Helene Tursten - The Glass Devil

“Has any Mayfair address come up during the investigation?” she asked.

Glen shook his head.

They were still in Lefévre’s office, trying to figure out where to start searching.

“That bookshelf was well-stocked and made of a light type of wood,” said Glen.

“Could you read any of the titles?” Irene asked.

“No. The distance was too great.”

They had tried to start the computer again, but it appeared to be completely dead. Glen called a computer expert at the Metropolitan Police, who patiently guided their attempts to restart it. When all attempts had failed, the expert concluded, “He must have placed a bomb in it.”

“A bomb!” Glen exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, not that kind of bomb. I mean a computer virus which erases all information on the hard drive. It can lie dormant, to be activated at a later time or on a certain occasion or command. The computer cannot be started again. Or, technically, the computer itself is not damaged and can easily be started up from a different disk but everything on its internal hard disk is gone forever.”

“So there’s nothing to do then?” Glen asked.

“Nothing.”

Dejected and at a loss, Glen looked at Irene. “What do we do?”

“Try and get hold of Andrew St. Clair. He might know where Christian is.”

She was interrupted by Glen’s cell phone ringing.

His expression brightened as a voice on the other end spoke. He waved at Irene to come closer and said, “Good evening, Mr. St. Clair. Yes, we’ve been trying to reach you all evening. . via the local police in Edinburgh. . I understand. Yes. . there are very sorrowful circumstances that have made it necessary.”

Calmly and methodically, Glen gave an account of the afternoon’s and evening’s events. At first, St. Clair refused to believe his story. When Glen came to the end and reported the two shots, Andrew was silent for a long time.

When his voice was heard again, it shook. “You say that the phone call came from the area around Berkeley Square. I still have my apartment in London. It’s located on Hill Street, which leads into Berkeley Square.”

“Could Christian get into your apartment?”

“Yes. He has a key.”

THE SCENE that met them and the technicians from the Metropolitan Police at the apartment was expected, but unbelievably tragic.

Rebecka sat, leaning back, in a high-backed white leather armchair. Her eyes were closed. Just above the bridge of her nose, there was a black hole between her eyes. The backrest behind her was drenched in blood.

Christian sat on the floor in front of her, his head resting on her lap. He had shot himself in the classical way, through the temple.

The gun was a Magnum, and the large-caliber bullets had been deadly, tearing away portions of their skulls on exiting.

For an instant, Irene had a vision of the ending of a Greek tragedy, or maybe a variant Romeo and Juliet. But here it had been neither a strict father nor an old family feud that had thwarted the young lovers, but rather crimes committed long ago, which had led to new crimes. It was difficult to tell who the victims were and who the criminals in this story.

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 Lefévre’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.

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.