The Glass Devil

Chapter 18

THEY LANDED AT EDINBURGH International Airport, west of the city. Because they had a few hours left before they were going to meet St. Clair, they stopped to grab a bite to eat there. Warm croissants and coffee tasted heavenly after the Spartan airplane breakfast.

They had barely been seated when Glen’s telephone started ringing. The conversation was short but very polite. When he had hung up, he said, “That was St. Clair’s secretary. We’re very welcome for lunch at one o’clock.”

“Where?”

“At his home, Rosslyn Castle.”

“He lives in a castle?”

“Of course.”

He smiled. With a pompous air, he took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and cleared his throat as if he were about to make a speech.

“Kate has helped me do some research. We have several books at home about Scotland’s history and the Scottish clans. She wrote down the relevant information, but I’ve only had time to glance at the paper. I didn’t want to read it on the plane in case we might be spied on. We’re to use the greatest possible discretion, the boss said several times yesterday.”

He took a big bite out of his croissant and washed it down with coffee, squinting at the paper as he read it. After a while, he said, “The St. Clair family can trace its ancestors back to the fourteen hundreds. They are descended from the great Earl of Orkney and Sir William St. Clair. The earl built the castle and Sir William built a famous church. The family still owns large areas of land in the Pentland Hills. Andrew’s father, George, had a head for business and invested in the Scottish oil industry from its incipience. Earlier, they made their fortunes from the wool and tweed trades.”

“Have they been weaving their own plaids since the fourteen hundreds?” Irene asked.

“This tradition, that each clan has a special tartan, is said to be genuine. But actually it was a weaver from Lancashire who popularized the idea in the eighteen hundreds. Distinguished ladies sat in their drawing rooms and chose a pattern, which they named after their family. Probably they had to place a large order to obtain exclusivity. The whole world has gone along with it!”

Irene smiled but felt disappointed. Like most, she had thought the Scots had fought for freedom wearing their clan plaids like in the movie Braveheart. But one of the soldiers in that film had actually been wearing Nike running shoes when he was fighting in one of the countless bloody battle scenes, and she thought she had seen a glimpse of a pair of white Jockey underpants under one of the kilts. Hollywood films weren’t always historically correct.

“Was your father from Edinburgh?” she asked.

“No. He was from Ayr, on the west coast. But we rarely came up here to visit. His relatives didn’t like the fact that he had married a black woman. Even less that they had children.”

Irene understood that it was a sensitive topic.

“Andrew St. Clair’s half-sister is married to a Spanish nobleman and is incredibly wealthy. Of course, she also inherited money after her father died. Otherwise, Andrew is the only heir and runs the whole empire. He’s probably getting married this summer in order to secure the lineage.”

“Probably.”

They wandered over to the Avis counter. Glen had reserved a Rover. They were assigned a red one, a change from his usual black.

“Do you want to take a spin around Edinburgh?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

EDINBURGH TURNED out to be a fantastically beautiful city. Well-kept buildings, nice streets, and open squares climbed up the high hills. Many of the streets were wide, and there were a lot of unexpected descents and stairs. They drove up toward Edinburgh Castle, which towered over the city on a high cliff. They parked outside the castle.

Glen said, “This is the Esplanade. A long time ago, people were executed here but these days it’s used for the popular Military Tattoo. In August every year, they have a festival here which involves parades with bagpipe players in kilts and the whole deal. The tourists love it.”

They walked around for a while, enjoying a magnificent view of the city. They were lucky with the weather, as it was sunny and clear, but the wind howled in their ears and was bitterly cold. Irene was thankful that she had her lined jacket with her, but she could have used a thicker shirt. After a turn in the biting wind, she was thankful to sit in the car again.

“How far is it to Rosslyn Castle?” she asked.

Glen unfolded the map they had been given at Avis.

“Between twelve and eighteen miles,” he said. He pointed at a spot south of Edinburgh. “We drive down toward Penicuik. Maybe we should start now and take a look at the castle’s surroundings,” he suggested.

“Let’s do it.”

Irene didn’t have a clue what Penicuik was, but she didn’t care as long as she didn’t have to walk in the wind for a while.

ROSSLYN CASTLE was also located on a hill, though it was not as high as the one on which Edinburgh Castle stood. Extensive fields and meadows spread out beneath the hill. They were already bright green, and flocks of sheep grazed in the meadows. Behind the castle, the Pentland Hills stood as a backdrop.

Before reaching the avenue that led to the castle, they passed a beautiful old church with a sign that identified it as Rosslyn Chapel.

Glen pointed out the chapel’s thick stone walls and richly adorned facade. “That’s Sir William’s Church. Ten St. Clair barons lie buried in their armor in the church.”

If he ever grew tired of the police force, he could become an excellent guide, thought Irene. But she was glad to have come across a colleague who wanted to tell her about the sights, because she never would have learned so much about London and Edinburgh in her short stays if she hadn’t had Glen with her.

A tall coniferous hedge rose up to mark the avenue’s start. It ws pierced by ornate iron gates, through which they glimpsed a large stone house. Glen braked and backed up. “Come,” he said and got out.

Puzzled, Irene followed his orders.

He stood before the gates, pointing at a brass mailbox. “Lefévre” was engraved on it in elegant letters.

“This must be Christian’s childhood home,” Glen said.

He grasped the handle of the right-hand gate and pushed it. The gate swung open on creaking hinges.

“Well, we won’t arrive unannounced,” he remarked dryly.

The grounds inside the hedge were unexpectedly large. They passed a forgotten rake leaning against a fruit tree, and someone had placed a large basket of woven osier a bit farther along. The driveway leading to the front door was covered with coarse gravel, which crunched under their feet.

The gray stone exterior and black slate roof made the mansion appear gloomy. Small windows added to that impression. Thick ivy climbed the walls and enlivened the dark façade.

When they were almost at the door, it was opened. A figure could be glimpsed in the opening, and a female voice asked, “Who are you?”

“Detective Inspectors Huss and Thompson,” Glen said. He smiled his most charming smile and, at the same time, waved his police ID in front of him.

“We’re actually here to meet Andrew St. Clair but since we’re a bit early, we thought we would look around first. Are you Mrs. Lefévre?”

The opening of the door grew wider and a woman stepped out onto the stone landing. Irene was surprised at how young she seemed. She must have been over fifty, but her figure was slender and she was short. Her attitude was apprehensive. Though she stood very straight, she barely reached Irene’s shoulder. Her hair was short, a dark reddish brown color, and the woman’s almond-shaped eyes were dark brown. Her coloring and the expensively tailored dress she wore did not meet Irene’s expectations of a Scotswoman. She recalled that it was the woman’s ex-husband who had been a Frenchman; she was English. But she looked out of place here in front of this gloomy house, in the bitter Scottish wind.

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, either for protection against the wind or against them.

“Yes. I’m Mary Lefévre. What do you want with me?”

Glen smiled again. “Actually, nothing in particular. This is my colleague Irene Huss from Sweden. She’s investigating the murder of Rebecka Schytellius’s parents and her brother.”

The dark brown eyes wandered from them. Glen asked, “May we ask you a few questions?”

“I have a flight to catch. . I was just here to get my bag,” Mary Lefévre said. She didn’t make any attempt to hide her reluctance to answer their questions.

“We’re going to meet with your nephew at one o’clock, so there will only be time for a few questions,” Glen said firmly, but still with a smile.

With a resigned shrug, she opened the door and let them in.

They found themselves in a large, dark wood-paneled hall, whose white ceiling two floors above them was covered by dark beams. A wide stone stairway near the door led up to the second floor. Its railing continued, forming a balustrade which stretched around the whole hall. From the gallery, a person could observe everyone who entered or left through the front door. Irene peered up at the second floor. Closed doors could be glimpsed behind the balustrade.

At the end of the hall was a vast granite fireplace. It was so large, a person could have stood upright inside it. It was obvious that both Irene and Glen were impressed with the fireplace or maybe Mary Lefevre was anticipating this reaction, because she said, “It really is magnificent, but I never use it. It just eats up wood and doesn’t provide any heat. The space heaters are much more effective. There’s one in every room. Plus, I have central heating. Otherwise I would freeze to death in the winter.”

Irene could easily imagine how cold the house must be in the wintertime when the storms whined around the eaves. The windows were so small to allow them to keep the house warm.

Mary showed them into a surprisingly bright and pleasant living room. Light entered through the tall french doors to the terrace and the large picture windows, which must have been installed in recent years. The furniture was pastel-hued and modern.

“Please, sit down,” Mary said, but she remained standing with her back to the picture windows. She had her arms crossed over her chest again. Irene and Glen were forced to sit on the rigid white sofa, which faced the window.

Glen made a vague gesture encompassing thee surroundings. “This really is a beautiful old house.”

“Yes. Building was begun in the seventeen hundreds,” Mary replied.

“It’s a fantastic environment for children to grow up in. Does Christian visit often?” Glen continued in a casual tone.

“Sometimes.”

“When was he here last?”

Mary thought for a moment before she replied. “In March.”

“Have you ever met Rebecka Schyttelius?”

They couldn’t observe the expression on her face, which was shadowed, but Irene could see her slender figure stiffen. “Once. This past Christmas.”

“So she and Christian are a couple?”

“No,” she said sharply.

Glen lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, which had the intended effect. Mary Lefévre felt that she needed to explain.

“She had been sick during the fall and didn’t have the strength to travel home to Sweden over Christmas. Christian didn’t want to leave her alone in London, so he brought her here.”

“I understand. What impression did you form of her?”

This time the silence lasted quite a while.

“She was so quiet. . it was difficult to reach her.”

“That’s exactly the impression we also received. She really is quite sick. The murder of her family has naturally worsened her condition,” Glen said seriously.

Then he smiled and showed his charming dimple. He does it deliberately as part of his strategy, thought Irene.

“By the way, what’s the name of Christian’s girlfriend?”

The silhouette against the window froze. Her voice was tense when she answered. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“We will.”

He was still smiling, but his tone was more serious. “It’s about time for us to head to the castle. Thank you for letting us intrude. Here’s my card if any questions should arise or if there’s anything you would like to tell us.”

Glen rose, still with a friendly smile. Irene followed his lead. Like a sleepwalker, Mary Lefevre began moving toward the front door. She didn’t look at Irene or Glen. Her movements were stiff as she opened it. She seemed afraid, almost shocked. Why? Glen’s questions had taken them into sensitive territory, but her reaction seemed exaggerated.

When they were about to leave the house, Glen held his hand out to say good-bye, but either Mary Lefevre pretended not to see it or she really didn’t notice. Irene couldn’t decide which it was.

“WHY DID you want to speak with Christian’s mother?” Irene wondered.

They were in the car driving down the avenue that led to the hill that was topped by the magnificent castle.

“Because she’s Christian’s mother,” was the laconic answer.

There was a certain logic in that, Irene realized. It had been a brief but thought-provoking interview, which they would need to analyze on their way home.

They drove through the open gate in the stone wall, ended up in a courtyard, and parked the red rental car next to a shiny new silver-colored Porsche. The cobblestones in the courtyard had been worn smooth by hundreds of years of trampling feet; they felt slippery. The castle towered on three sides of the courtyard. The main building lay straight ahead; the side buildings were like wings. The whole structure was made of gray stone, the roof of slate. There were walled, round towers in the outer corners, topped by turrets, reminiscent of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. The sturdy ivy on the walls added to the effect. A few splendid trees and large rosebeds gave a little life and a touch of greenery to the otherwise barren stone surroundings.

The main building, straight ahead of them, was a bit taller than the wings. A substantial door of massive wood didn’t look very welcoming.

“Here you need a sledgehammer to knock on the door,” Glen observed.

They were walking toward it when someone yelled, “Hello! This way!”

Both of them stopped in their tracks trying to locate the source of the voice. Irene saw a man in the door to the western wing. He beckoned to them. They had only taken a few steps when Irene stopped again. They had gotten close enough that she could see Christian Lefévre standing before them in the doorway. But when she moved forward and got even closer, she realized her mistake. It wasn’t Christian. The cousins looked very much alike.

Andrew St. Clair was a bit taller and somewhat larger than Christian Lefévre. But he had the same dark hair, worn in a ponytail. His dark-brown eyes behind rounded glasses blinked nearsightedly at his visitors. The cousins could very well have passed as brothers, both dark-haired and brown-eyed, despite the fact that they were English. Irene had expected that a Scottish nobleman would be red-haired, with ears sticking out and an overbite, the stereotype in Sweden of a Scot. There had been quite a few times during this investigation when her assumptions about how Englishmen-or Scots-would look had been proven wrong.

St. Clair was dressed in a bright red knitted woolen sweater with a little symbol on the chest, which Irene recognized but couldn’t remember the name of. A white collar could be seen in the V-neck opening and a tie with bright red and blue stripes. His checkered pants of thin wool were of the highest quality, just like his expensive shoes.

“Everyone goes the wrong way their first time. Welcome to Rosslyn Castle,” said Andrew St. Clair.

It sounded as though he really meant it. He shook their hands before he showed them into the house.

It was unexpectedly warm and cozy in the large hall, which was similar to the hall in the Lefévre house but significantly larger. St. Clair took their coats and hung them in a large cabinet with carved doors illustrating some form of a hunt, with dogs and running deer.

“Only this part of the castle is occupied. Everything is modern and comfortable here. I’ve kept the fireplaces and tile stoves, but on the ground floor I had the stone floor taken up and I installed heating under the floor. Then I replaced the old stone slabs.”

The pride in his voice couldn’t be missed. Irene realized that it was justified. It must have been a time-consuming job. But something told her that Andrew St. Clair had not actually done the work himself, even if he described it that way. As he walked in front of them, he chatted about the castle’s history and made them feel like long-awaited guests. Meeting people was easy for him, and he was friendly. That was the big difference between him and his cousin. And his aunt, too, for that matter.

“The wing across from this one is the oldest part of the castle. It was built at the end of the fifteenth century, but was rebuilt after a fire two hundred years later. In the late sixteen hundreds, the main building was constructed as well. This portion was built at the end of the seventeen hundreds, at the same time as the gatehouse at the beginning of the avenue. My grandfather started its renovation, and my father and I have finished it. But we’ve been very careful about maintaining the castle’s style.”

He led them through large rooms with gold and red silk striped wallpaper and large tapestries covering the walls. Light filtered in through beautiful stained glass in the high windows, which showed images from the family’s history and family coats of arms. Andrew St. Clair enthusiastically described the picture in every window they passed. Gloomy gold-framed portraits stared down at them. Shields and old swords were hung between the portraits. Here and there, suits of armor stood ghost-like along the walls. There were also large heavy cabinets in dark wood decorated with carving and gilded fittings. All the furniture they passed seemed very old. Irene felt as if she were in a museum as their footsteps echoed desolately on the stone floors. As if in response to her thoughts, their host continued, “I’ve had the finest and oldest furniture moved to the State Room. Wooden pieces don’t do well in unheated spaces, and I don’t heat the uninhabited portions of the castle.”

They had reached their destination. He opened one half of a set of double doors and motioned for them to enter an enormous room. Almost the entire far wall had been glassed in.

“Come and look at the view,” he bade them.

They crossed the endless floor, covered with Oriental rugs, to the glass wall, which extended all the way to the edge of the cliff. The view over the meadows and fields up toward the Pentland Hills was striking.

“It is very beautiful,” Irene said, sincerely.

With a satisfied expression, he asked them to sit on the soft leather sofas which were turned to face the view. Irene realized that all the sofas and armchairs were placed so the occupant could enjoy the view.

“Food will be served in a few minutes in the Hunting Room. I think it’s more pleasant to eat there. The dining room is too large for three people.”

Irene didn’t have any trouble imagining what the dining room must be like. A gloomy room with armor along the walls and even more ancestral portraits staring down from the walls. And, of course, the table must be colossally long, with fifty chairs around it. And there Andrew and his future wife were supposed to sit and yell to each other from their respective ends of the table and. .

She suddenly became aware that both men were looking at her. One of them must have asked her a question. She smiled uncertainly. “Excuse me. I didn’t quite understand. .,” she said.

“I asked if you had been in Scotland before,” Andrew said, looking at her curiously.

“No. I’ve never been to Scotland before,” Irene replied.

She was rescued by a door being opened at the far end of the room. Andrew stood and said, “I see lunch is served. Please.”

They waded away over the sea of floor and stepped into what was called the Hunting Room.

Irene stopped abruptly on the threshold. Unprepared, Glen bumped right into her back.

“Oops,” he said. At the same time, he took the opportunity to give Irene a nudge in the right direction. She stepped into the room.

Here, too, the outer wall had been removed and replaced by an enormous bay window. A table and eight chairs had been placed inside the alcove, which had glass walls on three sides. The table was set for three people. No one had to tell Irene that the furniture was antique. The beautiful wood carvings on the chair legs and backs spoke for themselves. But it wasn’t the furniture that had surprised her when she stepped over the threshold.

Even though the room had been referred to as the Hunting Room, she hadn’t expected it to be filled with weapons. Naturally, there were stuffed animal heads and birds that glared at them with glass beads for eyes, but the room was dominated by weapons. Swords and daggers, along with old pistols and rifles with decorated butts, lined the walls. More weapons could be glimpsed inside the glass doors of high cabinets. Three of the cabinets were fitted with metal doors and heavy locks.

“I thought my weapon collection might appeal to you as police officers.” Andrew smiled.

He started guiding them to the exhibits on display, but was interrupted by a door opening and a serving cart being rolled in. An older woman in a black dress waited with the cart until they were seated. She served them cold poached salmon with a caper sauce and steamed vegetables, and cold beer, dark or light as they preferred. Irene chose a light English ale, while Glen and Andrew asked for a darker Scottish beer.

“I thought it just as well to have you here to lunch since you wanted to speak with me. I’m busy with important clients, but I’ve put them on a plane heading up to the oil rigs. Then they’ll take a helicopter out to the platform itself. My right-hand man is taking care of them, and they won’t return for several hours. But at three o’clock I must be in Edinburgh. Can we finish here by two thirty at the latest?”

It was a polite question, but he left no room for negotiation.

Thankfully, Glen was also a good talker, and he cleverly managed to maneuver the conversation away from unpleasant but unavoidable questions. The men established rapport quickly. Both were loquacious and interested in history. And Scots. Andrew only lifted one eyebrow when Glen told him that he was half Scottish. Between mouthfuls, he and Andrew were soon involved in a discussion about Scotland’s bloody history. They were both in agreement that it was a pity their forefathers had been forced to capitulate in 1707. The union with England and Wales had never been good for Scotland.

Glen and St. Clair had to wash down their rebellious patriotic feelings with large gulps of dark beer. Irene, listening, was amazed at how engaged the two were in Scotland’s history. She realized that these national sentiments hadn’t cooled over the years, but were still alive. It wasn’t farfetched to dwell on old wrongs, committed in 1295, here.

They had chocolate cake with whipped cream and coffee for dessert. Afterward they headed back to the living room. Their host walked over to a beautiful glass cabinet and took out a bottle.

“The family’s whisky, from our own distillery. Among the finest there is. Very exclusive. It can only be purchased in certain shops. Aged twenty years, of which three are in sherry casks,” he said proudly.

A black label with St. Clair in silver gothic type adorned the rounded bottle.

“I’m driving,” Glen mumbled.

“Just a wee taste,” Andrew declared.

He took out three beautifully polished shot glasses and poured in some of the golden liquid. With an expression of pride, he handed a glass to Irene and one to Glen. Sensually, he sniffed the aroma from his own glass, and the police officers followed his lead. He raised his glass.

“Slainte!”

“Slainte!” Glen replied and raised his glass.

“Skål!” Irene said in Swedish.

In the company of these two men, she had to assert her own ethnic identity and highlight her temporary exoticism. Even if neither of the two looked like a Scotsman, their hearts and souls were Scottish.

The whisky was distinctive, without the slightest hint of sharpness. It rolled nicely on the tongue and left a long finish with a hint of sweetness from the sherry. It was really a very fine drink. Irene realized there wasn’t any point in her asking if she could buy a bottle to take home with her for her husband, because she would never be able to afford it.

They sat again. Andrew leaned back in a leather armchair. “I know that you didn’t come here all the way from London just to have a pleasant chat. I also know that you want to talk about my cousin and the terrible murders in Sweden. It affects poor Rebecka the most, but he’s certainly affected as well since they work so closely together.”

Glen decided to take the opportunity to proceed.

“New information has surfaced in our investigation. May I ask how well you know Rebecka?”

“We’ve met a few times in London and at Christmas she was here for two. . no, three days.”

“Hasn’t she been here more than once?”

“No. Just one Christmas.”

“How often is Christian here?”

“About every other month. More often during hunting season.”

“Is he interested in hunting?”

“Members of our family are born with weapons in our hands. Christian and I grew up together, so he learned to shoot at the same time as I did. He’s a devoted hunter. A very good shot, and knows almost everything about weapons.”

“Then you have only met Rebecka in person a few times, if I understand you correctly.”

“Yes.”

“Did you become close?”

Andrew raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Close? Absolutely not. We have done some computer jobs together. But these days it’s mostly Christian and Rebecka who do this kind of work. She’s very skilled, when she’s well.”

“Do you have any idea why she became ill?”

“Not a clue. Christian says that the depression is hereditary in her family. Her mother has. . apparently had it as well.”

“Have you met her family?”

“Her mother and father? Her brother? The ones who were shot? No, never. I don’t think they ever came to visit her. It makes you think. That’s a bit strange.”

“Have you ever been to Göteborg?”

“No. Only to Stockholm a few times. It’s a very nice city. And there are a lot of computer-savvy people there, with IT-expertise. That’s why I went.”

Irene saw that Glen was thinking intensely about his next question. To buy time, he put his nose over the edge of the whisky glass, spun it around, and sniffed the aroma with noticeable pleasure. He took a small sip of the contents.

“We’ve tried asking this question of Rebecka and Christian, but neither of them has given a clear answer. That’s why I’m asking you. Do you think-or know-whether they are in a relationship?”

Andrew raised his eyebrows again, but several seconds passed before he responded.

“I don’t think they are in a relationship, a sexual relationship. But they’re close to each other. Christian worries a great deal about her, now that she’s sick.”

Glen nodded. “Do you know if Christian has a girlfriend right now?” he asked.

“Christian has always had a lot of girlfriends. But right now I actually don’t know. He hasn’t spoken about anyone special.”

“When was the last time he spoke about a girlfriend?”

“It was probably a year ago.”

Glen carefully placed his glass on the table before he sought to make eye contact with the man in the leather armchair and ask the question they had come for.

“Have you ever been to Göteborg?”

Andrew scrutinized Glen intently. Irene could see his intelligent brain going into overdrive.

“Is that the crux of this matter? So this whole thing is about me?”

Before Glen had time to respond, Andrew answered him. “No. I have never been to Göteborg.”

“You are listed as being booked on a plane from Heathrow to Göteborg the night Rebecka’s family was killed. You’re also on the passenger list for the morning plane back to Heathrow from Göteborg the next day.”

All jovial warmth had disappeared from Andrew’s eyes. “Heathrow? Why would I go to Göteborg?”

“That’s one of the questions we’ve asked ourselves,” said Glen.

Andrew rose from his chair and walked up to the glass wall. He stood there, looking out over the landscape. With his back to the police officers, he started speaking.

“I certainly have an alibi for the days at the end of March when Rebecka’s family was murdered. I remember when Christian called and told me what had happened. It was on Wednesday. I had just driven my future parents-in-law to the airport. They were here, together with my fiancée, the entire weekend and through Wednesday. I had taken off work and shown them around the estate, as well as Edinburgh. They are from Leeds and had not been here before. We were together for most of the time during those five days. The night between Monday and Tuesday, when according to you I was in Göteborg, I spent with my fiancée here in my bedroom. And we were awake until the early hours.”

Andrew turned and looked at them.

“There may be an explanation. My passport was stolen during a break-in sometime in March. I don’t know the exact date of the break-in because I didn’t discover it right away. It’s been reported to the police.”

“When did you discover the break-in?”

“April first. I actually was asked if I was joking when I called the police.”

“Did the burglars leave any traces?”

“No. Nothing. The police don’t have any explanation as to how he, or they, got in and out.”

“Did they take anything in addition to the passport?”

“Yes. A Beretta 92S, with ammunition, and a very valuable antique dagger. I had just purchased it, and it was unique.”

“I assume the staff was questioned regarding the break-in?”

“Naturally. Altogether, there are six people who take care of me and the house.”

They had no problem realizing that it would require at least six people to look after this portion of the castle. When one had finished cleaning one end of the house, it was time to start again at the other. Irene saw the benefit of growing old in a one-bedroom apartment, with cable TV as the only luxury.

“Is there any theory about how the thief or thieves got in?”

“No. When I’m not home, I always close the gate at the port arch. You probably didn’t notice it when you drove in, but it’s there alongside the wall. It closes automatically from inside the house. At night it’s always electrified. As are the wires at the top of the wall. All windows and doors are equipped with burglar alarms. Despite that, he got in.”

“There is no one you suspect?”

“No.”

But when he replied, his eyes shifted away from them. Both Glen and Irene saw it. Glen looked at her quizzically. Oh yes, she had a question she wanted answered.

“When was Christian here last?” she asked.

Andrew jerked. Maybe he was surprised that she had spoken instead of depending on her English colleague. He made a noticeable effort to think before replying. “He was here in March.”

“When in March?” Irene continued relentlessly.

His gaze wandered. “In the beginning or the middle. . I don’t remember.”

“Can you find out?”

Now Andrew was staring at them, and they could see clear fear in his face.

“But. . you can’t seriously be thinking that Christian. . ”

His inspection of the police officers convinced him that they were serious. He sank back and said, almost inaudibly, “In the middle of March. Aunt Mary’s birthday is the eighteenth, and he came home on the evening of the sixteenth. It was a Friday.”

“He stayed at his mother’s house, right?”

“Yes.”

“Was he here at the castle at any time?”

Andrew nodded. “We ate dinner here on Saturday evening. Christian, Aunt Mary, my fiancée, and myself. John couldn’t come. That’s Aunt Mary’s boyfriend.”

He smiled a bit at the last sentence. Apparently, John wasn’t a boy any more.

“Did Christian know where you kept your passport?”

“Yes. He knows the house as well as I do. We grew up here, after all.”

He sank down into the armchair again, as if all of the strength had been sucked out of him. Irene continued, “Did he know where you kept the gun and the dagger?”

“Of course! I had just shown him-”

He stopped and stared helplessly at Irene.

“You had just shown him your newly purchased dagger. Correct?” Glen added.

Andrew nodded. Suddenly he sprang to life. “But this is unbelievable! You’re getting me to imply that Christian stole my passport, my gun, and my dagger. And then that he flew to Göteborg and shot Rebecka’s parents and her brother. He has never met them! The whole idea is absurd! In the first place, he couldn’t have gotten the gun through Customs.”

“The victims were shot with Rebecka’s brother’s rifle. Both the rifle and the ammunition were found at the scene. All a person familiar with weapons had to do was load and shoot,” Glen said.

The wild look in Andrew’s eyes disappeared. He leaned forward and took off his glasses, leaned his elbows heavily on his knees, and hid his face in his hands.

“This cannot be true,” he mumbled.

Fumbling, he put his glasses back on and looked at the clock. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I need to leave for Edinburgh,” he said, pulling himself together.

They stood at the same time. Glen and Irene thanked him for the wonderful lunch and the whisky. They walked together in silence through the museum-like rooms and into the enormous hall. Andrew went up to the carved cabinet and took out their jackets, as well as a plaid scarf in the same pattern as the pants he wore, and began to wind it around his neck. Irene couldn’t keep from exclaiming. Andrew stopped, and both he and Glen looked at her.

“Excuse me. The scarf. Is it yours?” Irene got out.

Andrew looked even more surprised. “Yes, of course. It’s the St. Clair plaid.”

Irene stared as if bewitched at the scarf, which was bright red, blue, and green. Fringe hung along its edges. The pieces of yarn that Irene had found in the bushes at the cottage could well have come from the fringes of this scarf. And later Fredrik had found yet another tuft of yarn in the spruce hedge at the rectory which could also have come from the scarf.

“Is there something in particular bothering you?” Andrew asked, a little irritated.

“Yes.”

Irene explained about the finding of the fragments of yarn. With a tired gesture, Andrew took off the scarf saying, “Here. Take it. Analyze it, or do whatever it is you do. But I promise that this scarf has never been in Göteborg.”

He handed the scarf to Irene.

“There are other scarves that might have been in Göteborg. I gave all my customers, employees, friends, and relatives one of these as a Christmas present last year. Rebecka also has one, since she was here last Christmas. And Christian, Mary. . every one of them has a scarf like this,” Andrew added.

Glen nodded and said, “But only one has been to Sweden.”

“Not mine,” was Andrew’s final reply.

They walked out to the courtyard and to their respective cars. Their red Range Rover looked middle-class and boring next to Andrew’s silver-colored Porsche. He was in a hurry and threw himself into the sports car with a quick “good-bye,” then disappeared through the gate.

“I understand why he became upset,” said Irene.

“Me, too. He seems to be a nice guy. But we have to follow-” HE WAS interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He took it out of his pocket and answered it. After a few abrupt “Yesses” and “I understands,” he ended the conversation. He stared at Irene before he said, “Now things are happening. That was my boss. Christian Lefévre has kidnapped Rebecka. No one knows where they are.”