The Glass Devil

Chapter 13

EVEN THOUGH IRENE HAD made up her mind not to awaken with a headache, that was exactly what happened anyway. It wasn’t the fault of the alcohol she’d drunk, but that of the large bump on her head, which pounded and ached and was starting to turn blue. It was proof that last night’s attack had really happened and wasn’t a horrible nightmare. The bump, with a little scrape, was located right at her hairline and wasn’t very visible when she brushed her bangs forward, although then the bangs stuck out oddly.

She had sneaked away from the scene of the accident. Feeling that she didn’t have the energy for a night-long police interrogation, she had managed to find her way to the hotel and climb up the stairs to her room. Despite being shaken by the happenings of the previous hour, she had managed to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. Maybe she had passed out?

Irene tottered down to the dark breakfast room in the hotel’s cellar level and downed several cups of instant coffee. She was still full after Donna’s birthday dinner. Half a cheese sandwich was all she had room for. Her headache eased and she could start thinking.

She had to tell the police what had happened. The only sensible thing to do was to try to reach Glen Thompson. They had decided that he would pick her up outside the hotel at twenty minutes to eleven, but now it would be better if he arrived earlier.

In her room, Irene took out Glen’s card and dialed his work number. She was in luck; he answered right away. Irene tried to explain that something serious had happened the night before, but he interrupted her. “I’ll come as soon as possible.”

Irene went down to the lobby to wait. Estelle hurried past, chirped “Good morning,” and disappeared quickly into the hotel’s inner environs. She couldn’t have slept too many hours, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell by looking at her. Irene didn’t fool herself; her reflection in the mirror had shown that her night had been difficult, but Estelle probably assumed that it was because of too much wine.

A black Rover turned in at the hotel entrance. Glen’s sunny smile faded immediately when he saw Irene’s face.

“Let’s go up to your room,” he said.

IRENE EXPLAINED exactly what had happened. Glen didn’t interrupt her. When she was done, he shook his head.

“Unbelievable! The question is, who had the worse luck: you, who were attacked your first night in London, or the attackers, who went up against an ex-master of jujitsu!”

He smiled but immediately became serious again. “I’m going to notify the police in this district.”

Glen called from the telephone in Irene’s room. He spoke a long time with different people. He was quiet for long periods, nodding and listening. Sometimes he glanced in Irene’s direction and she thought that something flickered in his eyes; he almost looked frightened.

“Come on. It’s time to go. I’ll tell you all I learned in the car,” Glen said, finally.

HE DIDN’T start the car directly when they had gotten in, but looked at Irene gravely.

“You had incredible luck. Thanks to your knowledge of jujitsu, you avoided a terrible fate.”

He turned on the ignition. The car started with a soft rumble, and he pulled away from the curb. “The taxi was stolen. The driver was found, with critical stab wounds having been robbed, on a small back street where they are in the process of tearing down some houses, just a few blocks from Vitória. He was gagged and his hands were bound with tape. He’s in pretty bad shape and is in the hospital. The only consolation is that now both culprits are, as well.”

Glen stopped to let an older woman with a walker cross the street at a crosswalk. When she had managed to make her way to the other side, he gunned the accelerator and continued. “The man in the back seat who attacked you is Ned Atkinson, known as Gravedigger.”

He fell silent again. Irene’s headache was pressing against the inside of her forehead. So she had fought with a man named Gravedigger. She tried to speak, but her tongue felt stiff and strange.

“Ned is an old lag and a drug addict. He was released a few months ago after completing a twelve-year sentence as an accessory to murder. His specialty is to assist in contract killings in the underworld and to get rid of the bodies. Hence the name Gravedigger.”

Irene managed to coax her tongue to move and tried to reassure herself with a feeble smile. “Dare one ask what the other man is called?”

Glen gave her a long look before he answered. “The Butcher.”

The Butcher. Irene decided not to ask anything else.

“You were lucky that he wasn’t the one who pulled you into the car. The Butcher weighs about a hundred and thirty kilos and is incredibly strong. But he injured himself when he escaped from prison last month. They discovered a large infected sore on his knee when he was admitted to the hospital last night for his head injury. The superintendent I spoke with said that a normal person would hardly have been able to walk around with such an injury. The Butcher was forced to. He couldn’t go to an emergency room: A nationwide bulletin had been issued for him.”

They had passed Marble Arch and continued onto Oxford Street. Traffic was heavy and the sidewalks were jammed with people running in and out of the shops. Glen slowed down, turned onto a cross street, and continued. “He’s being cared for in a special hospital for mentally ill criminals. He’d been in prison for a series of unusually vicious murders and rapes. Some were contract jobs, others he committed for pleasure.”

Glen parked parallel to the sidewalk. When he had turned off the engine, he said softly, “Ned was without oxygen a little too long during your struggle. He’s going to survive, but he’ll probably have permanent injuries, although his brain damage may also have been caused by an overdose. They found high levels of morphine in his blood and he’s a known heroin addict. His system is weakened by drugs and he’s in overall poor health. The Butcher struck his head on the windshield and has serious skull injuries. His condition is critical. And Irene. . ”

Glen paused and looked into Irene’s eyes. “They found a large knife next to the Butcher. The same one he had stabbed the taxi driver with. It was still bloody.”

Robbery. Rape. Stabbing, and maybe murder. That’s what would have awaited her if she hadn’t managed to get away. She couldn’t keep her knees from shaking when she stepped out of the car. Despite the fact that it was thirteen degrees outside, sweat was running down her back.

DR. FISCHER had his practice in a beautiful stone house a little way from the bustle of Oxford Street. All of the houses along the cross street had been lavishly and reverently renovated.

After having spoken into the intercom to identify themselves, they were admitted. The vestibule was preserved in a Victorian style with a lot of marble and carved dark mahogany. To Irene’s relief, the elevator was completely new and certainly large enough for two people.

A large man in his late fifties was standing at an open door waiting for them when they emerged from the elevator. He had thick steel-gray hair which was combed back over his high forehead, and a short gray beard. His light-gray suit was tight across the shoulders and back, but it looked expensive. His face was wide and powerful. His smile revealed large teeth, but couldn’t compete with his penetrating gray-blue eyes. Despite his elegant clothes, Irene thought that he looked more like a big-game hunter than a doctor. He scrutinized them over the edge of frameless glasses.

“Officers Thompson and Huss, I believe. I’m Dr. Fischer. Come in.”

He made them a slight bow, greeting them without shaking hands, and gestured toward his office. They passed through a dark hall and came to a small living room used as a waiting room. “Rebecka would like us to sit in here,” said Dr. Fischer. He opened the door and stepped across the threshold first. It was furnished with antique furniture which harmonized well with the decorative plaster work of the ceiling and the lead-framed mullions in the top of the windows. There were Oriental rugs on the floor which looked genuine to Irene’s untrained eye. Everything pointed to this not being your average clinic; the charges were doubtless above average as well.

Fischer approached a woman who was seated in an armchair next to one of the windows and laid one hand on her shoulder.

The light came from the side and fell on the right half of Rebecka’s face. Irene could see that she was thinner than she had been in the pictures taken at the Christmas breakfast. She was dressed in a white cotton polo shirt and a black suit in a thin material which was beautifully tailored. As far as Irene could see, she wasn’t wearing any jewelry. Her hair was longer than in the photos, and just as thick. However, it was completely dull, as if it hadn’t been washed for quite some time. It suited her to have lost a few kilos. Her full lips and high cheekbones had become more prominent. Her eyes, looking large and empty in her pale face, betrayed her worry and anguish. Irene could see what it was that had made Christian Lefévre try to keep Rebecka away from them. He wanted to protect her against her own fear and pain.

She heard Eva Möller’s voice again: “Rebecka is like her father. …”

“Rebecka, these are the police officers who want to speak with you,” said Dr. Fischer.

Irene and Glen walked over, shook hands, and introduced themselves. Rebecka’s hand felt limp and cold. Irene was unsure about how she should begin, so she said hesitantly, in Swedish, “I don’t really know how I should express my colleagues’ and my sympathy for you. What has happened to your family is tragic, and we’re doing everything we can to solve the murders. But we need your help. There are too many questions we don’t have the answers to. Do you think you have the strength to answer a few questions?”

Rebecka nodded almost imperceptibly without looking at Irene.

“My first question is, do you have any thoughts as to a motive for the killings?”

A brief headshake was the only response.

“Have your parents or Jacob ever told you that they had been threatened?”

“No,” Rebecka replied softly and hoarsely.

“Have you personally ever been threatened?”

Another headshake, slightly stronger.

No one in the family had been threatened, but now three out of the four were dead. It sounded unlikely. Rebecka must know something, even if she didn’t realize it, Irene thought.

“Do you know of anyone who could have hated your parents so much that he or she could have killed them?”

“No.”

“And Jacob didn’t have any enemy you knew of either?”

“No.”

Neither Dr. Fischer nor Glen understood a word of their conversation, of course, but both of them sat perfectly still.

Irene would have given almost anything to hand the conversation over to Glen. After the previous evening’s events, she was off kilter. But she had to conduct this interview herself. She decided to start another topic.

“We’ve heard that your father asked for your help in tracing Satanists via the Internet. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find anything useful?”

For the first time Rebecka looked at Irene, but she turned away before she answered. “We found a lot of their propaganda. But Pappa wanted to find the ones who had burned down the church. There were just chat sites on the Web.”

“Chat sites?”

“Yes. On one, someone congratulated them on the. . ‘successful raid against the enemy’s temple by the sea.’ Signed, ‘Satan’s faithful servant.’ I managed to trace it to a computer at a high school in Lerum. That was it.”

She spoke with a great deal of difficulty, and Irene saw cold sweat break out on her forehead. It was clear that this was hard for her.

“Do you know if your father managed to find anything during his own investigations?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You weren’t home this past Christmas, correct?”

“No.”

“So it has been a while since you saw your parents?”

Irene let the question hang in the air on purpose since she really didn’t know how she ought to continue, but she was surprised to see Rebecka wince. She took a deep, audible breath before whispering, “Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

Rebecka licked her dry lips. “Easter. . one year ago. . ”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? An unusual or strange feeling? Someone who said something odd?”

Rebecka appeared to be thinking. “No.”

“Did your father speak about the Satanists?”

“No.”

“Did your mother say anything about Satanists?”

“No.”

Rebecka sagged against the backrest. Her face was ashen, and Irene realized that she wouldn’t be able to handle much more. The next question was sensitive, but it had to be asked. In a gentle voice, Irene said, “We found a book about Satanism at your brother’s. It was hidden in the cottage. It was written by a founding figure within Satanism-”

“LaVey.”

“You know the book?”

“I bought it. Here in London.”

“Why?”

“He wanted it. I gave it to him as a Christmas present.”

“Last Christmas?”

“No, the Christmas before.”

“The Christmas when you were home?”

“Yes.”

“Have you read it yourself?”

“No.”

“The book was hidden in a space behind a wall panel in one of the bedrooms in the cottage. He also kept a rifle there. Did you know about that hiding place?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he had a rifle behind the wall panel?”

Rebecka shook her head slowly.

“Who else knows about the hiding place?”

“Only our family. It was like a. . safe.”

Rebecka closed her eyes and leaned her head back. It looked like she didn’t have the energy to hold up its weight any longer. Dr. Fischer started clearing his throat and twisting his large body in the chair he sat in. Irene thought feverishly. She realized that her time was almost up. Suddenly, she remembered something she had been wondering about.

“Someone said that you had been home last summer and that you had had your boyfriend with you. Is that correct?”

Rebecka looked like she was asleep but after a while she opened her eyes and looked straight at Irene. “It was Christian and myself. We were called to Stockholm. . to do a job. Christian had never been to Sweden. We flew to Landvetter and rented a car. Drove up. . so that he could see. We drove past Kullahult. They weren’t home. Unusual.”

“Did your parents know you were coming?”

“No. Short notice. I thought about surprising them. Idiot-proof. . they never went anywhere. And just that day, they drove to see Pappa’s old school friend in Värmland. Went to a market, I think.”

“Did you tell them later that you had been in Kullahult?”

“Actually, I don’t think so. We just drove by.”

“Did you see Jacob?”

“No. He didn’t move down until August.”

“When did you and Christian go to Stockholm?”

“The end of July.”

“So Christian has never met your family?”

“No.”

“And he isn’t your boyfriend?”

Rebecka shook her head weakly in reply.

“Who were you going to visit in Stockholm?”

Rebecka turned her head away and didn’t answer for some time. Finally, she whispered, “Save the Children Sweden.”

Dr. Fischer hit the armrests on the chair firmly with the palms of his hands and said, “No. Now this is enough. Rebecka can’t handle any more.”

Irene saw that he was right. Rebecka lay in the armchair like a punctured balloon.

“Thank you, Rebecka, for helping me. I know how difficult this has been for you,” she started, but was interrupted by Rebecka mumbling something that sounded like “… no one can understand,” but Irene wasn’t completely sure.

Irene quickly took out her card and handed it to Glen.

“Glen, please write down the telephone number of the Thompson Hotel and your number in case she wants to reach me later in the day.”

Glen did as she asked. Irene held the card out to Rebecka.

“You can reach me at the numbers on the back of the card until five thirty tonight. Then I have to fly home. After that, you can reach me at the numbers on the front. And you can, of course, always reach me on my cell phone number. Don’t forget to dial the country code, plus forty-six, if you call my cell number.”

Rebecka nodded. She let the hand with the card sink into her lap without taking a look at it.

“I HAVE a meeting at three o’clock. How about going to eat lunch now?” Glen suggested.

Irene thought that sounded like a good idea. Breakfast had been on the meager side.

“I’ll pick you up at the hotel just after five thirty tonight. You can keep your room until then. Then you’ll have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat at the airport before the flight home. What do you want to do on your own this afternoon?” Glen asked when they were in the car again, weaving their way through the heavy traffic.

“Actually, no idea. What do you suggest?” Irene said.

“Do you like old buildings, or shopping, or what?”

“Shopping I did yesterday, and old buildings really aren’t my thing. Something fun that doesn’t cost a lot of money,” Irene concluded.

Glen thought about it for a little while. Then he brightened up. “I know! The Tate Modern. Then we can eat at a good restaurant nearby.”

They drove over the Thames and turned to the left at the bridge abutment. Glen found an empty parking space where he managed to insert the Rover by a feat of advanced parallel parking. They went into a three-story building which turned out to be one restaurant on three levels. The top floor was, for the most part, made up of a terrace. A large sign explained that one could rent the entire top floor for large parties. The wind and gray weather outside didn’t really inspire such use on that particular day. Irene preferred the delicious pub warmth of the bottom floor.

They found an empty table and hung their coats over the chair backs to show that they were taken. At all four corners of the table, a metal disc with an engraved number had been inserted. They had to go up to the bar to order, state their table number, and await table service. One didn’t walk back to the table empty-handed, though: Instead, one carried a glass of beer.

Irene had chosen lasagna; Glen, potato and tuna salads. The servings were extremely generous and the food very good. The stereotype that Englishmen couldn’t cook seemed mistaken to Irene. She had eaten well during her two days in this country. She actually hadn’t eaten typical English food, though, but Chinese, South American, and Italian, consumed in the company of a dark-skinned half Scottish/half Brazilian named Glen. Nothing during her trip had really been “typically English.” Maybe the beer would be.

“What impression did you get of Rebecka?” Glen asked.

“She’s really sick; it’s obvious. But I don’t know if she’s suffering from a normal depression or if she’s simply overcome with fear. It seemed to me as if terror has sapped her strength. She was completely exhausted.”

Glen nodded. “I, too, sensed that she felt anguished. But she actually spoke with you and answered your questions.”

“Yes, she answered the questions. Not that it added much to what we already knew. But I have the feeling that she still hasn’t told us everything. What is she afraid of? Who is she afraid of? Why won’t she talk?”

“A lot of questions without answers,” Glen said.

“I still don’t know if she fears for her own life. She denied that anyone in the family had been threatened. Yet three of them have been murdered.”

Glen looked at her thoughtfully. “Rebecka is a mystery. She fascinates me. She’s beautiful, intelligent, but so frightened and isolated. You must speak with her again; you should wait a while but then you must get her to talk. One problem is that she doesn’t want to hear about the funeral or that she should go to Sweden. It hasn’t even been possible to bring it up,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“The pastor from the Seaman’s Church who was with me when we first told her what had happened. He asked her to get in touch if she wanted help finding someone who could assist her, like a funeral director. I called him to find out if Rebecka had been in touch with him. She hasn’t. He was concerned, because there are certain practical arrangements to be made as to funerals and estates.”

“I can call him if you want. It might be a good idea to ask him to contact Dr. Fischer. He can raise the question with Rebecka when he sees that she feels a bit better and has the strength to discuss it.”

“That might be a good solution.”

Glen took out a notebook and flipped through it for a while before he found the number he was looking for. “Here! The Swedish Seaman’s Church, Assistant Rector Kjell Sjönell,” Glen read aloud.

Irene laughed when Glen tried to pronounce the Swedish sj sound. She wrote down Kjell Sjönell’s number and his office hours.

THEY WALKED along the Thames and talked about the dramatic occurrences of the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m going to write down your account of the attack. I’ll fax it to you so that you can read through it and sign it. I don’t know yet if you’ll need to come here again to testify at the trial against those villains, if they happen to recover enough for there to be a trial. I’ll find out,” Glen told her.

“Why do you think they chose me as a victim?” Irene asked.

“Well, they saw a woman leaving a restaurant alone, a restaurant that seemed to be quite lively. There was a good chance that she was intoxicated. A perfect robbery victim.”

Suddenly, Irene remembered the taxi she had seen just as she’d reached the street. She had left her jacket open because it had been warm inside the restaurant. Gravedigger and the Butcher would have seen the reflection of their headlights on her gold jewelry. Instinctively, she grabbed the golden pendant which was hanging around her neck.

After a walk of about a kilometer or so, Glen pointed at a large building that rose up a short distance from the Thames. “That’s the Tate Modern. It’s an old electrical station that was converted into a modern museum. The ceiling height in the old turbine hall is thirty-five meters. But it’s actually fun to walk and look around. Kate and I were there just a few weeks ago. There’s a lot to see. And it’s free.”

“How come it’s free?”

“Built with donations. From the Guggenheim Fund, I think.”

Irene had never heard of that fund, but there appeared to be a lot of money in it if it could finance the massive building that rose in front of them. Of course, the fund hadn’t built the building itself, but made sure it was renovated and filled with art.

IRENE SPENT several pleasant hours at the Tate Modern, among the works of some of the most famous modern artists. For the first time, Irene saw original paintings by Picasso, Monet, Dalí and van Gogh, Leger and Mondrian. She realized that most of the artists she’d thought of as “modern” weren’t actually very recent: Most of them had been productive at the end of the nineteenth century and then up to the middle of the twentieth century. Despite that, they were known as the groundbreakers of modern art. Irene felt the power in the images and understood that they were about what had been “New” around the turn of the twentieth century, which had transformed art forever.

Wandering among the artworks felt instructive, but was also tiring for the feet. She finally ended up in the overcrowded cafeteria at the top of the building, on the seventh floor. She managed to find an empty barstool and order a beer. Sitting and looking at a mixture of people from all corners of the world was intriguing. If she grew tired of them, she could gaze out over London’s rooftops and at the boats below on the Thames. Time flew by until she had to head toward the hotel and the airport.

GLEN DROVE her to Heathrow. Before they parted, Irene said, “I reached the pastor, Kjell Sjönell. He promised to get in touch with Dr. Fischer and then to contact me. We’ll have to see if Rebecka recovers sufficiently to be able to come home to Sweden. Otherwise, I might have to return here once more.”

Glen smiled. “It would be very nice if you could visit us again. But, of course, I hope Rebecka gets better. I’ve been thinking about her and her mystery. I think she holds the key to the truth. Whether she knows it or not.”

Irene nodded. “That’s exactly what I think as well.”