The Glass Devil: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 3

by Helen Tursten

  Addressing the tape player, which was recording, she said dryly, “The interrogation will be on the defendant’s level.

  “Consider,” she continued, but more in the direction of Killer Man, “that we’re protecting you. One of your friends is dead and three have been critically injured. There’s a threat hanging over the rest of you,” she said, forcing a friendly tone of voice.

  Killer Man shook his heavy head. Fredrik had been sitting at the end of the desk. He asked a question which both he and Irene had raised when they had heard about the gang’s arrest. “How come the six of you went to a strip club when you knew that Ronny Johnsson had been popped? Didn’t you realize that they would be seeking revenge?”

  For the first time, a faint trace of interest could be glimpsed in Killer Man’s eyes. He grinned and said, “The Asshole got what he deserved, but it wasn’t us who—” He paused, and his mouth snapped shut.

  “Please continue. ‘It wasn’t us who . . .’?”

  Fredrik tried to get him going again, but Killer Man refused to say anything else.

  Irene decided to get to the point. “Where were you around four o’clock on Easter morning?”

  The gangster couldn’t resist the urge to again try to shock a female police officer. “We had a hell of a smoker party out in the yard. Headquarters, and all the stuff you could want. I fucked a fourteen-year-old sometime in the morning.” The look of sensual pleasure that crossed his face was corroboration enough of his story.

  “Sex with a minor is, as is commonly known, punishable by law,” she intoned.

  “Suck me, baby!” he answered, smiling at her mockingly.

  Irene was becoming provoked by his attitude. Maybe she had better let Fredrik take over. She gave him a quick glance and he responded. “So you claim that you were in the yard around the time shots were fired at Ronny Johnsson. Was everyone in the gang there?”

  At first Irene didn’t think Killer Man would answer but to her surprise, he suddenly said, “Yes.”

  “No one from the gang was missing?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why were six of you in the porn club the following night while four were left at what you call headquarters?”

  “The others weren’t up to coming, so they stayed and kept an eye on the house. The Easter party was, as I said, really cool!”

  “Didn’t you feel threatened? Didn’t you know that Ronny Johnsson had been shot?” Fredrik continued.

  A troubled expression passed over the biker’s pasty face.

  “We didn’t know that they had popped the Asshole. The Easter party went on until late in the morning, then we slept the whole day. We started up again in the evening, but those who stayed at the house were too tired to tag along with us. It wasn’t until we got there that we found out that someone had wiped the Asshole.”

  “Weren’t you concerned? Afraid of revenge and retaliation?”

  “Nope. It was a damn good reason to party harder!”

  Killer Man grinned triumphantly again. Irene wondered if he really was as stupid as he sounded. Was he trying to buy time? Maybe get some information out of the detectives? That was the only reason Irene could give for him to speak with them at all. Could Hells Rockets really be innocent of the attack on Ronny Johnsson? That would explain why they hadn’t been concerned when they learned of the shooting of the gang leader and his girlfriend. In a cold, expressionless voice she asked, “And who do you claim did shoot Ronny Johnsson?”

  Killer Man hadn’t been prepared for this question and he didn’t like it. “I haven’t claimed anything!” he screamed.

  But uncertainty could be heard in his voice even if he was trying to conceal it.

  “You say it wasn’t you. And it could hardly have been the Devils themselves. Then it must have been someone else. Probably another gang. Which one?”

  His gaze wandered as he tried to look derisive. “You’re trying to pull a fast one,” he said.

  “Then I guess it was as our witness stated.”

  Irene didn’t glance at Fredrik, hoping that he wouldn’t betray them by looking surprised. It wasn’t a big risk, since Killer Man’s bloodshot eyes were pinned to her face. Slowly, with emphasis on every syllable, she said, “There’s a witness to the shooting of Ronny. The car the suspects were riding in was a red Mustang. Do we know anyone who has a car like that?”

  Furious now, Killer Man jumped up from his chair and screamed, “What the hell! Some bastard is trying to nail me! My car was in the barn! None of us—”

  He stopped abruptly once more and squinted at Irene. “Wait a minute. You’re trying some sort of dirty cop trick. You cunt.”

  He was right. The car that had disappeared from the scene of the attack was described by the only witness as a red Saab 9000, and it was also one of those that had burned outside Gunnared. But in the midst of all the excitement and in the dark, the witness might possibly have been mistaken. And Irene could always say that she had misunderstood what car model the witness had mentioned. She lied because she had seen a shiny red Mustang parked in the undamaged barn. There was no doubt about who it belonged to: “Killer Man” was written in silver paint on one of the front doors, the other reading “Hells Rockets.”

  She shook her head in response to his accusation. Fredrik continued, “That’s why we can keep you in custody. We don’t know who was driving. Or who was holding the rifle. We don’t even know if they were shooting from your crate. The technicians need to go through the car. As far as the prosecutor is concerned, you’re all murder suspects. The investigation is going to take some time, during which all of you will remain in jail.”

  Killer Man’s self-assurance faltered. He was a tough, used to keeping his mouth shut and denying everything, but it was difficult for him this time as he didn’t know what had actually happened. Not to mention his hangover. . . . Even if he was used to being in prison, he didn’t look forward to sitting in jail for an unspecified period of time. Especially if the guilty ones were free and able to take over the territory of The Devils or Hells Rockets before they got out. Irene could hardly believe her ears when he started to rat. “There’s a gang . . . the Outsiders. They are in contact with the Brotherhood.”

  Neither Irene nor Fredrik had heard of the Outsiders, but they didn’t show it. They tried to press Killer Man for more information, but he realized that he had said more than he had to and remained silent during the rest of the interrogation.

  The two other members of Hells Rockets didn’t add anything to the investigation. Neither of them could have, even had he wanted. One sat half asleep, still heavily intoxicated, and the other appeared to be subnormal mentally. He was the youngest member of the gang, barely twenty years old; his older brother lay critically wounded in the hospital. It was soon clear to Irene and Fredrik that the biggest thing—the only thing—in his life had been his acceptance as an aspiring member of Hells Rockets a year earlier. His only comment, which he repeated like a mantra, was: “You don’t squeal.”

  LATER THAT afternoon, Irene telephoned Leif Hansen, the superintendent of the intelligence service for the county police. He laughed when Irene described the questioning of the Hells Rockets members.

  “I know those boys pretty well,” he said.

  “Killer Man mentioned another gang that might have instigated this wave of violence,” said Irene.

  “Really? Who does he blame?”

  “The Outsiders. Who are they?” Irene asked.

  When Hansen replied, there was no amusement in his voice. “The Outsiders. Did he really say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we have big problems. We had suspected that it would happen, but not this soon. . . . The Outsiders are a prison gang based on an American model, similar to Hell’s Angels and The Brotherhood. The gang accepts members of different nationalities. What they have in common is their violence. We’ve known of the Outsiders for almost ten years, and recently they’ve grown. What you’ve told me supports a rumor that has bee
n circulating during the past few months. And it would explain the events of the last few days.”

  Irene waited impatiently for his next words. Her relief felt physical when he continued. “Rumor has it that a couple of Serbs from Bosnia have joined the Outsiders. And these aren’t just any old hoodlums. They’ve been trained, members of the Special Forces. What they don’t know about killing people isn’t worth knowing. Special Forces educates specially chosen soldiers in murder, sabotage, infiltration of the enemy, and all types of operations. They become masters of the arts of war on land and sea. The smartest, strongest, and most cold-blooded soldiers are selected for this training.”

  “Why would they join the Outsiders?”

  “Some of the Serbs literally feel homeless in Bosnia. They have been driven out of the country, and there are rotten eggs even amongst the others in Special Forces. With what the army has taught them, they can make money. Their expertise is invaluable to gangs like the Outsiders. If these boys have taken over the leadership of the Outsiders, the happenings of the last few days make sense.”

  She asked, “Can you explain what you mean?”

  “The shots fired outside the nightclub were fired by an expert. The car the criminals were traveling in was stolen and later burned. The driver and shooter disappeared without a trace in another car. Hells Rockets’ clubhouse was shot to pieces from the back of a truck by a grenade launcher. Everything was over in a minute. They disappeared, and the truck hasn’t been found yet. How do you hide a truck? We’ll probably find it in some warehouse or barn. In any case, if you analyze these two attacks, there’s one thing that’s clear.”

  He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Military precision.”

  He was right. A lot pointed to military planning and execution.

  “Why are the Outsiders doing this?” she wondered.

  “To take over certain criminal activity areas: sex trade, drugs, extortion . . . everything that brings in the big bucks. They have to damage their competitors, to weaken them as much as possible, preferably by playing them off against each other. What’s better than shooting the leader of one gang and decimating the other by a grenade attack?”

  Irene pondered the scenario he’d outlined. She said, “I think you’re right. Can you confirm that these Serbians from Bosnia really exist?”

  “Previously, they were one rumor among many. Now, I think we have to take it seriously. If we can’t get at the truth, then the Hell’s Angels gangs and the Bandidos gangs all over Sweden, and maybe all of Scandinavia, will start fighting each other. Gang wars have a tendency to spread. A lot of old grudges may be dug up. If we can prove that the Outsiders are behind these incidents, maybe we can calm everything down before it even gets started.”

  “Will you keep us posted? I’ll be gone on Thursday and Friday, but I’m going to inform my colleagues of this possibility. You should speak with them. It’s probably best if you talk to Sven Andersson or Fredrik Stridh. They’ve been working on this investigation,” said Irene.

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as we have the rumor confirmed.”

  IRENE REPORTED on her phone call with Leif Hansen during morning prayers the following day. Now she wasn’t the only one who had this information. Despite the fact that she spent the rest of the day with the ever-more irritable members of Hells Rockets, she felt as though she had left that investigation. Mentally, she was already in London.

  Chapter 17

  AT HEATHROW, THE WEATHER was as overcast as it had been when the plane took off from Landvetter. The only difference was that the air was slightly warmer in London.

  Glen Thompson was waiting at the same spot. A lukewarm drizzle began as Irene and Glen walked to his black car.

  As usual, he talked about everything and everyone. First, he said that the Butcher was still in the hospital. According to the doctors, his brain injuries were permanent. Gravedigger had regained consciousness but was in critical condition. Glen cleared his throat with difficulty before he asked, “You weren’t injured seriously during the car crash?”

  “No. Just bumps and bruises,” Irene answered, surprised.

  “Good. He’s HIV-positive. AIDS is developing. I was thinking about contacting you when I found out, but since you have to wait at least eight weeks before you can be tested. . . .”

  He finished the sentence with a shrug. It was unpleasant to think that the man she had fought with suffered from HIV, but as far as she could remember neither he nor she had bled after the crash.

  The taxi driver who had fallen victim to the two robbers had also been allowed to leave the hospital.

  “He has healed physically but is unwilling to drive a taxi any more. Doesn’t surprise me. They had to pump almost three liters of blood into him! He was very close to death from exsanguination. There’ll probably be some legal proceedings, but since the defendants aren’t in good shape it will take a while. According to my boss, it’s not likely that you’ll have to testify in person. I’ve made a final copy of your statement. Read through it and sign at the bottom.”

  “Can I take it home with me and read it in peace?” Irene wanted to have an English-Swedish dictionary at hand.

  “Of course.”

  Glen also told her that Estelle had gotten a lot of bookings through a new partnership agreement with a large travel agency representing Scandinavian tourists who wanted to stay near the central city, comfortably and cheaply. This had given the small, well-run family hotel in Bayswater a big boost.

  He and Kate were considering taking the ferry over and driving through Sweden during the summer, probably the last two weeks in July and the first week in August. The boys were fired up with enthusiasm about living in a tent, but Kate refused to wake up in a soaking-wet sleeping bag; she preferred staying at a bed and breakfast.

  “Are there bed and breakfasts in Sweden?” Glen asked.

  “Yes, but they’re not as common as in England. However, we have hostels. They maintain very high standards and are economical.

  “But in Göteborg, you’ll stay with us,” Irene said firmly.

  Glen smiled. “If we accept the invitation, we’ll have the twins with us,” he warned her.

  “They are more than welcome. Neither Jenny nor Katarina will be home during those three weeks. Katarina is going to be traveling by boat in Greece, and Jenny is going with her band to practice new songs and record a demo.”

  “Aren’t you and your husband going on vacation?”

  “Yes. We’re going to Crete, but not until the middle of August.”

  “We want to see the midnight sun. Is it really light all night long during the summer months in northern Sweden?”

  “Yes. The sun never sinks below the horizon. But don’t forget the converse: From the end of November to the middle of February, they don’t see the sun at all up there. Then it’s eternal night.”

  They found the car and started driving toward London. Summer greenery had taken over outside the car, and the gardens they passed were dazzling with flowers. Irene could understand why the English are crazy about their gardens. The pains they take are amply repaid when the gardens start blooming so early. In Sweden, the frosty nights at the end of May, when the temperature drops to freezing and all the tender newly planted plants freeze, postpone the blooming season. Irene had lost count of all of the tomatoes and marigolds that she had had to throw out after the night frost had transformed small sprouts into dead sticky piles.

  Glen changed the conversation. “I checked out Lefévre’s alibi for the night of the murder. The pub owner confirmed that Christian was there on that Monday night. There’s a group of five guys who meet there every Monday to organize their betting pools for the week. Despite the fact that there were a lot of people at the pub, the owner says he would have noticed if one of the guys hadn’t shown up. It rarely happens. And he remembers that he and Christian talked for a while before the others came. He was the first one there on that particular Monday.”

  “Which
leaves Rebecka, who was lying alone at home with a headache. Not much of an alibi,” Irene determined.

  “No.”

  “Have you had time to check out Lefévre or Dr. Fischer?”

  “Of course. Whom do you want to start with?”

  “Lefévre.”

  “Okay. He’s almost thirty, born in London to an English mother and French father. The parents divorced when he was five years old. He and his mother moved up to Edinburgh, to her sister who lived several miles outside Edinburgh. The sister was married to a rich Scot. He owned large tracts of land and many different businesses. Christian’s mother took a job at one of her brother-in-law’s companies as a financial manager. She had a degree in finance. The sister had a son who was the same age as Christian. They grew up like brothers, since the cousin only has a half-sister who is slightly older. His father, George St. Clair, had been married but was a widower.”

  “St. Clair! Christian’s company is called Lefévre and St. Clair. Then Christian’s cousin must be the ‘business partner’ who moved up to Scotland.”

  “Exactly. With IT, you aren’t limited geographically. It’s easy to live in Scotland and network with a partner in London. They’ve worked like this for more than two years. Andrew St. Clair took over his father’s business when his mother died, a few years after his father’s death. Today he’s one of Scotland’s richest men.”

  “And he also gets an income from the computer company.”

  “Yes. But when Andrew moved up north, his interest in the computer company waned. He still owns a part of the business, but his other investments take up a lot of time. That’s probably why Lefévre started looking around for a new partner. One who was very skilled. And he found Rebecka.”

  They fell silent as Irene digested this information. She asked, “Why did Christian stay in London? And why did Andrew agree to this?”