The Glass Devil (30 page)

He disappeared from the picture. A shot was heard and then, a few seconds later, another one.

Irene and Glen sat as though made of stone, watching the neat bookshelf and the upper part of a black armchair. The screen went black and the computer shut down.

Neither spoke for a long time. In the end, Glen stretched out his hand and turned off his tape player.

“Lucky I had this with me. Everything he said is on this tape.”

Chapter 20

THE TECHNICIANS HAD MANAGED to trace Lefévre’s cell-phone call to Mayfair, to the area around Berkeley Square. They couldn’t pinpoint it more exactly. At first, Irene had speculated that Rebecka and Christian might be in Fischer’s office, but that location was too distant.

“Has any Mayfair address come up during the investigation?” she asked.

Glen shook his head.

They were still in Lefévre’s office, trying to figure out where to start searching.

“That bookshelf was well-stocked and made of a light type of wood,” said Glen.

“Could you read any of the titles?” Irene asked.

“No. The distance was too great.”

They had tried to start the computer again, but it appeared to be completely dead. Glen called a computer expert at the Metropolitan Police, who patiently guided their attempts to restart it. When all attempts had failed, the expert concluded, “He must have placed a bomb in it.”

“A bomb!” Glen exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, not that kind of bomb. I mean a computer virus which erases all information on the hard drive. It can lie dormant, to be activated at a later time or on a certain occasion or command. The computer cannot be started again. Or, technically, the computer itself is not damaged and can easily be started up from a different disk but everything on its internal hard disk is gone forever.”

“So there’s nothing to do then?” Glen asked.

“Nothing.”

Dejected and at a loss, Glen looked at Irene. “What do we do?”

“Try and get hold of Andrew St. Clair. He might know where Christian is.”

She was interrupted by Glen’s cell phone ringing.

His expression brightened as a voice on the other end spoke. He waved at Irene to come closer and said, “Good evening, Mr. St. Clair. Yes, we’ve been trying to reach you all evening . . . via the local police in Edinburgh . . . I understand. Yes . . . there are very sorrowful circumstances that have made it necessary.”

Calmly and methodically, Glen gave an account of the afternoon’s and evening’s events. At first, St. Clair refused to believe his story. When Glen came to the end and reported the two shots, Andrew was silent for a long time.

When his voice was heard again, it shook. “You say that the phone call came from the area around Berkeley Square. I still have my apartment in London. It’s located on Hill Street, which leads into Berkeley Square.”

“Could Christian get into your apartment?”

“Yes. He has a key.”

THE SCENE that met them and the technicians from the Metropolitan Police at the apartment was expected, but unbelievably tragic.

Rebecka sat, leaning back, in a high-backed white leather armchair. Her eyes were closed. Just above the bridge of her nose, there was a black hole between her eyes. The backrest behind her was drenched in blood.

Christian sat on the floor in front of her, his head resting on her lap. He had shot himself in the classical way, through the temple.

The gun was a Magnum, and the large-caliber bullets had been deadly, tearing away portions of their skulls on exiting.

For an instant, Irene had a vision of the ending of a Greek tragedy, or maybe a variant Romeo and Juliet. But here it had been neither a strict father nor an old family feud that had thwarted the young lovers, but rather crimes committed long ago, which had led to new crimes. It was difficult to tell who the victims were and who the criminals in this story.

The apartment, a trendy loft with an open floor plan, was located at the top of an old Victorian house. Everything was unbelievably expensive, both in terms of materials and craftsmanship. The decor was extremely modern, with a lot of stainless steel, light natural wood, and a black and white color scheme. It was in striking contrast to the museum in Scotland that Andrew St. Clair nowadays called home, thought Irene.

The chair Rebecka sat in was turned toward a square stove with glass doors in all directions, standing in the middle of the floor. A large sofa and four armchairs covered in white leather were gathered around it. On the floor was the largest Oriental rug Irene had ever seen. Aside from two colorful paintings, the rug provided the only spot of color in the room, glowing in ruby red and steel blue. The paintings seemed to have been painted by the same artist. One was completely red, the other blue. Irene immediately associated them with Rebecka and Christian’s front doors on Ossington Street. Both canvases had been slashed. On the red one, there was a tear in the middle; on the blue one, it was in the lower right-hand corner. Irene recognized the style of a painting she had seen at the Tate Modern, but she couldn’t recall the Italian artist’s name.

Andrew’s work corner, under one of the sloping windows, was the size of Irene’s living room. Two computer desk tables stood at an angle to each other, a computer on each table. Desk chairs in black leather, small comfortable armchairs on wheels, stood in front of each computer. The wall behind the desks was covered by a built-in bookshelf made of light birch, like the computer tables. A webcam was mounted on one computer, the one that faced the wall lined with books.

An opening in the wall of bookshelves led to a short corridor with two doors. A large bedroom lay behind one of them; behind the other was a bathroom tiled in Mediterranean blue. Irene noted the Jacuzzi, meant for several people.

She returned to the main room and found Glen in front of the computer. His efforts to start it up were in vain. It was just as unwilling as the one they had given up on in Lefévre’s computer office.

“There’s a bomb in this one as well. Damn it!” he said.

One of the technicians bending over the dead bodies jerked and turned his head in their direction. When he saw their expressions of resignation, he returned to his work.

Chapter 21

WHAT WAS HAPPENING ON the other side of the North Sea? What was the motive of that chap Lafayette—or whatever the hell his name was—for kidnapping Rebecka? What was that supposed to solve? It was typical, when you let Irene loose. The strangest things happened. But she usually managed to get it together in the end; that, Andersson had to admit. But an extra day—maybe several—in London would be expensive.

They should have brought Rebecka Schyttelius home to Sweden right after the murders. Maybe she would have had to be escorted by that headshrinker and some police officers, but she should have been forced to come home. Then the Frog and the doctor wouldn’t have been able to hide her from them. She couldn’t have been so sick that she couldn’t talk. She had given them a statement earlier in the investigation. And it would have been a lot cheaper.

Sven Andersson hadn’t bothered turning on the lights, despite the fact that the darkness was creeping in on him. He sat in the dusk and enjoyed his well-earned can of ale—in all honesty, the third he’d had this April Friday evening. And that wasn’t anyone’s damn business, in his opinion.

When the doorbell rang, initially he was terribly upset. He automatically glanced at his watch and noted that it was almost nine o’clock. His first impulse was not to open the door, to pretend he wasn’t home. On the other hand, it was very seldom that his doorbell ever rang. Sheer curiosity propelled him out of his recliner and to the door.

To his surprise, his cousin Georg was standing on the front step. He was alone, without the ever-cheerful Bettan. There was nothing bad to be said about her, but sometimes she could be rather trying.

“Hey, Sven,” said Georg.

Andersson noted that his usually self-confident cousin stood and rocked uncertainly, teetering from side to side.

“Hi. What do you want?”

Georg licked his lips nervously and forced a smile. “Could I come in for just a minute?”

Again, curiosity took hold of the superintendent. Maybe his police instincts were awakened. That’s what he preferred to think, but old honest curiosity had also led to the solution of cases.

Sven backed up so he could let his cousin in. With one foot, he discreetly pushed away the boots which were lying where they had been thrown, just inside the threshold, when he got home from the previous weekend’s fishing trip. He had spent the only day he had taken off during the whole Easter weekend pursuing his hobby, fishing. His other hobby was gardening, but he hadn’t told them about that one at work.

He became aware that it had been a while since he had cleaned his little house. “You’ll have to excuse the mess, but a lot has been happening. The Schyttelius murders and the motorcycle gang war that broke out over Easter . . . I’ve had to put in a lot of overtime.”

That would have to do as an explanation. If it didn’t, Georg could pull out the vacuum cleaner and clean up himself. It was Sven’s mess, and he was content with it. But right now it was probably worse than usual.

So that the layer of the dust on the furniture wouldn’t be visible, he only lit one lamp.

“Do you want a beer?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I’m driving.”

Of course he was driving. He and Bettan lived in Billdal, on the other side of Göteborg. Andersson suppressed a sigh, but at the same time he was pleased. He only had three cans left in the fridge.

“Coffee then . . . ?” he inquired, halfheartedly.

“No, thank you. Nothing. I just wanted to talk about . . . something.”

Georg sat gingerly on the outer edge of the green sofa. He may have been worried about his light-colored suit. The sofa was quite faded and soiled after all these years. Several times, Andersson had thought about buying a slipcover to conceal these imperfections, but he had never gotten around to it. Andersson himself sank down into his well-broken-in leather armchair. It was a fiftieth birthday present from himself. His half-consumed beer can sat in front of him on the stained teak table.

“Okay. You want to talk about something. Go ahead. You’re among friends,” Andersson said jovially, smiling at his own joke.

Georg didn’t seem to have understood that this was an attempt at humor. Troubled, he cleared his throat, hesitated, then spoke. “It’s about Jacob Schyttelius. Naturally, this has nothing to do with his murder. Both the girl’s father and I thought it was best to let everything go . . . to die with Jacob, so to speak. If we started digging into things, it would only cause more damage. And Jacob is, after all, dead. He can’t defend himself. And for her, it’s probably best the way things are. So that she can forget all about it. Children forget quickly.”

Confused, Georg gave his cousin a desperate look. Andersson only felt bewildered. For lack of a better idea, he picked up the can and drank a gulp. What was it Georg was trying to say? Something about Jacob Schyttelius and a child. Thoughtfully, he put the blue can down.

“How about taking it from the beginning? And preferably in some sort of chronological order.”

“Of course. Certainly.” Georg straightened the permanent crease in his well-pressed pant leg and cleared his throat again.

“I think it feels good to tell you about this . . . it has been gnawing on my conscience, ha ha . . . even if it doesn’t mean anything to the investigation itself of. . . .

“Right. To the point. The Monday Jacob was shot—but of course it was much later in the evening that
that
happened—one of our students’ fathers came to me. The truth is, he was waiting for me outside my office when I arrived that morning. He was terribly upset. It’s understandable, if what he said was true. But we just don’t know.
They
come from another culture where the relationships between teacher and students is much more strict and authoritarian. They may have misunderstood the slightly more informal relationship between students and teachers in the Swedish school and—”

Andersson had sat up in his chair. “Where do ‘they’ come from?” he brusquely interrupted his cousin.

“Syria. They are Christian Syrians,” Georg answered.

“Why was the father upset?”

Georg squirmed. Clearly, he wasn’t happy, with his seat or the situation.

“He claimed that his little eight-year-old daughter had a breakdown over the weekend. She said that Jacob had made her do ‘bad things.’”

“What kind of bad things?”

“The father said that Jacob had shown her his ‘thing’ and forced her to undress completely. Then he supposedly . . . touched her.”

“Where did this supposedly happen?”

“At school. After regular school hours. Jacob apparently offered to give the girl extra help. She has difficulty with the language and is quiet. She had fallen behind in math.”

Andersson looked at his cousin in his elegant suit. Finally, he said slowly and with emphasis, “You stupid shit!”

Georg jerked back but didn’t say anything.

Upset, Andersson got up from the armchair and started walking around the room. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve withheld important facts in a murder investigation! It’s prosecutable! Damn it, you’ve gone and kept to yourself a motive for murder!”

Andersson had to pause to catch his breath, and Georg tried to defend himself: “But Jacob denied the accusations. He protested his innocence and said that the girl had misunderstood his kindness. She was the one who wanted to sit in his lap. He had had to turn away her affectionate impulses. Maybe she had imagined more than there was. Or maybe she simply wanted revenge.”

Andersson glared at his cousin. “An eight-year-old?” he asked dryly.

“Well . . . kids lie.”

“What did Jacob say about forcing her to take off her clothes? And the accusation that he had exposed himself?”

“Naturally, he was horrified. He swore several times that he was innocent. He was terrified of an investigation. What would his parents say? Think of his father, being a rector.”

“And a good friend of yours. Did you believe him?”

“Yes . . . he seemed trustworthy.”

“And there never was an investigation into the accusations?”

“No. He died. That night.”

“What a relief for you. No unpleasant publicity for the school. No fear of loss of subsidies. No fear of the parents complaining on behalf of other children. Everything works out.”

Andersson’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and he did nothing to conceal it.

Georg rose from the sofa. He was almost a head taller than his cousin. In an attempt at retrieving his dignity, he said, aggrieved, “I came here to inform you about what happened on the morning of the murder. Actually, I shouldn’t have bothered, since it has nothing to do with the murders. . . .”

With three quick steps, Andersson was at Georg’s side. He craned his neck back and stared up at his cousin. “How do you know it doesn’t have anything to do with the murders? How do you know that the girl’s father or uncles, or whoever the hell else is in that big family, didn’t shoot Jacob and his parents?”

“Why . . . why would they have done that?”

All of Georg’s arrogance disappeared. He glanced away and tried to brush a non-existent spot off one of his sleeves.

“Ever heard about a thing called vendetta? They dispose of the whole family to get revenge. We were stymied for a motive in this investigation for a long time. This is actually a serious motive,” Andersson said.

Georg tried to tough it out and said formally, “It was a mistake for me to come here and take up your precious time with these unimportant details and—”

“Deep inside, you’ve known the whole time that they were damned important. Otherwise you wouldn’t have driven across the whole city in order to ease your delicate Christian conscience!”

In the dark room, the two men stood and measured each other. Georg turned away first. Stiffly, he said, “I’m going now.” He turned and hurried into the hall.

Andersson heard the front door close behind him with a bang. Sighing, he walked over to the coffee table and grabbed his beer can. He made a gesture with the can at the closed door and said loudly, “You do that. And say hello to Bettan!”