Helene Tursten: The Glass Devil

Kate gathered together her sons, kissed her husband and mother-in-law, and gave Irene a hug. “If we don’t see each other again before you go home, then we’ll be in touch about the summer vacation. I am looking forward to seeing the midnight sun.”

Kate and Glen probably don’t realize how big Sweden is, Irene thought, nor how far it extends from north to south. Nor did they realize how many mosquitoes there were in Norrland. And, even worse, that one never falls asleep there in the summer: Who can sleep when the sun is shining in the middle of the night? Still, she remembered her family’s vacation in a rented trailer in Norrland as the best one they had had. That was almost ten years ago. The trip had taken three weeks, and they had seen a great deal of Sweden.

Irene was telling Glen about her own trip to Norrland when her cell phone started ringing.

“Irene Huss,” she answered.

“This is Christian Lefévre. Where are you?”

“At a restaurant. I’ve eaten dinner.”

She gestured at Glen and pointed at the cell phone. She mouthed, “Christian.”

“Are you alone?”

She was uncertain whether she should lie but decided not to. “No. Inspector Thompson is here as well.”

“Good. How long will it take you to get to Ossington Street?”

“Well. . maybe fifteen minutes. Is that where you are?”

Glen leaned forward and tried to hear what Lefévre was saying. Irene pulled the phone a little away from her ear so he could hear better. While he was eavesdropping, he pulled out his own cell phone and started looking for a number in the address book.

“Forget about where we are. You won’t find us. Be at the office on Ossington Street exactly fifteen minutes from now. The key to the red door is under a cement block beneath the steps. Lift the block and you’ll see it.”

“How is Rebecka?” Irene asked, trying desperately to lengthen the conversation.

“She’s okay. Fifteen minutes, starting now.” He hung up.

“We have to be at Ossington Street in fifteen minutes,” she told Thompson.

He spoke into his cell phone as they rushed out. That conversation ended before he started the car and began to drive fast to the computer company’s office.

“They may be able to trace that phone call. It will take a little bit of time, but they may be able to tell which area the call was placed from,” he said.

Traffic was rather light, and they got there in just seven minutes. Irene had one eye glued to the clock on the car’s instrument panel. When they turned onto Ossington Street, Irene caught a glimpse of the sign above the old pub on the corner. She couldn’t keep from exclaiming, “Glen! The matches came from Shakespeare!”

“Impossible. He died in the sixteen hundreds.” Glen grinned.

“Not him. The pub!”

She pointed at the black sign written in gothic script.

“But why did it say ‘Mosc’ under ‘Pu’?” she asked, confused.

“Because the pub is located at the intersection of Ossington Street and Moscow Road.”

The tires squealed when Glen parked at the curb. Irene jumped out of the Rover before it had completely stopped and rushed over to the stairs leading to the bright red door. Just as Lefévre had said, there was a light concrete block under the steps, perhaps forgotten after the renovation of the house. The key was lying exactly where he had said. She and Thompson raced up the stairs and unlocked the red door.

It smelled stuffy inside, as if no one had been there for a few days. The door to the office was half open, and they walked into the white office. The green plants drooped in their designer pots. It was silent and close. Irene and Glen split up and quickly looked through all the rooms of the office. When they met again, in the large room, they shook their heads. Irene was just about to suggest that they make their way into the apartments above when one of the computers turned itself on.

After a moment, Christian Lefévre’s face appeared on the screen. Although the picture was small, he was clearly visible.

“Webcam,” Glen said softly to Irene.

In the background they could glimpse a bookshelf with book spines neatly arranged in a row, nothing else. Lefévre looked straight into the camera. He dialed his cell phone; a second later, hers rang. Hastily, she fumbled it out of her jacket pocket.

“Irene Huss.”

“Are you in place?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see the picture on the screen?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He ended the conversation with a click, which Irene confirmed by a glance at the screen. Glen searched his own coat pockets and took out a pocket tape recorder. He turned it on and set it in front of the computer speaker.

Lefévre sat erect, looking straight at the camera. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Now I’m going to tell you what actually happened. It’s important that this should conclude in the right way. And it’s just as important that you know why Sten and Elsa Schyttelius had to die. Not to mention Jacob.”

When he spoke Jacob’s name, his expression hardened and Irene thought she could detect pure hate in his eyes. In the next moment it was gone, and he continued. “I know that you’ve asked Mamma if Rebecka and I are a couple. She denied it because I asked her to do so. But she’s the only one who knows the truth. When she called me, she told me that you were on your way to interview Andy. So I know that you’re getting closer. . and I’ve decided that it’s time to bring this to an end. There’s no happy ending for us. But first everything must be ready.”

Christian cleared his throat again and took a large gulp from a tumbler, which he set down on the table again with a bang. He grimaced slightly, which might mean that the drink was strong.

“Rebecka and I love each other. Once in your life, you may be lucky enough to meet a person who speaks directly to your heart and you know that it’s forever. Rebecka is that person for me. Almost exactly a year ago, we realized that we were in love with each other. That summer was the most wonderful time of my life. We traveled to Sweden. Rebecka wanted to show me where she came from. But she didn’t want us to meet her parents. That’s why we chose exactly those days when she knew her parents wouldn’t be home. I didn’t understand then why she didn’t want us to see them, but I accepted her explanation that they weren’t on good terms with each other.”

He fell silent and glanced to the side. Irene and Glen heard a low mumbling.

“Rebecka.” Glen’s whisper in Irene’s ear was barely audible.

Suddenly, Rebecka’s pale face popped up next to Christian’s. He shifted to the side, out of the picture, to make room for her. Her hair hung, dirty and disheveled, around her sunken face. Her eyes were vacant. In vain, she tried several times to form words with her dry lips. Ultimately, she managed to speak.

“I shouldn’t have. . told. . Everything is my. . fault,” she stuttered, in Swedish. “My fault. . could never tell. . anyone,” she whispered, still in Swedish.

For a long time she stared into the camera with a blank expression.

They could hear Christian mumbling, but it was hard to tell what he was saying. Rebecka turned her head and rose. Her clothes rustled as she disappeared from the picture. They could hear her sit heavily in a chair very close to the camera and the microphone.

Christian’s face reappeared on the screen.

“When we were in Göteborg in July, Rebecka showed me the house where her parents lived. There wasn’t any problem getting inside, since they always left a spare key under a pot next to the steps. She showed me the weapons cabinet and the rifles. Of course, she was aware of my interest in hunting. I also saw where her father had hidden the key to the summer cottage. She took it out. We drove out there. It was a warm day, so we went down to the lake and bathed. She told me how close the rectory was to the cottage if you went through the woods. She had done this many times. Later, in her apartment here in London, she showed me a map of the exact area where the houses were located. I took it with me when I. .