The Glass Devil (24 page)

But uncertainty could be heard in his voice even if he was trying to conceal it.

“You say it wasn’t you. And it could hardly have been the Devils themselves. Then it must have been someone else. Probably another gang. Which one?”

His gaze wandered as he tried to look derisive. “You’re trying to pull a fast one,” he said.

“Then I guess it was as our witness stated.”

Irene didn’t glance at Fredrik, hoping that he wouldn’t betray them by looking surprised. It wasn’t a big risk, since Killer Man’s bloodshot eyes were pinned to her face. Slowly, with emphasis on every syllable, she said, “There’s a witness to the shooting of Ronny. The car the suspects were riding in was a red Mustang. Do we know anyone who has a car like that?”

Furious now, Killer Man jumped up from his chair and screamed, “What the hell! Some bastard is trying to nail me! My car was in the barn! None of us—”

He stopped abruptly once more and squinted at Irene. “Wait a minute. You’re trying some sort of dirty cop trick. You cunt.”

He was right. The car that had disappeared from the scene of the attack was described by the only witness as a red Saab 9000, and it was also one of those that had burned outside Gunnared. But in the midst of all the excitement and in the dark, the witness might possibly have been mistaken. And Irene could always say that she had misunderstood what car model the witness had mentioned. She lied because she had seen a shiny red Mustang parked in the undamaged barn. There was no doubt about who it belonged to: “Killer Man” was written in silver paint on one of the front doors, the other reading “Hells Rockets.”

She shook her head in response to his accusation. Fredrik continued, “That’s why we can keep you in custody. We don’t know who was driving. Or who was holding the rifle. We don’t even know if they were shooting from your crate. The technicians need to go through the car. As far as the prosecutor is concerned, you’re all murder suspects. The investigation is going to take some time, during which all of you will remain in jail.”

Killer Man’s self-assurance faltered. He was a tough, used to keeping his mouth shut and denying everything, but it was difficult for him this time as he didn’t know what had actually happened. Not to mention his hangover. . . . Even if he was used to being in prison, he didn’t look forward to sitting in jail for an unspecified period of time. Especially if the guilty ones were free and able to take over the territory of The Devils or Hells Rockets before they got out. Irene could hardly believe her ears when he started to rat. “There’s a gang . . . the Outsiders. They are in contact with the Brotherhood.”

Neither Irene nor Fredrik had heard of the Outsiders, but they didn’t show it. They tried to press Killer Man for more information, but he realized that he had said more than he had to and remained silent during the rest of the interrogation.

The two other members of Hells Rockets didn’t add anything to the investigation. Neither of them could have, even had he wanted. One sat half asleep, still heavily intoxicated, and the other appeared to be subnormal mentally. He was the youngest member of the gang, barely twenty years old; his older brother lay critically wounded in the hospital. It was soon clear to Irene and Fredrik that the biggest thing—the only thing—in his life had been his acceptance as an aspiring member of Hells Rockets a year earlier. His only comment, which he repeated like a mantra, was: “You don’t squeal.”

LATER THAT afternoon, Irene telephoned Leif Hansen, the superintendent of the intelligence service for the county police. He laughed when Irene described the questioning of the Hells Rockets members.

“I know those boys pretty well,” he said.

“Killer Man mentioned another gang that might have instigated this wave of violence,” said Irene.

“Really? Who does he blame?”

“The Outsiders. Who are they?” Irene asked.

When Hansen replied, there was no amusement in his voice. “The Outsiders. Did he really say that?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have big problems. We had suspected that it would happen, but not this soon. . . . The Outsiders are a prison gang based on an American model, similar to Hell’s Angels and The Brotherhood. The gang accepts members of different nationalities. What they have in common is their violence. We’ve known of the Outsiders for almost ten years, and recently they’ve grown. What you’ve told me supports a rumor that has been circulating during the past few months. And it would explain the events of the last few days.”

Irene waited impatiently for his next words. Her relief felt physical when he continued. “Rumor has it that a couple of Serbs from Bosnia have joined the Outsiders. And these aren’t just any old hoodlums. They’ve been trained, members of the Special Forces. What they don’t know about killing people isn’t worth knowing. Special Forces educates specially chosen soldiers in murder, sabotage, infiltration of the enemy, and all types of operations. They become masters of the arts of war on land and sea. The smartest, strongest, and most cold-blooded soldiers are selected for this training.”

“Why would they join the Outsiders?”

“Some of the Serbs literally feel homeless in Bosnia. They have been driven out of the country, and there are rotten eggs even amongst the others in Special Forces. With what the army has taught them, they can make money. Their expertise is invaluable to gangs like the Outsiders. If these boys have taken over the leadership of the Outsiders, the happenings of the last few days make sense.”

She asked, “Can you explain what you mean?”

“The shots fired outside the nightclub were fired by an expert. The car the criminals were traveling in was stolen and later burned. The driver and shooter disappeared without a trace in another car. Hells Rockets’ clubhouse was shot to pieces from the back of a truck by a grenade launcher. Everything was over in a minute. They disappeared, and the truck hasn’t been found yet. How do you hide a truck? We’ll probably find it in some warehouse or barn. In any case, if you analyze these two attacks, there’s one thing that’s clear.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Military precision.”

He was right. A lot pointed to military planning and execution.

“Why are the Outsiders doing this?” she wondered.

“To take over certain criminal activity areas: sex trade, drugs, extortion . . . everything that brings in the big bucks. They have to damage their competitors, to weaken them as much as possible, preferably by playing them off against each other. What’s better than shooting the leader of one gang and decimating the other by a grenade attack?”

Irene pondered the scenario he’d outlined. She said, “I think you’re right. Can you confirm that these Serbians from Bosnia really exist?”

“Previously, they were one rumor among many. Now, I think we have to take it seriously. If we can’t get at the truth, then the Hell’s Angels gangs and the Bandidos gangs all over Sweden, and maybe all of Scandinavia, will start fighting each other. Gang wars have a tendency to spread. A lot of old grudges may be dug up. If we can prove that the Outsiders are behind these incidents, maybe we can calm everything down before it even gets started.”

“Will you keep us posted? I’ll be gone on Thursday and Friday, but I’m going to inform my colleagues of this possibility. You should speak with them. It’s probably best if you talk to Sven Andersson or Fredrik Stridh. They’ve been working on this investigation,” said Irene.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as we have the rumor confirmed.”

IRENE REPORTED on her phone call with Leif Hansen during morning prayers the following day. Now she wasn’t the only one who had this information. Despite the fact that she spent the rest of the day with the ever-more irritable members of Hells Rockets, she felt as though she had left that investigation. Mentally, she was already in London.

Chapter 17

AT HEATHROW, THE WEATHER was as overcast as it had been when the plane took off from Landvetter. The only difference was that the air was slightly warmer in London.

Glen Thompson was waiting at the same spot. A lukewarm drizzle began as Irene and Glen walked to his black car.

As usual, he talked about everything and everyone. First, he said that the Butcher was still in the hospital. According to the doctors, his brain injuries were permanent. Gravedigger had regained consciousness but was in critical condition. Glen cleared his throat with difficulty before he asked, “You weren’t injured seriously during the car crash?”

“No. Just bumps and bruises,” Irene answered, surprised.

“Good. He’s HIV-positive. AIDS is developing. I was thinking about contacting you when I found out, but since you have to wait at least eight weeks before you can be tested. . . .”

He finished the sentence with a shrug. It was unpleasant to think that the man she had fought with suffered from HIV, but as far as she could remember neither he nor she had bled after the crash.

The taxi driver who had fallen victim to the two robbers had also been allowed to leave the hospital.

“He has healed physically but is unwilling to drive a taxi any more. Doesn’t surprise me. They had to pump almost three liters of blood into him! He was very close to death from exsanguination. There’ll probably be some legal proceedings, but since the defendants aren’t in good shape it will take a while. According to my boss, it’s not likely that you’ll have to testify in person. I’ve made a final copy of your statement. Read through it and sign at the bottom.”

“Can I take it home with me and read it in peace?” Irene wanted to have an English-Swedish dictionary at hand.

“Of course.”

Glen also told her that Estelle had gotten a lot of bookings through a new partnership agreement with a large travel agency representing Scandinavian tourists who wanted to stay near the central city, comfortably and cheaply. This had given the small, well-run family hotel in Bayswater a big boost.

He and Kate were considering taking the ferry over and driving through Sweden during the summer, probably the last two weeks in July and the first week in August. The boys were fired up with enthusiasm about living in a tent, but Kate refused to wake up in a soaking-wet sleeping bag; she preferred staying at a bed and breakfast.

“Are there bed and breakfasts in Sweden?” Glen asked.

“Yes, but they’re not as common as in England. However, we have hostels. They maintain very high standards and are economical.

“But in Göteborg, you’ll stay with us,” Irene said firmly.

Glen smiled. “If we accept the invitation, we’ll have the twins with us,” he warned her.

“They are more than welcome. Neither Jenny nor Katarina will be home during those three weeks. Katarina is going to be traveling by boat in Greece, and Jenny is going with her band to practice new songs and record a demo.”

“Aren’t you and your husband going on vacation?”

“Yes. We’re going to Crete, but not until the middle of August.”

“We want to see the midnight sun. Is it really light all night long during the summer months in northern Sweden?”

“Yes. The sun never sinks below the horizon. But don’t forget the converse: From the end of November to the middle of February, they don’t see the sun at all up there. Then it’s eternal night.”

They found the car and started driving toward London. Summer greenery had taken over outside the car, and the gardens they passed were dazzling with flowers. Irene could understand why the English are crazy about their gardens. The pains they take are amply repaid when the gardens start blooming so early. In Sweden, the frosty nights at the end of May, when the temperature drops to freezing and all the tender newly planted plants freeze, postpone the blooming season. Irene had lost count of all of the tomatoes and marigolds that she had had to throw out after the night frost had transformed small sprouts into dead sticky piles.

Glen changed the conversation. “I checked out Lefévre’s alibi for the night of the murder. The pub owner confirmed that Christian was there on that Monday night. There’s a group of five guys who meet there every Monday to organize their betting pools for the week. Despite the fact that there were a lot of people at the pub, the owner says he would have noticed if one of the guys hadn’t shown up. It rarely happens. And he remembers that he and Christian talked for a while before the others came. He was the first one there on that particular Monday.”

“Which leaves Rebecka, who was lying alone at home with a headache. Not much of an alibi,” Irene determined.

“No.”

“Have you had time to check out Lefévre or Dr. Fischer?”

“Of course. Whom do you want to start with?”

“Lefévre.”

“Okay. He’s almost thirty, born in London to an English mother and French father. The parents divorced when he was five years old. He and his mother moved up to Edinburgh, to her sister who lived several miles outside Edinburgh. The sister was married to a rich Scot. He owned large tracts of land and many different businesses. Christian’s mother took a job at one of her brother-in-law’s companies as a financial manager. She had a degree in finance. The sister had a son who was the same age as Christian. They grew up like brothers, since the cousin only has a half-sister who is slightly older. His father, George St. Clair, had been married but was a widower.”

“St. Clair! Christian’s company is called Lefévre and St. Clair. Then Christian’s cousin must be the ‘business partner’ who moved up to Scotland.”

“Exactly. With IT, you aren’t limited geographically. It’s easy to live in Scotland and network with a partner in London. They’ve worked like this for more than two years. Andrew St. Clair took over his father’s business when his mother died, a few years after his father’s death. Today he’s one of Scotland’s richest men.”

“And he also gets an income from the computer company.”

“Yes. But when Andrew moved up north, his interest in the computer company waned. He still owns a part of the business, but his other investments take up a lot of time. That’s probably why Lefévre started looking around for a new partner. One who was very skilled. And he found Rebecka.”

They fell silent as Irene digested this information. She asked, “Why did Christian stay in London? And why did Andrew agree to this?”

“London is where the big clients and the money are. And London has always lured young people. Both cousins had an early interest in computers and were proficient even when they were young. They moved to London and started their business almost nine years ago, and they have been very successful. Even from the outset, they were recognized as one of the best in the business.”

“That means that Rebecka must also be outstanding,” Irene remarked.

“Of course. Maybe that’s why Lefévre takes such good care of her. He knows that she’s unique. He wants her to get better so she can work again.”

“And he thinks that as long as she isn’t worried and is protected from people like you and me, she’ll get better faster. He’s wrong. She’ll never get well if she doesn’t talk. Have you spoken with her?”

“I’ve spoken with both Rebecka and Dr. Fischer. Rebecka is still very sick, and Fischer is concerned about her. He has increased her medication dosage, and he wants her to be admitted to the clinic again. I got the impression that he’s angry with Lefévre, that he thinks the guy is interfering too much.”

“I agree. When can Rebecka see us?”

“At eleven o’clock. Same place as last time. But I really had to insist. Neither Fischer nor Rebecka was particularly cooperative.”

“Why this opposition?” Irene asked.

“It seems Rebecka is much sicker than we realized. The doctor can’t say exactly what’s going on, because of confidentiality and so on. . . .”

Glen didn’t continue his line of thought since he was trying to make his way through a heavily trafficked roundabout. Irene hadn’t noticed that they had taken a different route from the airport this time. Now they were entering Bayswater from the north.

“There’s Paddington Station. The train to Heathrow leaves from there. A train leaves every fifteen minutes in each direction, and it only takes fifteen minutes to get here from the airport.”

Irene saw people streaming in and out of a large stone building. No one would remember any particular individual. She saw, when she looked at the tourist map, that the station was located only a kilometer from Notting Hill.

“Do you think that Rebecka could have gone to Göteborg and carried out the murders?” Irene asked abruptly.

Glen pondered the possibility for a moment before he shook his head. “No. She has been sick for quite some time. There isn’t any . . . strength in her. Is she at all familiar with firearms?”

“Not that we know of. Her brother and her father hunted. But we should ask her.”

“Is there no one else with a motive?”

“We don’t have a single suspect. But we have the theory concerning the Internet job for Save the Children. That’s the most important subject I have to cover with her.”

Glen glanced at her. “You believe that theory’s behind the murders?” he asked.

“Yes. Because it’s the only reason we have. The alternative is that a crazy person murdered them, that they were random victims. But that doesn’t hold up, because they weren’t killed in the same place. And then, the pentagrams were left at both sites. So we’d have to postulate a crazy Satanist!”

“I understand that the murderer also seemed to be familiar with the surroundings and acquainted with the family.”

“Yes. That’s the strongest argument against the murderer being a maniac. The murders were well planned. There’s nothing haphazard about them.”

They had arrived at the little hotel, and Glen parked. Irene took her dark-blue bag and walked up the steps to the entrance. Estelle was standing behind the reception desk, a pair of frameless reading glasses on her nose, as she typed information into the computer. She looked up from the screen and smiled when she recognized Irene.

“Welcome back! You have the room next to the one you had last time. I hope that’s okay. They’re identical.”

She handed Irene a key and quickly returned to the numbers on the computer screen.

The room next to the one she had had before. Then she had to trudge up the stairs again. Irene tried to reconcile herself by recalling that such exercise prevented blood clots from forming after airplane flights and that it was good for one’s all-around physical condition.

The room was the mirror image of the one she had occupied previously; otherwise they were exactly alike. Irene hung up the few items of clothing she had brought with her—the same things she had packed the last time—and went into the bathroom. It struck her that she had forgotten to turn on her cell phone after the flight.

She heard Hannu’s voice on her voicemail. His message was just for her to return his call.

She called him back, but he didn’t answer. Perhaps he was questioning some of the motorcycle hooligans. Irene shivered with joy when she thought about having gotten out of that chore.

She clattered down the narrow stairs in high spirits. Glen sat in the hotel lobby, smoking a cigarette. He put it out when Irene reached the last step.

“Estelle is serving coffee and tea in the breakfast room. We should put something in our stomachs before we drive to Fischer’s office,” he said.

Irene agreed. She was hungry, because the airplane breakfast hadn’t been much to cheer about. But the coffee had been tolerable and she had gotten as many refills as she wanted.

GLEN FILLED her in as to the information he had received about Dr. Fischer during the drive to Oxford Street.

“John Desmond Fischer, fifty-seven years old. His parents moved here from New York when he was four years old. They were very well-to-do. He has worked as a psychiatrist for almost thirty years and he has had his private practice for about twentyfive. He has a very good reputation and is the ‘in’ doctor for people with mental problems. And he’s expensive! Not for the riff-raff,” Glen said.

She understood that Christian Lefévre had probably arranged that Dr. Fischer take Rebecka on as a patient.

Glen continued, “He has been through three marriages and is now on his fourth. He has a newborn daughter. He has seven children altogether. The oldest daughter is thirty-two years old and has two children herself. His new wife is twenty-four.

“He was in hot water about eleven years ago. An eighteen-year-old girl who was one of his patients accused him of having sex with her. Fischer wormed his way out of it when several of his colleagues testified that the girl had delusions about sexual assault. The investigation was closed. The girl hanged herself shortly afterward.”

“Where did you get this information?” Irene asked, amazed.

“Press archives. The gossip columns. I haven’t found anything else of interest. But maybe it’s worth thinking about.”

Irene concluded, “He has a thing for young women. He’s a conqueror.”

Glen nodded. “What do they see in that fatso? You’re a woman, you tell me,” he said.

She started to shrug, but then she remembered Fischer’s charisma, his air of virility and strength. The thick hair, the piercing eyes and smile.

“Power. He has power. A. . . .”

She searched in vain for the English word she wanted, and couldn’t come up with it. Eventually, she said “aura.”

“I understand. An aura women feel. Maybe men as well. But his women are young. Why are they drawn to him? He’s not particularly good-looking.”

“No. But, as we said, he has power . . . and . . . an aura. Maybe his profession makes young women feel safe with him. He understands them. He can listen and speak with them. But he also has social status. And economic status. You said yourself that he was rich.”

“True. I realize that I’ve chosen the wrong profession,” Glen said and smiled.

Irene looked at his attractive profile and noted the tiny dimple in his cheek. He had everything he needed to get women to fall for him without having a fortune. And they would never care whether or not he had a lofty position.