was situated on a partly snow-covered hill and towered over the small town of Kullahult.

“The rectory is located right next to the church. Just steer toward it,” said Burman. At the foot of the hill, he directed them onto a gravel road. Irene could see the cemetery wall a short distance above them. They left it behind as the road went straight ahead instead of continuing around the hill.

They could see a large white house down a driveway in a park-like, snow-covered yard. Irene drove in through the open gates. Coarse gravel crackled under the tires.

“Strange that—” Jonas started to say. He looked around after they had parked the car. They could hear the rattling of the wind and sleet in the tops of the trees.

“Sten and Elsa usually light the garden lamps and turn on outdoor lights and a lot of lights in the house as soon as it gets dark. It’s very isolated here at the back of the church hill,” he continued. “They like to illuminate the house.”

Wet snowflakes slapped them in the face when they stepped out of the car. Darkness wrapped the big trees and bushes. A tall, depressing spruce hedge circled the garden impenetrably. The black windowpanes of the house seemed rejecting.

“Could they be out of town?” Fredrik asked.

“No. We always tell each other if we’re going to travel,” Jonas answered.

“Even if it’s only for the day?”

“Yes. There’s only one pastor in each parish, so we have a schedule for the pastor who’s on call . One of us is always available on weekdays in case something urgent comes up. But we always inform each other if we’re going to be out of town, even if we aren’t on call. There are two other parishes that are part of this system. Four pastors in all. It works well.”

Irene remembered to take the flashlight, which was in the glove compartment, before they started toward the house’s grand entrance. Four wooden columns held up a roof which protected the steps and the entry from rain and snow. It enhanced the feeling of an old country estate. The front door consisted of two beautifully decorated half-doors. Irene reached for the heavy knocker, but stopped herself halfway there.

One of the door halves was ajar.

She turned on the flashlight to inspect the door, which appeared to be undamaged. She carefully pushed it open with the flashlight.

Before they went in, she said to the minister, “The fact that the door is open doesn’t mean anything. Just as it doesn’t necessarily mean anything that the house is dark and appears to be empty. But under the circumstances, I don’t want you to touch anything in the house. No light switches, no hand railings, and so on. Just stay close to us. Can you guide us through the house?”

Jonas Burman said “Yes” and stepped behind Irene, following her over the threshold. Irene let the flashlight swing around the interior to locate the light switch. She turned it on with a light push of the flashlight’s handle.

A small crystal chandelier illuminated the large downstairs hall. A rag rug in bright colors covered the floor. Just inside the door was a wooden chest with a vaulted lid. The year “1796” was barely visible on it, among painted flowers and butterflies. The chest was beautiful and might very well be as old as the date indicated. The mirror that hung above it hardly appeared newer. It had a heavy golden frame, and the glass was divided into sections. A grandfather clock stood next to it, beating out the time with heavy ticks.

Jonas Burman made a funnel with his hands and yelled into the house, “Ho! Ho! Sten and Elsa! It’s Jonas!”

The three of them listened tensely. An unbroken silence ensued.

With a resigned sigh, Burman went to the center of the room. “There’s a bathroom under the stairs that lead to the second floor. There are several bedrooms and some other smaller rooms on that level, a bathroom and a separate toilet as well. To our right, on the first floor, there’s a dining room and a living room. But out here in the country, we use the old-fashioned word ‘hall’ for the living room. Since this estate is old and the room is large, there is a reason for this usage.”

He turned a hundred and eighty degrees and pointed at the door opposite. “The kitchen is in there. The door next to the stairs leads to a work room. If you walk through that room, you come to the library.”

They decided to inspect the kitchen first. It was large and airy. At first glance, Irene felt as if she had been transported back in time but then she saw that the refrigerator and stove were new. There was also a dishwasher. Other than that, the cabinet doors were made of a dark wood, country style. Beams in the ceiling were visible, and a large table stood in the middle of the polished wooden floor. Irene counted twelve chairs around the table. Everything looked old and well-built. She couldn’t keep from asking the pastor, “Are there only two people living here?”