The apartment, a trendy loft with an open floor plan, was located at the top of an old Victorian house. Everything was unbelievably expensive, both in terms of materials and craftsmanship. The decor was extremely modern, with a lot of stainless steel, light natural wood, and a black and white color scheme. It was in striking contrast to the museum in Scotland that Andrew St. Clair nowadays called home, thought Irene.
The chair Rebecka sat in was turned toward a square stove with glass doors in all directions, standing in the middle of the floor. A large sofa and four armchairs covered in white leather were gathered around it. On the floor was the largest Oriental rug Irene had ever seen. Aside from two colorful paintings, the rug provided the only spot of color in the room, glowing in ruby red and steel blue. The paintings seemed to have been painted by the same artist. One was completely red, the other blue. Irene immediately associated them with Rebecka and Christian’s front doors on Ossington Street. Both canvases had been slashed. On the red one, there was a tear in the middle; on the blue one, it was in the lower right-hand corner. Irene recognized the style of a painting she had seen at the Tate Modern, but she couldn’t recall the Italian artist’s name.
Andrew’s work corner, under one of the sloping windows, was the size of Irene’s living room. Two computer desk tables stood at an angle to each other, a computer on each table. Desk chairs in black leather, small comfortable armchairs on wheels, stood in front of each computer. The wall behind the desks was covered by a built-in bookshelf made of light birch, like the computer tables. A webcam was mounted on one computer, the one that faced the wall lined with books.
An opening in the wall of bookshelves led to a short corridor with two doors. A large bedroom lay behind one of them; behind the other was a bathroom tiled in Mediterranean blue. Irene noted the Jacuzzi, meant for several people.
She returned to the main room and found Glen in front of the computer. His efforts to start it up were in vain. It was just as unwilling as the one they had given up on in Lefevre’s computer office.
“There’s a bomb in this one as well. Damn it!” he said.
One of the technicians bending over the dead bodies jerked and turned his head in their direction. When he saw their expressions of resignation, he returned to his work.
Chapter 21
WHAT WAS HAPPENING ON the other side of the North Sea? What was the motive of that chap Lafayette-or whatever the hell his name was-for kidnapping Rebecka? What was that supposed to solve? It was typical, when you let Irene loose. The strangest things happened. But she usually managed to get it together in the end; that, Andersson had to admit. But an extra day-maybe several-in London would be expensive.
They should have brought Rebecka Schyttelius home to Sweden right after the murders. Maybe she would have had to be escorted by that headshrinker and some police officers, but she should have been forced to come home. Then the Frog and the doctor wouldn’t have been able to hide her from them. She couldn’t have been so sick that she couldn’t talk. She had given them a statement earlier in the investigation. And it would have been a lot cheaper.
Sven Andersson hadn’t bothered turning on the lights, despite the fact that the darkness was creeping in on him. He sat in the dusk and enjoyed his well-earned can of ale-in all honesty, the third he’d had this April Friday evening. And that wasn’t anyone’s damn business, in his opinion.
When the doorbell rang, initially he was terribly upset. He automatically glanced at his watch and noted that it was almost nine o’clock. His first impulse was not to open the door, to pretend he wasn’t home. On the other hand, it was very seldom that his doorbell ever rang. Sheer curiosity propelled him out of his recliner and to the door.
To his surprise, his cousin Georg was standing on the front step. He was alone, without the ever-cheerful Bettan. There was nothing bad to be said about her, but sometimes she could be rather trying.
“Hey, Sven,” said Georg.
Andersson noted that his usually self-confident cousin stood and rocked uncertainly, teetering from side to side.
“Hi. What do you want?”
Georg licked his lips nervously and forced a smile. “Could I come in for just a minute?”
Again, curiosity took hold of the superintendent. Maybe his police instincts were awakened. That’s what he preferred to think, but old honest curiosity had also led to the solution of cases.
Sven backed up so he could let his cousin in. With one foot, he discreetly pushed away the boots which were lying where they had been thrown, just inside the threshold, when he got home from the previous weekend’s fishing trip. He had spent the only day he had taken off during the whole Easter weekend pursuing his hobby, fishing. His other hobby was gardening, but he hadn’t told them about that one at work.
He became aware that it had been a while since he had cleaned his little house. “You’ll have to excuse the mess, but a lot has been happening. The Schyttelius murders and the motorcycle gang war that broke out over Easter. . I’ve had to put in a lot of overtime.”
That would have to do as an explanation. If it didn’t, Georg could pull out the vacuum cleaner and clean up himself. It was Sven’s mess, and he was content with it. But right now it was probably worse than usual.
So that the layer of the dust on the furniture wouldn’t be visible, he only lit one lamp.
“Do you want a beer?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’m driving.”
Of course he was driving. He and Bettan lived in Billdal, on the other side of Goteborg. Andersson suppressed a sigh, but at the same time he was pleased. He only had three cans left in the fridge.
“Coffee then. .?” he inquired, halfheartedly.
“No, thank you. Nothing. I just wanted to talk about. . something.”
Georg sat gingerly on the outer edge of the green sofa. He may have been worried about his light-colored suit. The sofa was quite faded and soiled after all these years. Several times, Andersson had thought about buying a slipcover to conceal these imperfections, but he had never gotten around to it. Andersson himself sank down into his well-broken-in leather armchair. It was a fiftieth birthday present from himself. His half-consumed beer can sat in front of him on the stained teak table.
“Okay. You want to talk about something. Go ahead. You’re among friends,” Andersson said jovially, smiling at his own joke.
Georg didn’t seem to have understood that this was an attempt at humor. Troubled, he cleared his throat, hesitated, then spoke. “It’s about Jacob Schyttelius. Naturally, this has nothing to do with his murder. Both the girl’s father and I thought it was best to let everything go. . to die with Jacob, so to speak. If we started digging into things, it would only cause more damage. And Jacob is, after all, dead. He can’t defend himself. And for her, it’s probably best the way things are. So that she can forget all about it. Children forget quickly.”
Confused, Georg gave his cousin a desperate look. Andersson only felt bewildered. For lack of a better idea, he picked up the can and drank a gulp. What was it Georg was trying to say? Something about Jacob Schyttelius and a child. Thoughtfully, he put the blue can down.
“How about taking it from the beginning? And preferably in some sort of chronological order.”
“Of course. Certainly.” Georg straightened the permanent crease in his well-pressed pant leg and cleared his throat again.
“I think it feels good to tell you about this. . it has been gnawing on my conscience, ha ha. . even if it doesn’t mean anything to the investigation itself of. .
“Right. To the point. The Monday Jacob was shot-but of course it was much later in the evening that
Andersson had sat up in his chair. “Where do ‘they’ come from?” he brusquely interrupted his cousin.
“Syria. They are Christian Syrians,” Georg answered.
