The Glass Devil

Chapter 12

IT WAS QUIET AT Landvetter Airport at six fifteen in the morning. Irene had checked her small suitcase and stumbled, half asleep, toward the open café.

“Small cup, or large?” the smiling girl behind the counter chirped.

“Bucket,” Irene croaked.

Her sunny smile unchanged, the girl turned and took out a ceramic soup bowl. She filled it two thirds of the way.

“Milk or cream? I can steam the milk if you want.”

Irene felt a warm thankfulness over meeting a fellow human being who really understood her basic early-morning need.

“No, thanks. Just black.”

Irene attempted a smile, but felt it was too great an effort: Her facial muscles weren’t awake yet. She was moved when the girl behind the counter placed a napkin and an After Eight chocolate on her tray. It made her realize that she must look like the wreck she felt.

After finishing her bowl of coffee, Irene was ready for shopping. She went to the perfume store and starting selecting items for herself and for the twins, based on the list they had given her. Pretty soon, she realized that maybe ten percent of the basket’s contents were hers; the rest was for the girls.

THE PLANE landed at Heathrow after barely two hours in the air. Hail splattered against the body of the aircraft, then turned into a light drizzle as the passengers were leaving the plane and wandering down the stairs. It was windy, damp, and raw.

Several people were waiting holding up cardboard signs outside Customs. One of them had “Ms. Irene Huss” on it. Irene realized this must be Inspector Glen Thompson. Her surprise must have been obvious, because Glen Thompson broke into a wide smile and then laughed.

“Welcome to London. I’m Glen Thompson.”

His white teeth shone against dark skin. His hair was a shiny black, short and curly. He was slightly taller than Irene and a few years younger.

He held out his hand to greet her, and Irene managed to get her act together and squeak out her name.

Glen Thompson took her bag and said, “I think we’ll go to the hotel first.”

Outside the airport terminal, a pale sun now shone between the clouds.

“You have April weather,” Irene commented.

Thompson flashed his teeth in a quick smile and nodded. He walked up to a black Rover and unlocked it, then politely held open the door on the passenger’s side for Irene and threw her bag onto the back seat.

“We’ve had fantastic weather the last two weeks, then yesterday it turned. It rained all day. But it’s going to be better today.”

Irene couldn’t hear the slightest bit of an accent when he spoke. If he hadn’t been born in England, then he must have grown up here, she thought.

They drove past budding trees and greening fields. The cherry trees, too, were blooming, a month earlier than in Göteborg. When they drew closer to London and the first block of houses popped up, she saw yellow forsythia and magnolias in bud.

Traffic became thicker the closer to London they came. And everyone drove on the wrong side! Irene thanked her lucky stars that she didn’t have to drive. Glen Thompson didn’t seem to have any problems with the traffic. When Irene admitted that it was the first time she had been to London, he immediately said, “Then we’ll take a longer route so I have an opportunity to show you the main streets. It’s easier to orient oneself using them. And you’ll want to walk around on your own without getting lost.”

He talked and pointed out sights worth seeing without seeming to give his fellow road users the slightest bit of attention.

“I’ve booked you in at my sister’s hotel. Our father started it after the war. He was Scottish and married late in life. My mother was in London with a Brazilian dance group and stayed on after she met the old man. He died a few years ago, and then my mother opened this restaurant a few blocks from the hotel. The restaurant was a childhood dream-look, there’s the Marble Arch, and on the left side you have Hyde Park-and she manages wonderfully. You’ll get to meet her tonight. The whole Thompson family will be eating dinner there, and we hope that you can join us.”

“Thanks, I’d love to,” Irene replied, dazed by her host’s voluble friendliness.

“I called Rebecka Schyttelius last night. She had just come home from the hospital. She agreed to see us today, late morning,” Thompson continued.

They surged forward in the heavy morning traffic, the green surfaces of Hyde Park behind the tall fence on one side, and beautiful stone houses with expensive façades on the other.

Glen Thompson turned in on a cross street. The contrast was striking. The road was relatively narrow, with little traffic. The houses were faced with brick or stucco, tall, but not as impressive as those lining the more magnificent streets. Small shops and restaurants with exotic names were squeezed onto the ground level. Irene also noted the striking number of hotel entrances.

“There are plenty of hotels around here,” she noted.

“Yes. Some are really posh, but most of them are small family-owned ones.”

They turned onto an even smaller street and stopped. A few steps led up to a heavy door with lead-framed windows. Two columns supported a portico. Under the roof, there was a frieze with “Thompson Hotel” written in elegant gold letters. Through large windows on each side of the entrance, the reception area was visible. The façades of the neighboring houses adjoined each window. The tall, narrow property appeared to be newly renovated. The stucco shone white, freshly painted, and the window frames were newly trimmed in a soft light blue. Irene immediately liked the little hotel.

Glen Thompson held the door open for her and insisted on carrying her bag. Irene entered the bright lobby and was met by a smiling woman who, she realized, must be Glen’s sister. When she smiled, Irene saw the family resemblance. She was a head shorter than her brother and had a somewhat lighter complexion. She appeared to be about the same age as Irene.

“Welcome to the Thompson Hotel. My name is Estelle.”

She held out her hand to greet Irene, automatically brushing the other hand over her neck to smooth her chignon. Her golden brown short-sleeved dress matched her eyes. Irene realized that the woman in front of her had been a stunning beauty in her youth; she was still very attractive.

“Hello, Estelle,” said Glen. “You can treat me to a cup while Irene gets settled in the room.” He asked Irene, “Is fifteen minutes enough time?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting on the couch.”

HER ROOM was located on the top floor. For the first time in her life, she encountered a one-person elevator. It wouldn’t have been possible to get anyone else inside the tiny cage unless they were tenderly entwined and didn’t have any luggage. When the small elevator had safely rattled its way to the fourth floor and opened its doors, Irene decided that she would have to use the stairs from now on.

The room was surprisingly large, decorated in emerald green and golden tan. Everything was bright and new, from the carpet on the floor to the tiled bathroom. A graphic print with a theme from the Carnaval in Rio adorned the wall.

Irene hung up the few clothes she had brought in the closet and took the opportunity to use the toilet. Then she walked down the stairs to the lobby.

“SHOULD WE walk? It’s only about half a mile from here,” Glen Thompson said.

“I’d love to walk,” Irene agreed.

The sun was shining, but it was still quite cold in the wind.

A surprising number of houses had scaffolding on the outside and several were already restored. Irene realized that Bayswater was a part of the city which was regaining its old character. As if he could read her thoughts, Glen said, “Quite a few immigrants live here in Bayswater but at the same time, we have an influx of English people who want to live in central London. Of course, other areas of the city are more fashionable, like Mayfair or Holland Park, but the houses there are terribly expensive. Yet even if Bayswater has become trendy, it’s nothing compared to Notting Hill. That’s where Rebecka Schyttelius lives. I don’t know if you’ve seen the movie with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. .?”

“No.”

“The movie had an amazing impact, and now it’s fashionable to live in Notting Hill.”

Irene noticed that they were headed west. Pretty soon, the houses became dirtier and more decayed. There was also a lot of scaffolding here, but the houses that were undergoing renovation hadn’t originally been as beautiful as the ones in Bayswater.

“Notting Hill is a old blue-collar neighborhood. But there are a few really nice houses, like the one up there.”

Glen pointed at a large white four-story house with a beautifully ornamented façade. The first floors had narrow balconies running along the whole width of the house, where flowers in boxes and pots were already blooming. The balconies faced a thickly wooded park surrounded by a high iron fence. The general public could only peer through the bars at the greenery, because a sign hanging on the gate told them that it was private.

They walked past a large Tudor-style red brick house, continued to the next cross street, and found themselves on Ossington Street. A pub was located at the corner which, according to the black sign with an ornate golden text, was called “Shakespeare.” The building that housed the pub looked considerably older than the surrounding structures. It was low with small, lead-paned mullioned windows, painted a dull greenish-brown color.

Even here on Ossington Street, scaffolding dominated, particularly on one side. Most of the houses on the other side seemed to have been restored already. Glen Thompson stopped in front of a white stucco house with a bright red door. Two brass plates shone on the door, but the distance was too great for Irene to be able to read them.

“Here it is,” Glen announced after checking the address on a piece of paper.

Irene noted that the next house and Rebecka’s house looked identical, aside from the fact that the neighbor’s door was bright blue. There were even two matching brass plates on the blue door.

A high stone stoop led up to the red door. “Datacons. Lefévre amp; St. Clair” read the larger sign. “Rebecka Schyttelius” had been engraved on the smaller one. So Rebecka lived at her place of work.

Glen Thompson pushed the shiny new brass-surrounded doorbell. There was a faint dingdong from inside the house. After a few seconds, they heard quick steps and the door opened.

For the second time in a few hours’ time, Irene’s jaw dropped when confronted by a man who didn’t look at all like she had expected. Because, as far as Irene knew, this one had been dead for almost twenty years. His murder had been featured on the front pages of newspapers all over the world and on news programs around the globe. Now he stood before her, peering at Irene with brown eyes behind round-framed eyeglasses. His thick shoulder-length dark-brown hair was parted in the middle. A white cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves was open at the neck and hung outside his faded jeans. On his otherwise bare feet were a pair of sandals.

His name was John Lennon.

But when he held out his hand and introduced himself, he claimed that his name was Christian Lefévre.

He smiled when he became aware of Irene’s surprise. In a friendly way, he said, “I’ve won some look-alike contests. People are usually startled when they see me. It’s actually become a fun thing. Especially since the Beatles are my idols, although I was too young during their golden years.”

Christian Lefévre stepped aside to let them in. They took off their coats in the narrow vestibule and were shown into an airy room with a high ceiling. Sunlight entered through tall curtainless windows, filtered through the leaves of the large green plants. Colorful and expensive framed posters of various computers hung on the walls. The Beatles’ “Yesterday” flowed into the room from concealed speakers.

Irene counted three laptop and four desktop computers, standing on wooden desks that had been covered with clear varnish in order to show off the grain of the wood. The thin metal rectangles, the laptops, were closed and rested together on a separate table. Only two of the computers were on.

“Unfortunately, Rebecka couldn’t handle the tension before this meeting. I had to drive her to see Dr. Fischer this morning.”

“Is she going to stay there?” Glen asked.

“Don’t know. But she’ll probably take a sedative. It won’t be possible to speak with her today.”

Irene didn’t know if it was her imagination, but she thought there was a note of satisfaction in Christian Lefévre’s voice.

Glen said, “Okay. Then we’ll interview you.”

That wasn’t what Lefévre had expected. His surprise was apparent. “Me? Why? I don’t know anything.”

“Maybe, but we still want to speak with you.”

“But I have a lot of work. . now, since Rebecka hasn’t been able to work for a while. . ”

“It won’t take long.”

Thompson was adamant. Lefévre shrugged his shoulders in a very French way and walked toward a closed door. “We can talk in here,” he said, opening the door and showing them into the room with a sweeping gesture.

It was a small kitchen that also contained an inviting sofa and chairs covered in soft black leather. A bright red rug covered part of the floor, a spot of color in the otherwise white and black room. The only wall decoration was an exquisite horsehead in red glazed ceramic.

“Coffee or tea?” Lefévre asked.

“Coffee,” Irene answered quickly before Glen had time to decline.

He had had a break at the hotel but she hadn’t, and now she was ready for coffee. Christian filled an electric kettle and turned it on. Irene realized too late that instant coffee was on its way. As long as it wasn’t decaf, it would suffice, she comforted herself.

Lefévre took his time, setting out plastic mugs, tea bags, sugar, milk, and Nescafé. When the water boiled and he had poured it into the mugs, he couldn’t stall any longer. He was forced to sit. There was no doubt that he didn’t like the situation.

Glen observed him closely before he asked, “Why don’t you want us to speak to Rebecka?”

Christian focused on his mug. The water, colored a golden brown from the contents of the tea bag, seemed like the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. It was a long time before he answered.

“I’m not trying to keep you from speaking with Rebecka.”

“Yes, you are.”

Christian fished out the tea bag and threw it into an empty mug in the middle of the table.

“Maybe you’re right. I want to protect her. She doesn’t have the strength even to think about what’s happened, not to mention talk about it. She gets sick if you even refer to. . what happened.”

“How long has she been sick?”

He quickly looked up but then looked away again. “What do you mean? Since the murders-”

“No. She was depressed before.”

“How do you-? September.”

“Has she out sick since September?”

“No. She has been able to work quite a bit. It’s been good for her, distracted her from sad thoughts and anguish. But sometimes she became unable. . Listen here, what does this have to do with the murders in Sweden?”

Irene interjected, “We don’t know. We’re looking for a motive. Did you ever meet Rebecka’s parents, or her brother?”

“No.”

“Did Rebecka say anything to you about someone in her family having been threatened?”

At first Christian looked surprised, then he said, vaguely, “No, she didn’t say anything. But wasn’t there something in the papers about a clue which led to Satanists?”

“The papers wrote that, yes. Has Rebecka said anything to you about Satanists?”

He sipped at the hot tea, while he appeared to be trying to remember.

“It was quite a while ago. Her father asked for her help in tracking Satanists via the Internet.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Rebecka mentioned it in the fall, saying that he’d asked a year before that. So, more than a year and a half ago.”

“And she never said anything to you about personally feeling threatened?”

“No. Never,” he said firmly.

“Did she say or do anything unusual at the beginning of last week?”

“You mean before the murders were discovered?”

“Yes. On Monday or Tuesday.”

“No. Everything was normal. Both of us worked all day Monday. It was probably a bit too much for Rebecka. She went to bed early, around five thirty, because she had a headache. I went to Shakespeare. That’s the pub on the corner. A group of us usually meet there on Mondays and put together our betting pool for the week.”

“What did you do afterward?”

“I went home.”

“Did you see Rebecka?”

“No. She had gone to her place.”

Glen couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Don’t you live together in this house?”

“Yes, and no. I’ve owned the house next door for some time, the one which now has a blue door. My office was located on the ground floor and I lived on the two other floors. The office felt too small, and I was looking for a new location when this house became available. I bought it and offered Rebecka the same living arrangement as I have, including breaking through the wall on the first floor and expanding the office. As you can see, it worked out very well.”

“So you don’t live together as a couple?”

Christian Lefévre glared angrily at Glen. “No. And I don’t see how that has anything to do with your investigation.”

“It does. Rebecka is the only surviving member of the Schyttelius family. Everything which affects her life is important to the investigation,” Glen told him.

It wasn’t really true that everything was important, thought Irene, but it quieted the Frenchman, if he truly was a Frenchman.

Lefévre squirmed in his chair. Finally, he said, “If there is nothing else, I’d actually like to get back to work.”

“I’m glad you said that. What exactly is your work? Are there other employees?” Glen asked.

Christian sighed heavily before he answered. “Here, in London, it’s just Rebecka and myself. Andy St. Clair has moved up to Edinburgh and works from there. But he has a lot of other businesses to run as well. So it’s mostly Rebecka and I who work together. We take on different projects from companies and organizations that deal with computers and networks. Right now, we’re working on exponential and open networks. We look at security questions. Our client is a secret, but I can reveal that there’s a military interest in this. The risk that terrorist groups could completely paralyze the Internet is actually quite high.”

“But you can’t paralyze the whole Internet! There are millions of Web sites that would have to be destroyed,” Irene objected.

“Not at all. It’s quite simple. The Internet is an open network. It’s not sensitive to occasional problems, but it’s sensitive to attacks against the important computers and servers that make up the backbone of the system. Through an attack directed at these servers, the interconnected Internet could be reduced to isolated islands.”

“I’ve never heard that,” Glen said. “What are exproportional networks or whatever they’re called?”

Sincere interest and curiosity could be heard in his voice. Christian had relaxed as he spoke about the Internet. Apparently, he felt much more comfortable in cyberspace. “Exponential networks don’t have any servers. All the computers are equally strongly linked to each other, peer-to-peer. This makes the network sensitive to occasional problems but protects it against attack.”

“Does Rebecka also work on these things?”

“Yes. We’re specialists on everything that has to do with different networks, where one’s own organization’s competence isn’t enough.”

“Is there a lot of money in this sort of thing?”

Lefévre treated himself to a smile for the first time since he had opened the door for them. Without attempting to conceal his satisfaction, he said, “Yes. Lots.”

Glen rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “Let’s see … we’ve spoken about Monday. Nothing unusual happened on Tuesday?”

Christian’s smile disappeared as if someone had shut off a circuit breaker. “No. Nothing strange happened on Tuesday. Except that I slept late in the morning. I guess I had too much beer and whiskey at the pub the night before. But I bought croissants and Danish pastry to make up for it. Rebecka had already eaten breakfast, but she took a Danish anyway.”

“What time was it then?”

“Nine thirty, ten o’clock. Something like that.” Christian threw his hands up as he shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of bafflement at their interest.

“Did you both work here during the day?”

“Yes. But I told Rebecka to stop at around four. Personally, I sat here until nearly eight o’clock.”

“Did Rebecka receive any strange phone calls during those two days?”

“No.”

“And as far as you know, there hadn’t been any strange phone calls earlier?”

“No.”

“And nothing via E-mail either?”

“I said no.”

Christian couldn’t hide his irritation any longer. He rose and started clearing the table. Irene remained sitting because Glen did. Neither broke the silence.

“Will you go now? I have a lot to do.” Christian’s self-control broke. He walked to the door and held it wide. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he tried to swallow his anger. “Get in touch if you have any further questions but right now I don’t have any more time,” he said as calmly as he could manage.

Irene and Glen walked through the impersonal white computer room with the beautiful green plants and on toward the dark entrance. John Lennon’s voice in “Hey Jude” accompanied them out. Now Irene understood why the vestibule was so narrow. It was split by a wall and a door, which led to Rebecka’s apartment.

“Are the apartments identical?” she asked Christian.

“Yes.” His facial expression told her that he considered it to be none of her business.

“HE’S HIDING something. He seems tense. Maybe he really is only trying to protect Rebecka’s weak nerves, but I doubt it,” Glen said as they walked back to the hotel.

“Hard to say. But what would he be hiding?”

“Don’t know. Maybe there’s some threat that he doesn’t want to reveal. Or maybe he really doesn’t know anything. Then he is what he says he is: a young hard-working millionaire in the IT business who’s trying to protect his business partner.”

Glen had voiced something which Irene had been mulling over for a while.

“Don’t you also think that he’s very keen on his partner? I mean, he let Rebecka move into the house next door and he renovated it.”

“True. But it could have been for simple, practical reasons. That part about expanding the offices. Space is terribly expensive in London these days. He’s probably saving a lot by having his office at home in a building he owns,” said Glen.

They walked through different parts of Bayswater than the ones they had passed through before. Here the streets were wider and people swarmed on the sidewalks. Commerce was in full swing in shops and restaurants. Irene started wondering what to buy as a souvenir. Yet again, Glen displayed a creepy ability to read her thoughts.

“If you want to do some shopping, we can go to Whitley’s. It’s nearby, all sorts of shops in one place. I usually take the wife and kids there when it’s time for a shopping trip. They buy, and I sit in the pub on the top floor and read the paper.”

He smiled his infectious smile and Irene was strengthened in her opinion that he was very pleasant. A man who willingly went along on shopping trips! Although he cheated a bit and sneaked off to the pub, he was still there.

They walked up to a building which looked like a shining white wedding cake in the sunshine, more like a grand cathedral than a department store. Glen stopped inside the colonnade but outside the large glass doors. “We’ll meet here in an hour, then we can have lunch. While you’re shopping, I’m going to try to reach Dr. Fischer.”

Irene went in and out of the shops, realizing she wouldn’t have time to visit a fraction of them. She determined that the Swedish krona wasn’t worth much against the pound. At the same time, there were a lot of things which awoke her “must have” craving.

The most intriguing store covered two floors and carried only women’s lingerie. She had been lured in by the display of wonderful garments in every imaginable color. She selected a light-blue bra and panties, each of which cost twelve pounds. She was standing there pondering as to whether it was expensive or cheap, when a young woman appeared in front of her.

“Let me take your measurements and I’ll help you find the right size and model.”

Somewhat skeptically, Irene allowed herself to be led into a fitting room and was measured around the bust and hips. The salesperson disappeared and quickly returned with four bras with matching panties. Irene decided in favor of two of them. Holding the exclusive light yellow bag with its gold inscription, she walked back toward the entrance where she was going to meet Glen. Now she was starving.

TO IRENE’S disappointment, Glen had chosen a restaurant called Mandarin Kitchen. She didn’t want to eat Chinese food now that she was finally in London, since Göteborg has lots of Chinese cafés. But she changed her mind once the food arrived. They didn’t serve half-manufactured food here. Everything was fresh from the market. Based on Glen’s recommendation, she ordered the scallops with garlic, which smelled and tasted heavenly. The cool beer washed the exhaust fumes and dust of the big city from her throat.

Neither of them wanted dessert with coffee. Glen took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Irene, who declined. He lit a cigarette and took a sensual drag.

“I got in touch with Dr. Fischer. He spoke to Rebecka. She has agreed to meet with us at the doctor’s office tomorrow if he’s allowed to be present during the interview. Apparently it’s okay with him. Does that suit you?”

“Of course.”

“We decided on eleven o’clock at his office.”

“That will be fine.”

Glen smiled through the smoke, saying, “Now I need to get back to work. I’ll drop you off outside New Scotland Yard; unfortunately, I don’t have time to show you around. I have a meeting. I can leave you at the stop for the sightseeing bus. It’s on Victoria Street.”

“Great. I don’t know much about London.”

“Then a sightseeing tour will be perfect. Estelle will be waiting for you in the lobby at seven o’clock. You can go together to Vitória.”

“Vitória?”

“Mamma’s restaurant. My grandmother’s name was Vitória. I’ll see you there tonight.”

NEW SCOTLAND Yard was an enormous building made of glass and concrete. It looked like it had been designed by an architect who was still in his Lego phase. On the other hand, the surrounding older buildings were beautiful and impressive.

“That’s the Houses of Parliament, the seat of Parliament since the fifteen hundreds. And over there you can see Big Ben. It’s not the tower but the clock itself which is called Big Ben,” Glen told her.

He dropped Irene off at the bus stop near the Thames, not far from a bridge which, according to the signs, was Westminster Bridge. She realized that she needed a map. A friendly, white-haired lady in a kiosk next to the bus stop sold both maps and one-day sightseeing tickets.

“You can get on and off the bus wherever you want,” the little lady said, smiling a sunny toothless smile.

Irene sat on the open top deck of the bus and buttoned her jacket tightly around her neck since the wind off the water was cold.

IT WAS five thirty when she dragged herself through the door of the hotel room. Her head was spinning and her feet ached. She was completely exhausted. She threw shopping bags on the bed and went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet in the tub, and started filling it with hot water. A bath was her primary need-right after caffeine, that is. Thankfully, she noted that the hotel provided a small water heater in each room. Next to the white ceramic cups, there was a bowl with tea bags, instant coffee in single servings, and sugar. Irene filled the flask with water, plugged it in, and poured the bowl’s three packages of coffee into a cup.

She had gotten off at Oxford Street on the way home, just outside Selfridge’s department store. A quick sweep of the floors had revealed that the prices were too high for her. To her glee she saw an H amp;M store a bit farther down the street, and there she found a nice light green sweater and a black top decorated with glitter. Attractive and cheap, since the sweater was on sale for half price. Irene was very pleased with her finds, but slightly embarrassed at the same time. To travel to London only to shop at H amp;M was really like crossing a pond to get water from the far side. If someone were to ask her where she had bought the sweater or the top, she decided to just answer, “In London.”

She took the steaming cup with her into the bathroom and set it on the edge of the tub. It was heavenly to sink into the warm water and take a few sips of the venomously strong coffee. The caffeine rushed around her body and chased away her fatigue, at the same time as the heat from the bathwater increased her circulation. Her whole body started to feel pleasantly relaxed.

DARK CLOUDS gathered on the horizon and quickly closed in on the sandy beach. What had seemed warm and pleasant a little while ago, suddenly became cold and threatening. Irene was freezing but didn’t know what she should do to get the temperature to rise. Her arms and legs were frozen stiff and refused to follow orders. Fear gripped her with its claws and she realized that she was paralyzed and freezing to death. The icy rain and cold were relentless; the tide would soon sweep her out into the sea. On top of all this suffering, thunder started roaring.

Irene sat up in the cold bath water with a jerk. The roar of thunder could still be heard. It took a moment before she realized that someone was knocking at the door. Shaking from cold, she stood and grabbed a big white bath towel. Shivering, she fumbled it around herself as she went to open the door. Estelle was standing outside.

Her hair was just as impeccably arranged as it had been that morning. She was dressed in a striking figure-fitting bone-white dress with matching shoes. Over one shoulder she had thrown a jacket. She smiled. “Hi. Are you almost ready?”

“No. . I fell asleep in the bath.”

“You poor thing. You flew in early this morning, and you’ve been busy all day. It’s not surprising that you fell asleep. It’s just a quarter past. I’ll call and say that we’ll be a little late.”

She walked quickly away over the corridor’s soft carpet without tripping or wobbling on her high heels. Some women know the art of walking in heels, others don’t, Irene observed. Irene was definitely in the latter category.

In a flash, she showered in scorching hot water to get her circulation going. She didn’t have time to wash her hair, but there was just enough to blow it dry with the hair dryer. She dived into the light-purple top and her blue linen suit. Two quick swipes with mascara over her eyelashes and a pass with the newly purchased lipstick, and she was ready to float down to Estelle, who had said she would wait in the foyer. At the last second, Irene had remembered jewelry, a present from Krister on her fortieth birthday. With quick movements of her hands, she exchanged the small silver balls in her ears for larger gold ones. Around her neck she hung the long chain with a beautiful oval golden pendant. Krister’s cousin Anna, a goldsmith in Karlstad, had made them. They were the most expensive pieces Irene had ever owned, and she loved them. One glance in the mirror confirmed that she looked good enough for a London restaurant.

“YOU MANAGED it in twelve minutes. I’m impressed,” said Estelle.

They walked barely a hundred meters down the street from the hotel. Vitória was located in a large brick house. They could hear South American rhythms out on the street, and a carnival atmosphere ruled inside. Some thirty people of all ages sat around a long table. Everyone sang along with the music and raised their glasses in toasts. Irene almost had to scream in order to be heard.

“Are you celebrating something?”

“Didn’t Glen tell you?” Estelle asked, surprised.

“No. What?”

“Mamma is turning sixty-five.”

“But then I shouldn’t be-”

In her confusion Irene couldn’t come up with the phrase for “butting in.” Estelle said, “You aren’t. It was Mamma’s idea that Glen should invite you. She didn’t want you to be all alone in the big city. Mamma loves to have people around her.”

A plump woman in a fire-red dress came toward them with a big smile and wide-open arms. “Welcome! Now the party can really start, because everyone is here! A special welcome to Irene! My name is Donna!”

In the next moment Irene found her nose in a food-and-perfume-scented wave of gray hair, her arms locked at her sides in the woman’s powerful embrace.

Donna gently pushed her back and looked up at her face. “If all police officers in Sweden are as tall as you, then I want you to send a male example, the right age for me. I love tall men!”

She smiled a glittering golden smile; for a split second, Superintendent Andersson’s pale, flabby face floated by in Irene’s mind. He could use someone soon to liven up his life as a retiree. Maybe she should send him here to Donna? He was about the right age, but a bit lacking in height. This vibrant woman would run him ragged in a few weeks; Irene was already feeling a bit exhausted herself.

Glen waved and hollered, pointing at two empty chairs on the other side of the table across from where he was sitting. Estelle made her way there with Irene in her wake.

“Hi, Irene! May I introduce my wife Kate and the twins, Brian and. . where is Kevin?”

Glen got up and shouted at a group of children. While Glen was trying to find his progeny, Irene met Kate. She was beautiful, with thick reddish-blond hair, big blue eyes, and a very pale freckled complexion. The dark, curly-haired boy at her side was joined by an identical copy whom Glen had managed to fish out of the pack of kids.

“I also have twins. But they are girls and they just turned eighteen. And they aren’t-”

Irene stopped, again at a loss for a word. What were these twins called in English?

“Identical twins,” Kate proffered.

A waiter came and served drinks from a tray. The dark sweet liquid that burned Irene’s stomach was probably rum, but she wasn’t completely sure. After a while, food was brought to the table. They ate shrimp and mussels with a spicy sauce into which you dipped wonderful newly baked bread. Then skewers of chicken and vegetables were served. The sauce that went with this course had a strong taste of chili. That’s probably why the good red wine disappeared so quickly. As the levels in the glasses sank, the mood around the table soared. To her horror, Irene realized that there was more food coming when large, aromatic steaks were brought in. She was already stuffed. The meat was served with a red wine sauce and roasted potatoes.

“This meat is from South America, not England. No mad cow disease!” Donna trumpeted from the head of the table.

It tasted wonderful, but two more glasses of wine were needed to wash down all the food. Irene started feeling the effects of the wine. She told herself to take it easy. It wouldn’t do to be hung over during tomorrow’s questioning of Rebecka Schyttelius.

The warm mood-and the actual warmth-in the small restaurant increased. The guests cheered and sang for the birthday girl; since Irene didn’t know Portuguese, she had to hum along as best she could.

A magnificent fruitcake was served for dessert, with coffee. Irene declined an after-dinner drink accompanying the coffee. The guests talked, laughed, and sang, but the hour was approaching twelve and Irene felt that she couldn’t stay awake much longer. It had been a long, eventful day. She went up to Donna, thanking her for the fun party and all the good food. Donna pulled her face down and gave her a smacking kiss on each cheek. “Promise now that you’ll send me a retired police officer! A tall one!” Donna chirped.

Irene promised to do her best.

THE COOL night air felt pleasant against Irene’s flushed cheeks. She took a few deep breaths in order to vent the smoke-and-alcohol-tinged air from her lungs. Glen had offered to follow her back to the hotel, but she declined when she saw that he was trying to corral the overtired twins. A taxi slowly crept toward her but continued past when she didn’t hail it. It wasn’t far to walk, and she could find her way.

The street was quiet and deserted. So when a car came up behind her, she heard it. She also heard it stop and a car door open, but she thought it was dropping off a passenger. She was completely unprepared when a pair of hands grabbed her upper arms from behind and thrust her through the open rear door of the taxi. She hit her forehead on the door frame so hard that she saw stars. She was roughly pushed into the car.

“Drive, damn it!” a hoarse voice muttered at her side in a London dialect. He had nauseating breath that stank from alcohol and rotten teeth.

For a second, Irene’s brain was paralyzed from surprise and fear. She didn’t have time to scream before he closed the car door. They had landed in a heap on the floor of the passenger compartment. She couldn’t see her attacker, who was still behind and on top of her. She twisted her head using all her strength, but all she saw of the driver through the window between the rear and the driver’s seat was a thick, shaved neck with a large black tattoo.

What did these men want? Who were they? The man who’d grabbed her started groping her breasts, and she was convinced that he was going to rape her, but when he tried to grab her golden pendant, she realized he was trying to rob her.

Then she became completely calm. He had released his grasp on her upper arms; his left arm was around her neck in a chokehold. Irene tensed her neck muscles and seized that arm with one hand. With all her strength, she rammed the elbow of her other arm into his stomach. The air was completely knocked out of him, and his chokehold loosened immediately. In a split second, Irene twisted out of his grip and struggled to his side. She was grateful that London taxis have generous legroom for passengers. Irene kept a steel grip on the man’s arm, twisted it up behind his back, and forced him down onto his stomach. She locked his other hand by sitting on his back, driving her knee below his shoulder blades and holding his arm against the car floor with her free hand. The slightest move would increase the pressure on his back and inflict terrible pain. He lay completely still.

Everything had happened in a matter of seconds. The fat-necked guy in the front seat hardly had time to figure out what had happened, but something had: That much he understood. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed.

He tried to turn his head and look down behind him at the floor of the taxi as he drove. Irene heard a half-suppressed curse, and then the car began to skid. It lurched and the tires screamed. Irene had a hard time keeping her hold on the man underneath her. The car came to a dead stop with a dull thud. The driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt. His head struck the windshield, and he lay draped over the steering wheel.

The man under Irene didn’t move either, and she was afraid that he had stopped breathing. Maybe she had unintentionally pushed too hard on his back when the car had stopped suddenly. It was a dangerous hold, and people had died previously after it was used on them. Irene leaned over, and to her relief, she heard the man breathing, but he appeared to be unconscious.

She managed to get the car door open and was helped out by a man who was hurrying toward her. He used one hand to steady her, and in the other he held a cell phone. “. . crashed at the corner of Westbourne and Lancaster Gate. . single-car accident … ran into a pole. . a woman is uninjured but the men seem badly off. . ambulance is probably best. . ”

When the man turned around to find out what had caused the accident, the woman was no longer there.