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

by Helen Tursten

  “London is where the big clients and the money are. And London has always lured young people. Both cousins had an early interest in computers and were proficient even when they were young. They moved to London and started their business almost nine years ago, and they have been very successful. Even from the outset, they were recognized as one of the best in the business.”

  “That means that Rebecka must also be outstanding,” Irene remarked.

  “Of course. Maybe that’s why Lefévre takes such good care of her. He knows that she’s unique. He wants her to get better so she can work again.”

  “And he thinks that as long as she isn’t worried and is protected from people like you and me, she’ll get better faster. He’s wrong. She’ll never get well if she doesn’t talk. Have you spoken with her?”

  “I’ve spoken with both Rebecka and Dr. Fischer. Rebecka is still very sick, and Fischer is concerned about her. He has increased her medication dosage, and he wants her to be admitted to the clinic again. I got the impression that he’s angry with Lefévre, that he thinks the guy is interfering too much.”

  “I agree. When can Rebecka see us?”

  “At eleven o’clock. Same place as last time. But I really had to insist. Neither Fischer nor Rebecka was particularly cooperative.”

  “Why this opposition?” Irene asked.

  “It seems Rebecka is much sicker than we realized. The doctor can’t say exactly what’s going on, because of confidentiality and so on. . . .”

  Glen didn’t continue his line of thought since he was trying to make his way through a heavily trafficked roundabout. Irene hadn’t noticed that they had taken a different route from the airport this time. Now they were entering Bayswater from the north.

  “There’s Paddington Station. The train to Heathrow leaves from there. A train leaves every fifteen minutes in each direction, and it only takes fifteen minutes to get here from the airport.”

  Irene saw people streaming in and out of a large stone building. No one would remember any particular individual. She saw, when she looked at the tourist map, that the station was located only a kilometer from Notting Hill.

  “Do you think that Rebecka could have gone to Göteborg and carried out the murders?” Irene asked abruptly.

  Glen pondered the possibility for a moment before he shook his head. “No. She has been sick for quite some time. There isn’t any . . . strength in her. Is she at all familiar with firearms?”

  “Not that we know of. Her brother and her father hunted. But we should ask her.”

  “Is there no one else with a motive?”

  “We don’t have a single suspect. But we have the theory concerning the Internet job for Save the Children. That’s the most important subject I have to cover with her.”

  Glen glanced at her. “You believe that theory’s behind the murders?” he asked.

  “Yes. Because it’s the only reason we have. The alternative is that a crazy person murdered them, that they were random victims. But that doesn’t hold up, because they weren’t killed in the same place. And then, the pentagrams were left at both sites. So we’d have to postulate a crazy Satanist!”

  “I understand that the murderer also seemed to be familiar with the surroundings and acquainted with the family.”

  “Yes. That’s the strongest argument against the murderer being a maniac. The murders were well planned. There’s nothing haphazard about them.”

  They had arrived at the little hotel, and Glen parked. Irene took her dark-blue bag and walked up the steps to the entrance. Estelle was standing behind the reception desk, a pair of frameless reading glasses on her nose, as she typed information into the computer. She looked up from the screen and smiled when she recognized Irene.

  “Welcome back! You have the room next to the one you had last time. I hope that’s okay. They’re identical.”

  She handed Irene a key and quickly returned to the numbers on the computer screen.

  The room next to the one she had had before. Then she had to trudge up the stairs again. Irene tried to reconcile herself by recalling that such exercise prevented blood clots from forming after airplane flights and that it was good for one’s all-around physical condition.

  The room was the mirror image of the one she had occupied previously; otherwise they were exactly alike. Irene hung up the few items of clothing she had brought with her—the same things she had packed the last time—and went into the bathroom. It struck her that she had forgotten to turn on her cell phone after the flight.

  She heard Hannu’s voice on her voicemail. His message was just for her to return his call.

  She called him back, but he didn’t answer. Perhaps he was questioning some of the motorcycle hooligans. Irene shivered with joy when she thought about having gotten out of that chore.

  She clattered down the narrow stairs in high spirits. Glen sat in the hotel lobby, smoking a cigarette. He put it out when Irene reached the last step.

  “Estelle is serving coffee and tea in the breakfast room. We should put something in our stomachs before we drive to Fischer’s office,” he said.

  Irene agreed. She was hungry, because the airplane breakfast hadn’t been much to cheer about. But the coffee had been tolerable and she had gotten as many refills as she wanted.

  GLEN FILLED her in as to the information he had received about Dr. Fischer during the drive to Oxford Street.

  “John Desmond Fischer, fifty-seven years old. His parents moved here from New York when he was four years old. They were very well-to-do. He has worked as a psychiatrist for almost thirty years and he has had his private practice for about twentyfive. He has a very good reputation and is the ‘in’ doctor for people with mental problems. And he’s expensive! Not for the riff-raff,” Glen said.

  She understood that Christian Lefévre had probably arranged that Dr. Fischer take Rebecka on as a patient.

  Glen continued, “He has been through three marriages and is now on his fourth. He has a newborn daughter. He has seven children altogether. The oldest daughter is thirty-two years old and has two children herself. His new wife is twenty-four.

  “He was in hot water about eleven years ago. An eighteen-year-old girl who was one of his patients accused him of having sex with her. Fischer wormed his way out of it when several of his colleagues testified that the girl had delusions about sexual assault. The investigation was closed. The girl hanged herself shortly afterward.”

  “Where did you get this information?” Irene asked, amazed.

  “Press archives. The gossip columns. I haven’t found anything else of interest. But maybe it’s worth thinking about.”

  Irene concluded, “He has a thing for young women. He’s a conqueror.”

  Glen nodded. “What do they see in that fatso? You’re a woman, you tell me,” he said.

  She started to shrug, but then she remembered Fischer’s charisma, his air of virility and strength. The thick hair, the piercing eyes and smile.

  “Power. He has power. A. . . .”

  She searched in vain for the English word she wanted, and couldn’t come up with it. Eventually, she said “aura.”

  “I understand. An aura women feel. Maybe men as well. But his women are young. Why are they drawn to him? He’s not particularly good-looking.”

  “No. But, as we said, he has power . . . and . . . an aura. Maybe his profession makes young women feel safe with him. He understands them. He can listen and speak with them. But he also has social status. And economic status. You said yourself that he was rich.”

  “True. I realize that I’ve chosen the wrong profession,” Glen said and smiled.

  Irene looked at his attractive profile and noted the tiny dimple in his cheek. He had everything he needed to get women to fall for him without having a fortune. And they would never care whether or not he had a lofty position.

  IT WAS harder to find a parking place this time. They had to leave the car in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square. The advantage was that they
got to walk to Dr. Fischer’s office.

  The rain had stopped, and the thin cloud cover started breaking up. The air felt warm and damp despite the fact that it was only a relatively comfortable twenty degrees Celsius. The car-exhaust fumes hung in the air like an oily haze between the houses. Irene took off her jacket and walked in her short-sleeved blouse. Her shirt was clinging to her back by the time they arrived at the doctor’s office.

  The cool stairwell felt like liberation. John Fischer stood in the doorway waiting for them, just like the last time.

  “Good morning. This mustn’t take long. She’s in bad shape,” he said without any introductory remarks.

  To Irene, who had already been on the go for seven hours, it felt strange to say “good morning,” but she did. They quickly passed through the waiting room and went into the same room they had been in last time.

  Rebecka sat in an armchair by the window, exactly as she had before. She was dressed in the same black suit. The white polo shirt had been exchanged for a shimmering white silk top. Despite this, Irene had a shock when she got closer.

  Rebecka seemed to have aged ten years in the two weeks since their last meeting. Her hair hung, dirty and dull. Her skin was a grayish yellow color. Her eyes seemed enormous in the ever-thinner face. The worst thing was the look in her eyes. The last time, Irene had seen an anguish fluttering at the bottom of them. Rebecka had shown feelings. Now they were completely dead, empty. It felt as though a thick gray veil enveloped the woman in the chair.

  The feeling became even more evident when they tried to speak with her. No words penetrated her cocoon, nor was she able to reach out. Rebecka was turning into a puppet in front of their eyes.

  “Rebecka is not feeling well at all. I’m not happy about your visit,” the doctor said icily.

  He ran a hand through his short beard. Glen and Irene looked at each other, at a loss as to how they should proceed. Rebecka hadn’t reacted when they tried to greet her. Irene took her hand in an attempt to attract her attention, but it was limp and cold. Irene maintained her grip on Rebecka’s hand and, for lack of words, she carefully started massaging it. Hesitantly, she started speaking to her in Swedish.

  “I know that you’re burdened by a lot of terrible images. I’ve spoken with Lisa Sandberg at Save the Children. She told me about the fantastic work you and Christian did when you exposed the pedophile ring. She also said that many of those who had been heavily involved in that investigation have had anxiety problems afterward. The pictures were apparently some of the worst they had ever seen.”

  Irene felt Rebecka’s hand tremble, but the movement was so faint that it might have been her imagination. Encouraged, Irene continued, “So you aren’t alone in having experienced the pictures and films as unpleasant. It’s not strange at all—”

  Irene stopped when Rebecka pulled her hand back. She gripped it with her other hand and pulled it against her chest. Her gaze was focused on the floor, at a point next to Dr. Fischer’s elegant shoes. She sat in that position, catatonic, without blinking. Silence fell over the room. Irene became desperate. Rebecka seemed impossible to reach. Would the whole London trip be wasted? For lack of a better idea, Irene decided to continue speaking in Swedish.

  “I think that you may have told your parents about what you and Christian had seen on the Internet. Did you also tell Jacob?”

  Irene paused on purpose to allow Rebecka to react.

  At first it didn’t seem like Rebecka had heard. She sat immobile. Irene looked at Glen and raised her shoulders in a dejected gesture. Then Rebecka moaned hoarsely. Irene bent forward and tried to make eye contact with her. It was impossible; she stubbornly kept her eyes downcast. But she made an effort to move her stiff lips. With difficulty, she said, barely audibly, “No.”

  Her lips were completely dry and covered with sores. Thick yellowish-white saliva coated the corners of her mouth. Her tongue was sluggish in her bone-dry mouth. Irene frantically tried to decide what to say that would not scare Rebecka back into silence. Carefully, she asked, “When you say no, Rebecka, do you mean that you didn’t tell your parents or Jacob anything?”

  “No,” she answered softly.

  Just to be sure, Irene clarified, “So you didn’t tell your family anything about the pedophile ring?”

  “No,” she whispered again.

  Rebecka hadn’t moved during the conversation, but now she turned her head toward Irene. Their eyes met, and Irene felt her heart stop for a few seconds. There was bottomless darkness in Rebecka’s.

  “No,” Rebecka repeated.

  In vain, she tried to swallow non-existent saliva. “She was . . . sick. I had to . . . protect her,” she finally managed to say.

  Wheezing shook her body and she covered her face with her hands. She rocked back and forth while mumbling, “My fault. Everything is . . . my fault.”

  Irene felt completely powerless.

  “This is enough. Even you must see that this is cruel and futile,” Dr. Fischer said.

  Irene looked at Glen, who was at a loss. Rebecka continued to rock slowly back and forth with her hands over her face, but she had stopped wheezing. Irene was ready to give up questioning Rebecka today.

  A large gray-haired woman materialized in the doorway. Despite her size, Irene hadn’t heard her come in. She carried a thin beige summer jacket as if she had come from outside. Apparently, she had the key to the office.

  “Good, Marion. We’ll drive Rebecka directly to the clinic,” said Fischer.

  Without saying a word to the police officers or even favoring them with a look, Marion stepped up to Rebecka. She wore sturdy jogging shoes, and Irene realized why she hadn’t heard her footsteps. She put Rebecka’s arm around her own neck and helped her to her feet. Rebecka was so tall that the woman could get her shoulder under Rebecka’s armpit. By placing her other arm around Rebecka’s waist, she managed to drag her loose-limbed body toward the door. Without turning her head, she said to the doctor, “The car is outside the door.”

  “I’ll be there right away,” he said.

  He gathered together the few papers that were on the otherwise bare shining desk and put them in a thin briefcase of tan-colored soft leather. He looked at them and gestured toward the door. “Please.” He ushered them out and then hurried out himself, passing them on the stairs.

  What was this man’s relationship with Rebecka? As he at least sometimes had an interest in young women, could there be a sexual relationship? But surely Rebecka’s condition precluded this? A thought struck Irene: Was Rebecka heavily drugged? Had the doctor given her psychotropic drugs?

  Such thoughts buzzed in Irene’s head the whole way down the steps in the cool stairwell. She discarded them, one after the other. A black car pulled away just as they emerged from the building. Irene glimpsed Rebecka’s pale face. Next to her in the back seat was John Fischer.

  Glen had gotten the same impression as Irene: Rebecka was really sick, but her doctor was certainly acting strangely.

  Irene was about to suggest going to lunch, where they could discuss their impressions, when the Marsellaise started chiming in her jacket pocket. She quickly pulled out her cell phone.

  “Irene Huss.”

  “Hannu here. I tried to get hold of you earlier this morning, but you were probably on the plane.”

  Irene mumbled in order to avoid admitting that she had forgotten to turn on her phone after her plane landed.

  “I’ve found something.”

  Irene realized that she had been holding her breath.

  “There wasn’t a Christian Lefévre or a Rebecka Schyttelius on the passenger list. I checked all the departures on Monday and Tuesday with all of the airlines. But one person spent the night in Göteborg. He left Heathrow at seven twenty on Monday evening and returned at seven ten on Tuesday morning. Furthermore, he had reserved a rental car at Avis, a dark-blue Volkswagen Polo.”

  Irene was in suspense. The decal on the back window of the car that the dog owner had seen co
uld very well have been an advertisement for Avis.

  “What was his name?” she croaked tonelessly.

  “Andrew St. Clair.”

  Hannu gave her the information he had gotten from the airline. Irene pulled out her little notebook and wrote it down.

  Glen was looking at her curiously when she hung up.

  “Good or bad news?” he said.

  She looked at him and answered, “Don’t know. Or maybe. . . .”

  She pulled herself together to explain what Hannu’s investigation had turned up. For once he was quiet for almost a minute.

  “Andrew St. Clair. One of Scotland’s richest men . . . why would he fly to Göteborg and murder Rebecka’s family?”

  They ended up at a small Indian restaurant not far from Whitley’s. It would have been fun to walk around the large department store again, but shopping was the last thing on Irene’s mind now. She hardly noticed how good the tandoori smelled and tasted.

  “The personal ID number on the list from the airline matches that of Andrew St. Clair. He’s almost a year older than Christian,” said Glen.

  He looked thoughtfully at the paper where Irene had scribbled the information she had gotten from Hannu, and then he brightened up.

  “Now I remember something from my studies of the gossip columns! He’s going to be married soon. There was a big article about the upcoming wedding in which it was referred to as the Society wedding of the year.”

  “That doesn’t explain anything. Why would a rich Scot go to Göteborg and shoot three complete strangers?” Irene asked.

  Glen looked at her for a while. “Do we know that they were strangers to him?”

  Irene thought about this before she answered, “No. Actually not.”

  “There’s only one thing to do,” Glen said firmly.

  “What?”

  “Ask him.”

  Irene would have to look after herself during the afternoon. Glen had to discuss how they would carry out the remainder of the investigation with his boss. Before they split up, they decided to meet at Restaurant Vitória at six o’clock.