you is Ned Atkinson, known as Gravedigger.”
He fell silent again. Irene’s headache was pressing against the inside of her forehead. So she had fought with a man named Gravedigger. She tried to speak, but her tongue felt stiff and strange.
“Ned is an old lag and a drug addict. He was released a few months ago after completing a twelve-year sentence as an accessory to murder. His specialty is to assist in contract killings in the underworld and to get rid of the bodies. Hence the name Gravedigger.”
Irene managed to coax her tongue to move and tried to reassure herself with a feeble smile. “Dare one ask what the other man is called?”
Glen gave her a long look before he answered. “The Butcher.”
The Butcher. Irene decided not to ask anything else.
“You were lucky that he wasn’t the one who pulled you into the car. The Butcher weighs about a hundred and thirty kilos and is incredibly strong. But he injured himself when he escaped from prison last month. They discovered a large infected sore on his knee when he was admitted to the hospital last night for his head injury. The superintendent I spoke with said that a normal person would hardly have been able to walk around with such an injury. The Butcher was forced to. He couldn’t go to an emergency room: A nationwide bulletin had been issued for him.”
They had passed Marble Arch and continued onto Oxford Street. Traffic was heavy and the sidewalks were jammed with people running in and out of the shops. Glen slowed down, turned onto a cross street, and continued. “He’s being cared for in a special hospital for mentally ill criminals. He’d been in prison for a series of unusually vicious murders and rapes. Some were contract jobs, others he committed for pleasure.”
Glen parked parallel to the sidewalk. When he had turned off the engine, he said softly, “Ned was without oxygen a little too long during your struggle. He’s going to survive, but he’ll probably have permanent injuries, although his brain damage may also have been caused by an overdose. They found high levels of morphine in his blood and he’s a known heroin addict. His system is weakened by drugs and he’s in overall poor health. The Butcher struck his head on the windshield and has serious skull injuries. His condition is critical. And Irene. . ”
Glen paused and looked into Irene’s eyes. “They found a large knife next to the Butcher. The same one he had stabbed the taxi driver with. It was still bloody.”
Robbery. Rape. Stabbing, and maybe murder. That’s what would have awaited her if she hadn’t managed to get away. She couldn’t keep her knees from shaking when she stepped out of the car. Despite the fact that it was thirteen degrees outside, sweat was running down her back.
DR. FISCHER had his practice in a beautiful stone house a little way from the bustle of Oxford Street. All of the houses along the cross street had been lavishly and reverently renovated.
After having spoken into the intercom to identify themselves, they were admitted. The vestibule was preserved in a Victorian style with a lot of marble and carved dark mahogany. To Irene’s relief, the elevator was completely new and certainly large enough for two people.
A large man in his late fifties was standing at an open door waiting for them when they emerged from the elevator. He had thick steel-gray hair which was combed back over his high forehead, and a short gray beard. His light-gray suit was tight across the shoulders and back, but it looked expensive. His face was wide and powerful. His smile revealed large teeth, but couldn’t compete with his penetrating gray-blue eyes. Despite his elegant clothes, Irene thought that he looked more like a big-game hunter than a doctor. He scrutinized them over the edge of frameless glasses.
“Officers Thompson and Huss, I believe. I’m Dr. Fischer. Come in.”
He made them a slight bow, greeting them without shaking hands, and gestured toward his office. They passed through a dark hall and came to a small living room used as a waiting room. “Rebecka would like us to sit in here,” said Dr. Fischer. He opened the door and stepped across the threshold first. It was furnished with antique furniture which harmonized well with the decorative plaster work of the ceiling and the lead-framed mullions in the top of the windows. There were Oriental rugs on the floor which looked genuine to Irene’s untrained eye. Everything pointed to this not being your average clinic; the charges were doubtless above average as well.
Fischer approached a woman who was seated in an armchair next to one of the windows and laid one hand on her shoulder.
The light came from the side and fell on the right half of Rebecka’s face. Irene could see that she was thinner than she had been in the pictures taken at the Christmas breakfast. She was dressed in a white cotton polo shirt and a black suit in a thin material which was beautifully tailored. As far as Irene could see, she wasn’t wearing any jewelry. Her hair was longer than in the photos, and just as thick. However, it was completely dull, as if it hadn’t been washed for quite some time. It suited her to have lost a few kilos. Her full lips and high cheekbones had become more prominent. Her eyes, looking large and empty in her pale face, betrayed her worry and anguish. Irene could see what it was that had made Christian Lefevre try to keep Rebecka away from them. He wanted to protect her against her own fear and pain.
She heard Eva Moller’s voice again: “Rebecka is like her father. …”
“Rebecka, these are the police officers who want to speak with you,” said Dr. Fischer.
Irene and Glen walked over, shook hands, and introduced themselves. Rebecka’s hand felt limp and cold. Irene was unsure about how she should begin, so she said hesitantly, in Swedish, “I don’t really know how I should express my colleagues’ and my sympathy for you. What has happened to your family is tragic, and we’re doing everything we can to solve the murders. But we need your help. There are too many questions we don’t have the answers to. Do you think you have the strength to answer a few questions?”
Rebecka nodded almost imperceptibly without looking at Irene.
“My first question is, do you have any thoughts as to a motive for the killings?”
A brief headshake was the only response.
“Have your parents or Jacob ever told you that they had been threatened?”
“No,” Rebecka replied softly and hoarsely.
“Have you personally ever been threatened?”
Another headshake, slightly stronger.
No one in the family had been threatened, but now three out of the four were dead. It sounded unlikely. Rebecka must know something, even if she didn’t realize it, Irene thought.
“Do you know of anyone who could have hated your parents so much that he or she could have killed them?”
“No.”
“And Jacob didn’t have any enemy you knew of either?”
“No.”
Neither Dr. Fischer nor Glen understood a word of their conversation, of course, but both of them sat perfectly still.
Irene would have given almost anything to hand the conversation over to Glen. After the previous evening’s events, she was off kilter. But she had to conduct this interview herself. She decided to start another topic.
“We’ve heard that your father asked for your help in tracing Satanists via the Internet. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find anything useful?”
For the first time Rebecka looked at Irene, but she turned away before she answered. “We found a lot of their propaganda. But Pappa wanted to find the ones who had burned down the church. There were just chat sites on the Web.”
“Chat sites?”
“Yes. On one, someone congratulated them on the. . ‘successful raid against the enemy’s temple by the sea.’ Signed, ‘Satan’s faithful servant.’ I managed to trace it to a computer at a high school in Lerum. That was it.”
She spoke with a great deal of difficulty, and Irene saw cold sweat break out on her forehead. It was clear that this was hard for her.
“Do you know if your father managed to find anything during his own investigations?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You weren’t home this past Christmas, correct?”
“No.”
