The Glass Devil (25 page)

IT WAS harder to find a parking place this time. They had to leave the car in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square. The advantage was that they got to walk to Dr. Fischer’s office.

The rain had stopped, and the thin cloud cover started breaking up. The air felt warm and damp despite the fact that it was only a relatively comfortable twenty degrees Celsius. The car-exhaust fumes hung in the air like an oily haze between the houses. Irene took off her jacket and walked in her short-sleeved blouse. Her shirt was clinging to her back by the time they arrived at the doctor’s office.

The cool stairwell felt like liberation. John Fischer stood in the doorway waiting for them, just like the last time.

“Good morning. This mustn’t take long. She’s in bad shape,” he said without any introductory remarks.

To Irene, who had already been on the go for seven hours, it felt strange to say “good morning,” but she did. They quickly passed through the waiting room and went into the same room they had been in last time.

Rebecka sat in an armchair by the window, exactly as she had before. She was dressed in the same black suit. The white polo shirt had been exchanged for a shimmering white silk top. Despite this, Irene had a shock when she got closer.

Rebecka seemed to have aged ten years in the two weeks since their last meeting. Her hair hung, dirty and dull. Her skin was a grayish yellow color. Her eyes seemed enormous in the ever-thinner face. The worst thing was the look in her eyes. The last time, Irene had seen an anguish fluttering at the bottom of them. Rebecka had shown feelings. Now they were completely dead, empty. It felt as though a thick gray veil enveloped the woman in the chair.

The feeling became even more evident when they tried to speak with her. No words penetrated her cocoon, nor was she able to reach out. Rebecka was turning into a puppet in front of their eyes.

“Rebecka is not feeling well at all. I’m not happy about your visit,” the doctor said icily.

He ran a hand through his short beard. Glen and Irene looked at each other, at a loss as to how they should proceed. Rebecka hadn’t reacted when they tried to greet her. Irene took her hand in an attempt to attract her attention, but it was limp and cold. Irene maintained her grip on Rebecka’s hand and, for lack of words, she carefully started massaging it. Hesitantly, she started speaking to her in Swedish.

“I know that you’re burdened by a lot of terrible images. I’ve spoken with Lisa Sandberg at Save the Children. She told me about the fantastic work you and Christian did when you exposed the pedophile ring. She also said that many of those who had been heavily involved in that investigation have had anxiety problems afterward. The pictures were apparently some of the worst they had ever seen.”

Irene felt Rebecka’s hand tremble, but the movement was so faint that it might have been her imagination. Encouraged, Irene continued, “So you aren’t alone in having experienced the pictures and films as unpleasant. It’s not strange at all—”

Irene stopped when Rebecka pulled her hand back. She gripped it with her other hand and pulled it against her chest. Her gaze was focused on the floor, at a point next to Dr. Fischer’s elegant shoes. She sat in that position, catatonic, without blinking. Silence fell over the room. Irene became desperate. Rebecka seemed impossible to reach. Would the whole London trip be wasted? For lack of a better idea, Irene decided to continue speaking in Swedish.

“I think that you may have told your parents about what you and Christian had seen on the Internet. Did you also tell Jacob?”

Irene paused on purpose to allow Rebecka to react.

At first it didn’t seem like Rebecka had heard. She sat immobile. Irene looked at Glen and raised her shoulders in a dejected gesture. Then Rebecka moaned hoarsely. Irene bent forward and tried to make eye contact with her. It was impossible; she stubbornly kept her eyes downcast. But she made an effort to move her stiff lips. With difficulty, she said, barely audibly, “No.”

Her lips were completely dry and covered with sores. Thick yellowish-white saliva coated the corners of her mouth. Her tongue was sluggish in her bone-dry mouth. Irene frantically tried to decide what to say that would not scare Rebecka back into silence. Carefully, she asked, “When you say no, Rebecka, do you mean that you didn’t tell your parents or Jacob anything?”

“No,” she answered softly.

Just to be sure, Irene clarified, “So you didn’t tell your family anything about the pedophile ring?”

“No,” she whispered again.

Rebecka hadn’t moved during the conversation, but now she turned her head toward Irene. Their eyes met, and Irene felt her heart stop for a few seconds. There was bottomless darkness in Rebecka’s.

“No,” Rebecka repeated.

In vain, she tried to swallow non-existent saliva. “She was . . . sick. I had to . . . protect her,” she finally managed to say.

Wheezing shook her body and she covered her face with her hands. She rocked back and forth while mumbling, “My fault. Everything is . . . my fault.”

Irene felt completely powerless.

“This is enough. Even you must see that this is cruel and futile,” Dr. Fischer said.

Irene looked at Glen, who was at a loss. Rebecka continued to rock slowly back and forth with her hands over her face, but she had stopped wheezing. Irene was ready to give up questioning Rebecka today.

A large gray-haired woman materialized in the doorway. Despite her size, Irene hadn’t heard her come in. She carried a thin beige summer jacket as if she had come from outside. Apparently, she had the key to the office.

“Good, Marion. We’ll drive Rebecka directly to the clinic,” said Fischer.

Without saying a word to the police officers or even favoring them with a look, Marion stepped up to Rebecka. She wore sturdy jogging shoes, and Irene realized why she hadn’t heard her footsteps. She put Rebecka’s arm around her own neck and helped her to her feet. Rebecka was so tall that the woman could get her shoulder under Rebecka’s armpit. By placing her other arm around Rebecka’s waist, she managed to drag her loose-limbed body toward the door. Without turning her head, she said to the doctor, “The car is outside the door.”

“I’ll be there right away,” he said.

He gathered together the few papers that were on the otherwise bare shining desk and put them in a thin briefcase of tan-colored soft leather. He looked at them and gestured toward the door. “Please.” He ushered them out and then hurried out himself, passing them on the stairs.

What was this man’s relationship with Rebecka? As he at least sometimes had an interest in young women, could there be a sexual relationship? But surely Rebecka’s condition precluded this? A thought struck Irene: Was Rebecka heavily drugged? Had the doctor given her psychotropic drugs?

Such thoughts buzzed in Irene’s head the whole way down the steps in the cool stairwell. She discarded them, one after the other. A black car pulled away just as they emerged from the building. Irene glimpsed Rebecka’s pale face. Next to her in the back seat was John Fischer.

Glen had gotten the same impression as Irene: Rebecka was really sick, but her doctor was certainly acting strangely.

Irene was about to suggest going to lunch, where they could discuss their impressions, when the Marsellaise started chiming in her jacket pocket. She quickly pulled out her cell phone.

“Irene Huss.”

“Hannu here. I tried to get hold of you earlier this morning, but you were probably on the plane.”

Irene mumbled in order to avoid admitting that she had forgotten to turn on her phone after her plane landed.

“I’ve found something.”

Irene realized that she had been holding her breath.

“There wasn’t a Christian Lefévre or a Rebecka Schyttelius on the passenger list. I checked all the departures on Monday and Tuesday with all of the airlines. But one person spent the night in Göteborg. He left Heathrow at seven twenty on Monday evening and returned at seven ten on Tuesday morning. Furthermore, he had reserved a rental car at Avis, a dark-blue Volkswagen Polo.”

Irene was in suspense. The decal on the back window of the car that the dog owner had seen could very well have been an advertisement for Avis.

“What was his name?” she croaked tonelessly.

“Andrew St. Clair.”

Hannu gave her the information he had gotten from the airline. Irene pulled out her little notebook and wrote it down.

Glen was looking at her curiously when she hung up.

“Good or bad news?” he said.

She looked at him and answered, “Don’t know. Or maybe. . . .”

She pulled herself together to explain what Hannu’s investigation had turned up. For once he was quiet for almost a minute.

“Andrew St. Clair. One of Scotland’s richest men . . . why would he fly to Göteborg and murder Rebecka’s family?”

They ended up at a small Indian restaurant not far from Whitley’s. It would have been fun to walk around the large department store again, but shopping was the last thing on Irene’s mind now. She hardly noticed how good the tandoori smelled and tasted.

“The personal ID number on the list from the airline matches that of Andrew St. Clair. He’s almost a year older than Christian,” said Glen.

He looked thoughtfully at the paper where Irene had scribbled the information she had gotten from Hannu, and then he brightened up.

“Now I remember something from my studies of the gossip columns! He’s going to be married soon. There was a big article about the upcoming wedding in which it was referred to as the Society wedding of the year.”

“That doesn’t explain anything. Why would a rich Scot go to Göteborg and shoot three complete strangers?” Irene asked.

Glen looked at her for a while. “Do we know that they were strangers to him?”

Irene thought about this before she answered, “No. Actually not.”

“There’s only one thing to do,” Glen said firmly.

“What?”

“Ask him.”

Irene would have to look after herself during the afternoon. Glen had to discuss how they would carry out the remainder of the investigation with his boss. Before they split up, they decided to meet at Restaurant Vitória at six o’clock.

During her first visit, she had told Glen that she wasn’t interested in old buildings, but there actually was one in a tourist brochure that had appealed to her. Her idea was that she could wander around in a large, quiet building and use the opportunity to collect her thoughts. At the same time, she would be able to learn about some interesting cultural history.

She felt she was being brave when she decided to take the subway, the London Underground. The only subway she had ever taken before was in Stockholm. She found it surprisingly easy to orient herself using the electronic signs, and after several minutes the train she was waiting for came. She got off at the St. Paul’s stop without any problem and walked up into the daylight to visit the cathedral.

St. Paul’s Cathedral had been described in her brochure from the hotel as “impressive.” She had to agree. She soon realized, though, that she could forget about devoting herself to tranquil contemplation. People swarmed everywhere. The magnificent domes, arching shockingly high over her head, made her feel like an insignificant miniature.

She dared to sneak into a group that had an English-speaking guide. He recounted the cathedral’s history. The first building had been constructed as early as 604 a.d. by King Ethelbert, the first English king to allow himself to be baptized. A cathedral was added, but in 961 the Vikings burned it down. Irene had guilt feelings on her forefathers’ behalf. The buildings were affected by several later fires through the centuries; and during the Great Fire of 1666, St. Paul’s was consumed by the flames. That gave Christopher Wren the chance to perform his life’s work: the new St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Irene walked around for several hours admiring wall and ceiling paintings, statues, and carvings. She admitted that she was both overwhelmed and fascinated. She bought a stack of cards from a souvenir seller whose booth sign stated that profits from sales went to the upkeep of the church.

It was time to head back to the hotel. She wanted to freshen up before she met Glen and Donna. This time she wouldn’t fall asleep in the bathtub.

DONNA WELCOMED Irene as warmly as the first time. She was magnificent in a bright turquoise tunic with a low neckline, worn over an ankle-length black skirt. A beautiful necklace of turquoise and silver glimmered against her dark skin. Her steel-gray hair was swept up in a fluffy pouffe on her head. And dangling earrings matching the necklace hung in her ears. Donna was a very feminine woman.

“And what have you done about my tall, stylish policeman?” she asked and winked at Irene.

“The only one I know who’s going to retire soon is my boss. He isn’t particularly tall or stylish,” Irene apologized.

“But is he somewhat healthy?” Donna said, and her voice sounded sincerely interested.

“Not really. . . .”

“Send him here anyway. At my age, you can’t be too picky,” Donna laughed.

A distinguished man at the bar turned around and looked at Donna. The look told Irene that Donna could still afford to be
somewhat
choosy.

Glen arrived a few minutes later. They ordered before beginning to talk, vodka martinis as a starter drink, and then both chose crayfish soup and grilled lamb kebabs with salsa and potato wedges. Irene asked for a half carafe of red wine, Glen, a large beer.

“Naturally, my boss went crazy when I told him that Andrew St. Clair had popped up in the investigation. Bosses get cold feet as soon as big fish are involved. But he understood that it has to be followed up, so he called St. Clair. Or rather his secretary. St. Clair is busy with foreign businessmen all morning tomorrow, but he could meet with us after lunch. My boss gave his secretary my cell number, but neither she nor St. Clair has gotten in touch with me yet. You and I are booked on the morning plane to Edinburgh. We’ll have to head back to Heathrow at five in the afternoon. Then you’ll make the evening flight back to Göteborg.”

Something clicked when she thought about what he had just said.