The Glass Devil

Chapter 9

“SAMMIE RECEIVED A DEATH threat from the stupid idiot bajshög, that shitpile!”

Jenny was standing with her legs shoulder-width apart in the hall, her arms crossed over her chest. The light from the ceiling lamp reflected from her temporarily platinum-blond hair with bright blue highlights. Since she was a singer in a pop band on its way to stardom, she had to do something extra to her appearance: hence the nine gold rings in her left ear and the miniature glass penis which hung from the right.

Irene stopped in the process of hanging up her jacket. She looked down at her happy dog. Sammie didn’t seem to have been adversely affected by the death threat.

“Why?” she asked, surprised.

“He killed Felix.”

An icy hand clutched Irene’s heart. The only Felix she knew was their neighbors’, the Bernhögs, fat red cat. Please don’t let it be that one!

“You know, bajshög’s red cat,” Jenny continued.

Unconsciously, Irene fumbled for support.

The relationship between the neighbors wasn’t good. Truth be told, it was really quite awful. Ever since she and Krister had moved to the row-house area fourteen years earlier, there had been little battles. Since the childless Bernhögs had lived in the area ever since it was built, they felt that everything should be on their terms. To them, two lively four-year-old twin girls had not exactly been the ideal next-door neighbors. The girls attracted the neighborhood children and played wild games and laughed and screamed. Mrs. Bernhög’s migraines became worse, and Mr. Bernhög had his well-tended flowerbeds destroyed by the trampling feet of children. He yelled at both children and parents. As a result, all the children suddenly had to cut through just those flowerbeds and Mr. and Mrs. Bernhög got the nickname Bajshög-excrement.

The Bernhögs had put up a high fence in front and back of their row house. They didn’t speak to their next-door neighbors when they saw them on the street. However, they left angry notes in their mailbox when something didn’t suit them. Usually the notes were about things like poor snow-shoveling and improper sanding of ice patches on the communal porch in front of the house. But after Sammie had joined the Huss family nine years ago, the battles had stepped up. Now they suddenly complained that there was dog crap everywhere, despite the fact that the Huss family always picked up after Sammie with doggie poop bags.

“Who picks up after all the stray cats?” Irene had ventured to ask Mr. Bernhög one time when she had gotten yet another a note of complaint. A dark red flush had suffused his quivering cheeks, and his small pursed mouth had opened and closed without managing to produce any audible sounds. Irene thought that he looked like a fat, worried goldfish.

Sammie was an Irish soft-coated wheaten terrier, a long and complicated breed name whose last word was the most important: he was a terrier. All terriers are bred for hunting and fighting. They are happy and devoted, while at the same time they have an intense temperament. Sammie loved to chase everything that moved. His absolute favorite prey was cats; he was a notorious cat-chaser. Irene had even spoken with a dog psychologist once. According to him, it wasn’t possible to get rid of an inbred hunting instinct; they just had to make sure the dog didn’t get loose. That was easier said than done. According to Krister, Sammie could well have been the master-of-escape Houdini’s dog: like master, like dog. .

The Bernhögs had always had cats. The first one had died of old age a few years ago, and they had immediately replaced him with Felix, who was spoiled, overweight, and infinitely loved.

And now Sammie had killed this cat.

“How. . how did it happen?” Irene asked weakly.

“We went out for a walk about an hour ago. Sammie was completely calm and well-behaved. Suddenly he yanked on his leash like you wouldn’t believe and threw himself into our evergreen hedge, and Felix was sitting inside. I didn’t have time to react. It happened in, like, two seconds. Can you believe it? Sammie just shook it a few times and the cat was dead. It didn’t even have time to make a sound. Sammie bit him right on the throat and he bled. . totally gross!”

As a vegan, Jenny was a huge fan of animals; now she looked at her dog accusingly. Sammie didn’t seem the slightest bit guilty, but he noticed that the charge in the air was negative and not to his advantage. He did what he usually did in this situation: He quickly headed up the stairs to the second floor and crawled under a bed. He usually stayed there until the storm had blown over.

“Did Baj. . Mr. Bernhög see Sammie kill Felix?”

“Yes. He was only a few meters away, sweeping outside the gate. When he understood what had happened, he started chasing me and Sammie with his broom, but I ran in here and locked the door. Then he yelled outside that he was going to kill Sammie.”

Irene started to get angry. “Did he also swing the broom at you?”

Jenny looked surprised. “Of course. I was holding on to the leash.”

Irene didn’t bother putting her jacket on when she went out again. She went through the Bernhögs’ gate and stepped up to the always freshly painted front door. It was thrown open before she had a chance to ring the doorbell.

“This is going to cost you-” Bernhög started.

Irene interrupted him in an authoritative police voice. “Be quiet! I understand that you’re upset that Felix is dead, and I apologize for that, but you are partly to blame. Your cat was running around loose outside, and that always presents a risk. It could have been run over or killed in a fight with other animals. The only way to avoid such risks is to have an indoor cat. My dog was on a leash. It wasn’t running and chasing your cat. That Felix wasn’t able to keep himself out of Sammie’s reach is something neither we nor Sammie can do anything about.

“What is, however, very serious is that you threatened my daughter and chased her with a broom. If this happens again, I’ll report you!”

Bernhög did his goldfish imitation again. He looked like he might be about to have a stroke, but at that moment Irene was so angry that she didn’t care. His health was supposed to be so bad, yet he was able to chase people and dogs with a broom! After having remained silent and clenching her fists in her pants pockets for so many years, it felt really good to blow off some steam. She stared at him one last time before she turned on her heel and walked back to her house.

SHE HAD overreacted. She had to admit it. At the time, it had felt good to vent many years’ worth of pent-up anger, but now the pale ghost of reflection appeared in the innermost corner of her conscience. The poor Bernhögs had, after all, lost their dearly beloved cat. And it was the Huss family’s fault. Or, anyway, that of certain members of the family. Irene sent an accusing look in Sammie’s direction, but it didn’t affect him. He lay under the glass table, snoring loudly and digesting his dinner. Irene had crawled onto the couch with a cup of coffee after dinner. The TV poured out these incessant game shows with the chance of winning millions or nothing at all, but the thought of the dead cat was unavoidable and she paid no attention to the TV.

Jenny had gone off somewhere, and Katarina was expected to be home from her training at any moment. Krister was working late; in the best case, he wouldn’t arrive home until after one.

Her thoughts shifted to the Schyttelius case. She was going to try to contact Rebecka the next day, and then she would have to decide when she was going to London. She must not forget to get in touch with Thompson at the Yard. What was the weather like in England this time of year? What should she wear? She couldn’t forget her passport. It was new, applied for because of the trip she and Krister were going to take to Greece in August. It would be their first trip abroad since the twins were born. It would be warm and pleasant on Crete. .

SHE WOKE with a start. A police car with flashing blue lights was chasing a white van on the TV. The blaring of the police siren had awakened her. Dazed with sleep, she looked at the clock on the VCR; it was almost midnight.

She got up with stiff, creaking limbs and turned off the television. Sammie came jumping up from his place under the glass table and immediately informed her that he needed to go out. There was nothing that could be done about it. He hadn’t been out since the cat murder.

Irene put on her jacket and boots with a sigh. The cool night air woke her. It was a clear night with shining stars and a nearly half moon.

They passed the Bernhögs’ house on the way back. Through the kitchen window, Irene could see Margit Bernhög sitting at the kitchen table with an untouched glass of milk in front of her, staring out the window with red eyes. It was clear that she had been crying. Irene realized that Margit couldn’t see her because of the light over the kitchen table.

Irene felt miserable when she reentered her own house. Sammie ran ahead of her into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and pretended that he was sound asleep.

Irene peeked into Katarina’s room and heard her daughter’s steady breathing. The bed in Jenny’s room was still empty.

THE WHOLE family slept in on Saturday morning. Just before ten o’clock, Irene awakened because Sammie was licking her right foot, which had ended up outside the cover. He could never resist feet, the sweatier the better.

“Yuck! Dogs are so disgusting!” she hissed at him and slapped him on the nose.

Krister mumbled something unintelligible and turned over. Irene would have to walk the dog. No activity could be heard from the girls’ rooms; Irene hadn’t expected any.

The sun was shining and it was almost perfectly still. Irene walked down toward Fiskebäck’s small boat harbor. Snowdrops and crocuses bloomed in front yards, and Easter lilies were shooting up close to house walls. A slight breeze blew down by the ocean, heavy with the scent of salt and rotten seaweed. Irene filled her lungs and felt revitalized. This was true wealth: having free admission to the ocean.

KATARINA WAS in the process of setting the table and fixing breakfast when Irene came home. As soon as she had taken Sammie’s leash off, he rushed into the kitchen to say that a liver paté sandwich or two would be just the thing. One of the other two members of the family was also up; Irene could hear the shower running upstairs.

“Hi, sweetie. Did you see me sleeping on the couch last night when you got home?” Irene asked.

“Couldn’t miss it. You were snoring,” Katarina replied, smiling teasingly.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“But hello! I was talking to you, but you were sleeping like you were drugged.”

Irene had to admit that she had probably been very tired. She’d had to put in a lot of overtime on the Schyttelius case during the past week. She and Katarina had hardly seen each other for several days; Irene took this opportunity to bring up a ticklish subject.

“Pappa said that you were thinking about participating in a beauty pageant,” she mentioned in a casual tone of voice.

Katarina’s smile was instantly erased. “Yeah. Fun to try.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?” Katarina said.

“Why are you competing in a beauty pageant?”

“You get to meet a lot of interesting people and travel. You get to be like an ambassador for your city and a role model for other girls. An anti-smoking role model. And you get twenty-five thousand SEK,³ cash. And a chance at a modeling job. It’s really well paid.”

Irene stared at her in shock. About a year ago, this girl had said that all beauty pageants were degrading. What she was saying now sounded memorized and was not particularly convincing. Irene posed the question again: “Why are you really competing?”

Her daughter’s face froze in anger but when their eyes met, to her surprise Irene saw that Katarina’s were filled with tears.

“To show him that he’s wrong,” she whispered.

Irene took her in her arms. Unconsciously, she rocked Katarina just as she had done when she was small and had come running to her for comfort.

“‘He’? Micke?” she asked.

Katarina nodded and sniffled. They stood like that for a long time.

The sound of the shower upstairs stopped, and Krister could be heard singing in his falsetto bass voice: “I can’t get no da-dada-da-da-daaa sa-tis-faction, I can’t get no bam-bam-bam-bam-bam sa-tis-faction, but I’ll try and I’ll try and I’ll try-haj-aj. . ”

Irene pushed her daughter a short distance away and made eye contact. Katarina was forced to smile through the tears.

“He always sings Stones songs in the shower,” she said.

Mother and daughter burst out laughing. Katarina went to get some tissues to dry her eyes and blow her nose. She stood with her back to Irene. Without turning around, she said in flat voice, “When we. . Micke broke up, he said I was a fat ugly cow.”

“Fat cow! You know that’s not true! That’s the kind of thing people say when they’re upset and angry,” Irene said.

Katarina turned around and looked straight at her.

“No. He was ice-cold. Not a damn bit upset.”

“That can also be a way of showing your anger.”

“He wasn’t angry! Just damned mean!”

Irene nodded and tried to calm the tone of the conversation. “Okay. He was mean. But why do you need to start dieting, and compete in-”

“Like I said, to show him that he’s wrong!”

“What do you prove by competing in this contest?”

“That I’m beautiful and not some stupid fat cow!”

“You don’t prove anything by competing. If you don’t get any farther, you’ll feel like a failure. But it would almost be worse if you won, because life as a beauty queen isn’t the kind of life you really want to live.”

“I want to-” Katarina started, but then stopped herself.

“No, you don’t. You’re good-looking enough, but you’re so much more than that. You’re athletic and active and do well in school. You have a lot of friends and hobbies and I don’t know what all. You’re more than enough as it is. You don’t need to prove a damn thing to yourself, or to anyone else.”

“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.