Helene Tursten - The Glass Devil

Several people were waiting holding up cardboard signs outside Customs. One of them had “Ms. Irene Huss” on it. Irene realized this must be Inspector Glen Thompson. Her surprise must have been obvious, because Glen Thompson broke into a wide smile and then laughed.

“Welcome to London. I’m Glen Thompson.”

His white teeth shone against dark skin. His hair was a shiny black, short and curly. He was slightly taller than Irene and a few years younger.

He held out his hand to greet her, and Irene managed to get her act together and squeak out her name.

Glen Thompson took her bag and said, “I think we’ll go to the hotel first.”

Outside the airport terminal, a pale sun now shone between the clouds.

“You have April weather,” Irene commented.

Thompson flashed his teeth in a quick smile and nodded. He walked up to a black Rover and unlocked it, then politely held open the door on the passenger’s side for Irene and threw her bag onto the back seat.

“We’ve had fantastic weather the last two weeks, then yesterday it turned. It rained all day. But it’s going to be better today.”

Irene couldn’t hear the slightest bit of an accent when he spoke. If he hadn’t been born in England, then he must have grown up here, she thought.

They drove past budding trees and greening fields. The cherry trees, too, were blooming, a month earlier than in Göteborg. When they drew closer to London and the first block of houses popped up, she saw yellow forsythia and magnolias in bud.

Traffic became thicker the closer to London they came. And everyone drove on the wrong side! Irene thanked her lucky stars that she didn’t have to drive. Glen Thompson didn’t seem to have any problems with the traffic. When Irene admitted that it was the first time she had been to London, he immediately said, “Then we’ll take a longer route so I have an opportunity to show you the main streets. It’s easier to orient oneself using them. And you’ll want to walk around on your own without getting lost.”

He talked and pointed out sights worth seeing without seeming to give his fellow road users the slightest bit of attention.

“I’ve booked you in at my sister’s hotel. Our father started it after the war. He was Scottish and married late in life. My mother was in London with a Brazilian dance group and stayed on after she met the old man. He died a few years ago, and then my mother opened this restaurant a few blocks from the hotel. The restaurant was a childhood dream-look, there’s the Marble Arch, and on the left side you have Hyde Park-and she manages wonderfully. You’ll get to meet her tonight. The whole Thompson family will be eating dinner there, and we hope that you can join us.”

“Thanks, I’d love to,” Irene replied, dazed by her host’s voluble friendliness.

“I called Rebecka Schyttelius last night. She had just come home from the hospital. She agreed to see us today, late morning,” Thompson continued.

They surged forward in the heavy morning traffic, the green surfaces of Hyde Park behind the tall fence on one side, and beautiful stone houses with expensive façades on the other.

Glen Thompson turned in on a cross street. The contrast was striking. The road was relatively narrow, with little traffic. The houses were faced with brick or stucco, tall, but not as impressive as those lining the more magnificent streets. Small shops and restaurants with exotic names were squeezed onto the ground level. Irene also noted the striking number of hotel entrances.

“There are plenty of hotels around here,” she noted.

“Yes. Some are really posh, but most of them are small family-owned ones.”

They turned onto an even smaller street and stopped. A few steps led up to a heavy door with lead-framed windows. Two columns supported a portico. Under the roof, there was a frieze with “Thompson Hotel” written in elegant gold letters. Through large windows on each side of the entrance, the reception area was visible. The façades of the neighboring houses adjoined each window. The tall, narrow property appeared to be newly renovated. The stucco shone white, freshly painted, and the window frames were newly trimmed in a soft light blue. Irene immediately liked the little hotel.

Glen Thompson held the door open for her and insisted on carrying her bag. Irene entered the bright lobby and was met by a smiling woman who, she realized, must be Glen’s sister. When she smiled, Irene saw the family resemblance. She was a head shorter than her brother and had a somewhat lighter complexion. She appeared to be about the same age as Irene.

“Welcome to the Thompson Hotel. My name is Estelle.”

She held out her hand to greet Irene, automatically brushing the other hand over her neck to smooth her chignon. Her golden brown short-sleeved dress matched her eyes. Irene realized that the woman in front of her had been a stunning beauty in her youth; she was still very attractive.

“Hello, Estelle,” said Glen. “You can treat me to a cup while Irene gets settled in the room.” He asked Irene, “Is fifteen minutes enough time?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting on the couch.”

HER ROOM was located on the top floor. For the first time in her life, she encountered a one-person elevator. It wouldn’t have been possible to get anyone else inside the tiny cage unless they were tenderly entwined and didn’t have any luggage. When the small elevator had safely rattled its way to the fourth floor and opened its doors, Irene decided that she would have to use the stairs from now on.

The room was surprisingly large, decorated in emerald green and golden tan. Everything was bright and new, from the carpet on the floor to the tiled bathroom. A graphic print with a theme from the Carnaval in Rio adorned the wall.

Irene hung up the few clothes she had brought in the closet and took the opportunity to use the toilet. Then she walked down the stairs to the lobby.

“SHOULD WE walk? It’s only about half a mile from here,” Glen Thompson said.

“I’d love to walk,” Irene agreed.

The sun was shining, but it was still quite cold in the wind.

A surprising number of houses had scaffolding on the outside and several were already restored. Irene realized that Bayswater was a part of the city which was regaining its old character. As if he could read her thoughts, Glen said, “Quite a few immigrants live here in Bayswater but at the same time, we have an influx of English people who want to live in central London. Of course, other areas of the city are more fashionable, like Mayfair or Holland Park, but the houses there are terribly expensive. Yet even if Bayswater has become trendy, it’s nothing compared to Notting Hill. That’s where Rebecka Schyttelius lives. I don’t know if you’ve seen the movie with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. .?”

“No.”

“The movie had an amazing impact, and now it’s fashionable to live in Notting Hill.”

Irene noticed that they were headed west. Pretty soon, the houses became dirtier and more decayed. There was also a lot of scaffolding here, but the houses that were undergoing renovation hadn’t originally been as beautiful as the ones in Bayswater.

“Notting Hill is a old blue-collar neighborhood. But there are a few really nice houses, like the one up there.”

Glen pointed at a large white four-story house with a beautifully ornamented façade. The first floors had narrow balconies running along the whole width of the house, where flowers in boxes and pots were already blooming. The balconies faced a thickly wooded park surrounded by a high iron fence. The general public could only peer through the bars at the greenery, because a sign hanging on the gate told them that it was private.