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

by Helen Tursten

  “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 awa
y 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 fin-ished 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.”