Helene Tursten: The Glass Devil

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 Göteborg. 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 that happened-one of our students’ fathers came to me. The truth is, he was waiting for me outside my office when I arrived that morning. He was terribly upset. It’s understandable, if what he said was true. But we just don’t know. They come from another culture where the relationships between teacher and students is much more strict and authoritarian. They may have misunderstood the slightly more informal relationship between students and teachers in the Swedish school and-”

Andersson had sat up in his chair. “Where do ‘they’ come from?” he brusquely interrupted his cousin.

“Syria. They are Christian Syrians,” Georg answered.

“Why was the father upset?”

Georg squirmed. Clearly, he wasn’t happy, with his seat or the situation.

“He claimed that his little eight-year-old daughter had a breakdown over the weekend. She said that Jacob had made her do ‘bad things.’”

“What kind of bad things?”

“The father said that Jacob had shown her his ‘thing’ and forced her to undress completely. Then he supposedly. . touched her.”

“Where did this supposedly happen?”

“At school. After regular school hours. Jacob apparently offered to give the girl extra help. She has difficulty with the language and is quiet. She had fallen behind in math.”

Andersson looked at his cousin in his elegant suit. Finally, he said slowly and with emphasis, “You stupid shit!”

Georg jerked back but didn’t say anything.

Upset, Andersson got up from the armchair and started walking around the room. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve withheld important facts in a murder investigation! It’s prosecutable! Damn it, you’ve gone and kept to yourself a motive for murder!”

Andersson had to pause to catch his breath, and Georg tried to defend himself: “But Jacob denied the accusations. He protested his innocence and said that the girl had misunderstood his kindness. She was the one who wanted to sit in his lap. He had had to turn away her affectionate impulses. Maybe she had imagined more than there was. Or maybe she simply wanted revenge.”

Andersson glared at his cousin. “An eight-year-old?” he asked dryly.

“Well. . kids lie.”

“What did Jacob say about forcing her to take off her clothes? And the accusation that he had exposed himself?”

“Naturally, he was horrified. He swore several times that he was innocent. He was terrified of an investigation. What would his parents say? Think of his father, being a rector.”

“And a good friend of yours. Did you believe him?”

“Yes. . he seemed trustworthy.”

“And there never was an investigation into the accusations?”

“No. He died. That night.”

“What a relief for you. No unpleasant publicity for the school. No fear of loss of subsidies. No fear of the parents complaining on behalf of other children. Everything works out.”

Andersson’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and he did nothing to conceal it.

Georg rose from the sofa. He was almost a head taller than his cousin. In an attempt at retrieving his dignity, he said, aggrieved, “I came here to inform you about what happened on the morning of the murder. Actually, I shouldn’t have bothered, since it has nothing to do with the murders. . ”

With three quick steps, Andersson was at Georg’s side. He craned his neck back and stared up at his cousin. “How do you know it doesn’t have anything to do with the murders? How do you know that the girl’s father or uncles, or whoever the hell else is in that big family, didn’t shoot Jacob and his parents?”

“Why. . why would they have done that?”

All of Georg’s arrogance disappeared. He glanced away and tried to brush a non-existent spot off one of his sleeves.

“Ever heard about a thing called vendetta? They dispose of the whole family to get revenge. We were stymied for a motive in this investigation for a long time. This is actually a serious motive,” Andersson said.

Georg tried to tough it out and said formally, “It was a mistake for me to come here and take up your precious time with these unimportant details and-”

“Deep inside, you’ve known the whole time that they were damned important. Otherwise you wouldn’t have driven across the whole city in order to ease your delicate Christian conscience!”

In the dark room, the two men stood and measured each other. Georg turned away first. Stiffly, he said, “I’m going now.” He turned and hurried into the hall.