The Glass Devil

Italian, consumed in the company of a dark-skinned half Scottish/half Brazilian named Glen. Nothing during her trip had really been “typically English.” Maybe the beer would be.

“What impression did you get of Rebecka?” Glen asked.

“She’s really sick; it’s obvious. But I don’t know if she’s suffering from a normal depression or if she’s simply overcome with fear. It seemed to me as if terror has sapped her strength. She was completely exhausted.”

Glen nodded. “I, too, sensed that she felt anguished. But she actually spoke with you and answered your questions.”

“Yes, she answered the questions. Not that it added much to what we already knew. But I have the feeling that she still hasn’t told us everything. What is she afraid of? Who is she afraid of? Why won’t she talk?”

“A lot of questions without answers,” Glen said.

“I still don’t know if she fears for her own life. She denied that anyone in the family had been threatened. Yet three of them have been murdered.”

Glen looked at her thoughtfully. “Rebecka is a mystery. She fascinates me. She’s beautiful, intelligent, but so frightened and isolated. You must speak with her again; you should wait a while but then you must get her to talk. One problem is that she doesn’t want to hear about the funeral or that she should go to Sweden. It hasn’t even been possible to bring it up,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“The pastor from the Seaman’s Church who was with me when we first told her what had happened. He asked her to get in touch if she wanted help finding someone who could assist her, like a funeral director. I called him to find out if Rebecka had been in touch with him. She hasn’t. He was concerned, because there are certain practical arrangements to be made as to funerals and estates.”

“I can call him if you want. It might be a good idea to ask him to contact Dr. Fischer. He can raise the question with Rebecka when he sees that she feels a bit better and has the strength to discuss it.”

“That might be a good solution.”

Glen took out a notebook and flipped through it for a while before he found the number he was looking for. “Here! The Swedish Seaman’s Church, Assistant Rector Kjell Sjonell,” Glen read aloud.

Irene laughed when Glen tried to pronounce the Swedish sj sound. She wrote down Kjell Sjonell’s number and his office hours.

THEY WALKED along the Thames and talked about the dramatic occurrences of the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m going to write down your account of the attack. I’ll fax it to you so that you can read through it and sign it. I don’t know yet if you’ll need to come here again to testify at the trial against those villains, if they happen to recover enough for there to be a trial. I’ll find out,” Glen told her.

“Why do you think they chose me as a victim?” Irene asked.

“Well, they saw a woman leaving a restaurant alone, a restaurant that seemed to be quite lively. There was a good chance that she was intoxicated. A perfect robbery victim.”

Suddenly, Irene remembered the taxi she had seen just as she’d reached the street. She had left her jacket open because it had been warm inside the restaurant. Gravedigger and the Butcher would have seen the reflection of their headlights on her gold jewelry. Instinctively, she grabbed the golden pendant which was hanging around her neck.

After a walk of about a kilometer or so, Glen pointed at a large building that rose up a short distance from the Thames. “That’s the Tate Modern. It’s an old electrical station that was converted into a modern museum. The ceiling height in the old turbine hall is thirty-five meters. But it’s actually fun to walk and look around. Kate and I were there just a few weeks ago. There’s a lot to see. And it’s free.”

“How come it’s free?”

“Built with donations. From the Guggenheim Fund, I think.”

Irene had never heard of that fund, but there appeared to be a lot of money in it if it could finance the massive building that rose in front of them. Of course, the fund hadn’t built the building itself, but made sure it was renovated and filled with art.

IRENE SPENT several pleasant hours at the Tate Modern, among the works of some of the most famous modern artists. For the first time, Irene saw original paintings by Picasso, Monet, Dali and van Gogh, Leger and Mondrian. She realized that most of the artists she’d thought of as “modern” weren’t actually very recent: Most of them had been productive at the end of the nineteenth century and then up to the middle of the twentieth century. Despite that, they were known as the groundbreakers of modern art. Irene felt the power in the images and understood that they were about what had been “New” around the turn of the twentieth century, which had transformed art forever.

Wandering among the artworks felt instructive, but was also tiring for the feet. She finally ended up in the overcrowded cafeteria at the top of the building, on the seventh floor. She managed to find an empty barstool and order a beer. Sitting and looking at a mixture of people from all corners of the world was intriguing. If she grew tired of them, she could gaze out over London’s rooftops and at the boats below on the Thames. Time flew by until she had to head toward the hotel and the airport.

GLEN DROVE her to Heathrow. Before they parted, Irene said, “I reached the pastor, Kjell Sjonell. He promised to get in touch with Dr. Fischer and then to contact me. We’ll have to see if Rebecka recovers sufficiently to be able to come home to Sweden. Otherwise, I might have to return here once more.”

Glen smiled. “It would be very nice if you could visit us again. But, of course, I hope Rebecka gets better. I’ve been thinking about her and her mystery. I think she holds the key to the truth. Whether she knows it or not.”

Irene nodded. “That’s exactly what I think as well.”

Chapter 14

IRENE STORMED INTO HANNU Rauhala’s office with Sunday’s edition of GT in front of her.

“Hannu! Explain!”

He looked at the black headlines on the front page: “Church accountant who was questioned in SATANIC MURDERS is suspected of EMBEZZLEMENT!”

“Can’t. I only saw it yesterday too.”

Irene was so upset that her voice shook. “How could you talk to Kurt Hook about this?” Hook was GT’s famous crime reporter, and he had his sources. If you had a tip about a criminal activity, Hook was the person you called.

“I haven’t.” Hannu leaned back in his chair and looked her straight in the eye. Irene knew he wasn’t lying. Even if he might need money for the new house and the baby, he would never do something like that.

She threw the paper on Hannu’s desk and sat in the visitor’s chair.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you had. But who else could it have been? Only you and I and Sven knew about these rumors. I’ve been in London. And Sven would never speak with Kurt Hook. They detest one another. By the way, did you find anything that might point to there being some truth behind the accusations?”

“Nothing. The auditor showed me everything, going back ten years. There have never been any suspicions of embezzlement.”

“But this is still a catastrophe for Louise and Bengt Maardh! It’s going to take a long time before they’re cleared.”

“Who has something to gain if these rumors come out?”

Irene wrinkled her brow. “Urban Berg.”

Hannu nodded.

Irene went into her office and did some serious thinking. She made her decision and placed a phone call. Later on in the day, she would make another, but it was still too early.