The Glass Devil

Hannu smiled faintly. Some questions were so stupid, they didn’t require an answer.

“I’VE NEVER been to London. Have you?”

“Yes. On a language study trip in ’74. The only thing I learned was to drink a lot of beer. And then there was a red-haired girl named Patricia, and she taught me. . ”

Tommy left the sentence unfinished, raised his eyebrows meaningfully, and formed his mouth into a quiet whistle.

Irene’s parents had never had the money to send her on any language study trips; she’d had to work during the summers. If she remembered correctly, she had sold ice cream at Drottning-torget in the summer of ’74-off the books, since she had been under fifteen years of age.

Tommy stopped and pointed at the side corridor. “I’m going to pass by Hannu’s office. He has the info on Jacob’s ex-wife,” he said.

Irene continued on to their office to get her coat. It had been a long, tiring day, but they had made some progress. If they could only find a motive for the killings. Could there be several motives? Hardly possible. Everything pointed to Jacob’s rifle having been used for all three killings; the hard drives had been erased at both crime scenes; and a pentagram had been drawn with human blood on the victims’ computer screens. In addition, a crucifix in Mr. and Mrs. Schyttelius’s bedroom had been turned upside-down and the technicians had found a book about Satanic cults at Jacob’s.

Irene stopped herself with one arm in the sleeve of her coat. The book was not about Satanic churches, but had been written by a founder of one. If Jacob had wanted to know more about Satanists and their thoughts and reactions, he should have obtained a book that described them objectively. A book written by a leader of a cult was hardly going to be objective.

Tommy came in waving a paper in the air. “Good news. She moved from Norrland and now lives in Karlstad. Moved before Christmas and resumed using her maiden name.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kristina Olsson. She was born. . then she would be. . let’s see. . thirty-eight years old.”

“But that means she’s older than Jacob,” she pointed out.

“By seven years. That’s not so much.”

“No. But it’s not common either.”

“Maybe not. By the way, do you think you can interview her tomorrow? I’ve got a tip in the Speedy murder case that I need to check out.”

“Sure, that’s okay. Give me the note.”

“HELLO, SWEETHEART,” Krister spoke from the living room. The introductory notes of “The Evening News” could be heard in the background, and then a deep male voice reported dramatically on the latest bomb explosion in Spain.

Irene’s pet, Sammie, enthusiastically greeted her, trying to convince her that no one in the world had paid any attention to him all day. But his coat was shiny from being newly brushed, his paws were still damp after his recent walk, and his food dish was sitting in its usual place: Some remains of the dry food were lying at the bottom, but the leftovers they usually added were nowhere to be seen. Irene gave him a kiss on the nose. He snorted but realized that he had been found out. Still relatively content with his existence, he went into the living room to his master and lay down on the rug under the glass table.

Irene warmed the vegetable soup that was standing on the stove and made some generous liver pate sandwiches with piles of pickles. She knew that there must be a can of light beer in the refrigerator somewhere; after a few minutes of rummaging around in the far reaches, she found one. She put her dinner on a tray and carried it into the living room. She hadn’t liked the idea of having two TV’s in the house but if she and Krister wanted to watch anything other than ZTV or MTV, they were forced to use another set. Choosing television programs was the only thing the girls agreed about and their tastes didn’t coincide with their parents’.

Krister gave her an absentminded kiss, with one eye trained on the TV screen. Irene was too hungry to care about the lack of passion in his greeting. With a raging appetite, she practically inhaled the soup and all the sandwiches.

Sammie made an attempt at looking undernourished and pitiful, but Irene cold-heartedly refused to give up any of her sandwiches. She brusquely told him to stay put. Grunting, he went back to his place. He lay there staring at her through the glass tabletop with imploring eyes. For what must have been the thousandth time, Irene was sorry they hadn’t chosen the rustic coffee table made of thick pine when they bought the couches.

“Nice to see you eating, sweetie.”

Krister had lost interest in the news when the business report started.

“I ate pizza pretty late this afternoon and I haven’t had anything since, just a few cups of coffee,” she responded.

“Lucky for your colleagues that you’ve had a steady supply of caffeine. Otherwise they would have had to bring in the safety controller and close the station. Warning! Duck, guys and gals! She’s reloading!”

Krister spoke in his broadest dialect. Since he had grown up in Saffle and his family was still there, his Varmland dialect sounded genuine.

“Nice!”

Irene had actually tried to cut back on her coffee consumption, but it hadn’t gone very well. She had become tired and irritable. As the sum of your vices is said to be constant, and as she didn’t smoke and didn’t drink much, she had decided that coffee would be her vice.

Krister chuckled at his own joke but then became serious. “You should know that Katarina barely ate any soup. She ate about ten peas and that many carrot cubes, and that was it,” he said.

“Why? Doesn’t she usually eat? Her training takes a lot of energy.”

“She’s got the idea in her head of competing for Miss West Coast.”

“Miss. .! It sounds like a beauty contest!”

“It is. Apparently she sent in an application, and now she’s been chosen for some regional here in the western part of the city. If she wins, she’ll go on to the big final.”

Irene sat dumbstruck and tried to make sense of what her husband had just told her. The thought of participating in a beauty contest had never occurred to her, and the idea that one of their daughters would do it felt just as odd. She had to admit to herself that Katarina was prettier than she had been at that age. But to enter a beauty contest! Even though she suspected the answer, she asked anyway: “Why can’t she eat because she’s participating in Miss West Coast?”

“She says that she’s too fat.”

Too fat! Katarina was just like her mother, one hundred and eighty centimeters tall, but she probably weighed ten kilos* less. And Irene herself was slender; Katarina was already on the verge of skinny, in Irene’s opinion.

“Where is she now?”

“Ju-jitsu training. She’ll be home any minute.”

Irene tried to digest both the food and the news about her daughter’s new career as a beauty queen. Suddenly, she remembered something.

“I probably need to go to Karlstad tomorrow. But I’ll be home in the evening.”

“Hmmm,” said her husband, deeply engrossed now in the local news.

Chapter 7

IRENE CAUGHT THE SAFFLE bus at Nils Ericsson Place; it would go on to Karlstad. This was not only much cheaper than taking the car, but much less tiring as well. She had decided to relax and read on the bus. Supplied with that day’s edition of GP, the Goteborg newspaper, a newly purchased paperback, a thermos, and two sandwiches, she got on the bus just after ten o’clock. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky.