“So it has been a while since you saw your parents?”
Irene let the question hang in the air on purpose since she really didn’t know how she ought to continue, but she was surprised to see Rebecka wince. She took a deep, audible breath before whispering, “Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
Rebecka licked her dry lips. “Easter. . one year ago. . ”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? An unusual or strange feeling? Someone who said something odd?”
Rebecka appeared to be thinking. “No.”
“Did your father speak about the Satanists?”
“No.”
“Did your mother say anything about Satanists?”
“No.”
Rebecka sagged against the backrest. Her face was ashen, and Irene realized that she wouldn’t be able to handle much more. The next question was sensitive, but it had to be asked. In a gentle voice, Irene said, “We found a book about Satanism at your brother’s. It was hidden in the cottage. It was written by a founding figure within Satanism-”
“LaVey.”
“You know the book?”
“I bought it. Here in London.”
“Why?”
“He wanted it. I gave it to him as a Christmas present.”
“Last Christmas?”
“No, the Christmas before.”
“The Christmas when you were home?”
“Yes.”
“Have you read it yourself?”
“No.”
“The book was hidden in a space behind a wall panel in one of the bedrooms in the cottage. He also kept a rifle there. Did you know about that hiding place?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that he had a rifle behind the wall panel?”
Rebecka shook her head slowly.
“Who else knows about the hiding place?”
“Only our family. It was like a. . safe.”
Rebecka closed her eyes and leaned her head back. It looked like she didn’t have the energy to hold up its weight any longer. Dr. Fischer started clearing his throat and twisting his large body in the chair he sat in. Irene thought feverishly. She realized that her time was almost up. Suddenly, she remembered something she had been wondering about.
“Someone said that you had been home last summer and that you had had your boyfriend with you. Is that correct?”
Rebecka looked like she was asleep but after a while she opened her eyes and looked straight at Irene. “It was Christian and myself. We were called to Stockholm. . to do a job. Christian had never been to Sweden. We flew to Landvetter and rented a car. Drove up. . so that he could see. We drove past Kullahult. They weren’t home. Unusual.”
“Did your parents know you were coming?”
“No. Short notice. I thought about surprising them. Idiot-proof. . they never went anywhere. And just that day, they drove to see Pappa’s old school friend in Varmland. Went to a market, I think.”
“Did you tell them later that you had been in Kullahult?”
“Actually, I don’t think so. We just drove by.”
“Did you see Jacob?”
“No. He didn’t move down until August.”
“When did you and Christian go to Stockholm?”
“The end of July.”
“So Christian has never met your family?”
“No.”
“And he isn’t your boyfriend?”
Rebecka shook her head weakly in reply.
“Who were you going to visit in Stockholm?”
Rebecka turned her head away and didn’t answer for some time. Finally, she whispered, “Save the Children Sweden.”
Dr. Fischer hit the armrests on the chair firmly with the palms of his hands and said, “No. Now this is enough. Rebecka can’t handle any more.”
Irene saw that he was right. Rebecka lay in the armchair like a punctured balloon.
“Thank you, Rebecka, for helping me. I know how difficult this has been for you,” she started, but was interrupted by Rebecka mumbling something that sounded like “… no one can understand,” but Irene wasn’t completely sure.
Irene quickly took out her card and handed it to Glen.
“Glen, please write down the telephone number of the Thompson Hotel and your number in case she wants to reach me later in the day.”
Glen did as she asked. Irene held the card out to Rebecka.
“You can reach me at the numbers on the back of the card until five thirty tonight. Then I have to fly home. After that, you can reach me at the numbers on the front. And you can, of course, always reach me on my cell phone number. Don’t forget to dial the country code, plus forty-six, if you call my cell number.”
Rebecka nodded. She let the hand with the card sink into her lap without taking a look at it.
“I HAVE a meeting at three o’clock. How about going to eat lunch now?” Glen suggested.
Irene thought that sounded like a good idea. Breakfast had been on the meager side.
“I’ll pick you up at the hotel just after five thirty tonight. You can keep your room until then. Then you’ll have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat at the airport before the flight home. What do you want to do on your own this afternoon?” Glen asked when they were in the car again, weaving their way through the heavy traffic.
“Actually, no idea. What do you suggest?” Irene said.
“Do you like old buildings, or shopping, or what?”
“Shopping I did yesterday, and old buildings really aren’t my thing. Something fun that doesn’t cost a lot of money,” Irene concluded.
Glen thought about it for a little while. Then he brightened up. “I know! The Tate Modern. Then we can eat at a good restaurant nearby.”
They drove over the Thames and turned to the left at the bridge abutment. Glen found an empty parking space where he managed to insert the Rover by a feat of advanced parallel parking. They went into a three-story building which turned out to be one restaurant on three levels. The top floor was, for the most part, made up of a terrace. A large sign explained that one could rent the entire top floor for large parties. The wind and gray weather outside didn’t really inspire such use on that particular day. Irene preferred the delicious pub warmth of the bottom floor.
They found an empty table and hung their coats over the chair backs to show that they were taken. At all four corners of the table, a metal disc with an engraved number had been inserted. They had to go up to the bar to order, state their table number, and await table service. One didn’t walk back to the table empty-handed, though: Instead, one carried a glass of beer.
Irene had chosen lasagna; Glen, potato and tuna salads. The servings were extremely generous and the food very good. The stereotype that Englishmen couldn’t cook seemed mistaken to Irene. She had eaten well during her two days in this country. She actually hadn’t eaten typical English food, though, but Chinese, South American, and
