“SAMMIE RECEIVED A DEATH threat from the stupid idiot bajshög, that shitpile!”
Jenny was standing with her legs shoulder-width apart in the hall, her arms crossed over her chest. The light from the ceiling lamp reflected from her temporarily platinum-blond hair with bright blue highlights. Since she was a singer in a pop band on its way to stardom, she had to do something extra to her appearance: hence the nine gold rings in her left ear and the miniature glass penis which hung from the right.
Irene stopped in the process of hanging up her jacket. She looked down at her happy dog. Sammie didn’t seem to have been adversely affected by the death threat.
“Why?” she asked, surprised.
“He killed Felix.”
An icy hand clutched Irene’s heart. The only Felix she knew was their neighbors’, the Bernhögs, fat red cat. Please don’t let it be that one!
“You know, bajshög’s red cat,” Jenny continued.
Unconsciously, Irene fumbled for support.
The relationship between the neighbors wasn’t good. Truth be told, it was really quite awful. Ever since she and Krister had moved to the row-house area fourteen years earlier, there had been little battles. Since the childless Bernhögs had lived in the area ever since it was built, they felt that everything should be on their terms. To them, two lively four-year-old twin girls had not exactly been the ideal next-door neighbors. The girls attracted the neighborhood children and played wild games and laughed and screamed. Mrs. Bernhög’s migraines became worse, and Mr. Bernhög had his well-tended flowerbeds destroyed by the trampling feet of children. He yelled at both children and parents. As a result, all the children suddenly had to cut through just those flowerbeds and Mr. and Mrs. Bernhög got the nickname Bajshög--excrement.
The Bernhögs had put up a high fence in front and back of their row house. They didn’t speak to their next-door neighbors when they saw them on the street. However, they left angry notes in their mailbox when something didn’t suit them. Usually the notes were about things like poor snow-shoveling and improper sanding of ice patches on the communal porch in front of the house. But after Sammie had joined the Huss family nine years ago, the battles had stepped up. Now they suddenly complained that there was dog crap everywhere, despite the fact that the Huss family always picked up after Sammie with doggie poop bags.
“Who picks up after all the stray cats?” Irene had ventured to ask Mr. Bernhög one time when she had gotten yet another a note of complaint. A dark red flush had suffused his quivering cheeks, and his small pursed mouth had opened and closed without managing to produce any audible sounds. Irene thought that he looked like a fat, worried goldfish.
Sammie was an Irish soft-coated wheaten terrier, a long and complicated breed name whose last word was the most important: he was a terrier. All terriers are bred for hunting and fighting. They are happy and devoted, while at the same time they have an intense temperament. Sammie loved to chase everything that moved. His absolute favorite prey was cats; he was a notorious cat-chaser. Irene had even spoken with a dog psychologist once. According to him, it wasn’t possible to get rid of an inbred hunting instinct; they just had to make sure the dog didn’t get loose. That was easier said than done. According to Krister, Sammie could well have been the master-of-escape Houdini’s dog: like master, like dog. . . .
The Bernhögs had always had cats. The first one had died of old age a few years ago, and they had immediately replaced him with Felix, who was spoiled, overweight, and infinitely loved.
And now Sammie had killed this cat.
“How . . . how did it happen?” Irene asked weakly.
“We went out for a walk about an hour ago. Sammie was completely calm and well-behaved. Suddenly he yanked on his leash like you wouldn’t believe and threw himself into our evergreen hedge, and Felix was sitting inside. I didn’t have time to react. It happened in, like, two seconds. Can you believe it? Sammie just shook it a few times and the cat was dead. It didn’t even have time to make a sound. Sammie bit him right on the throat and he bled . . . totally gross!”
As a vegan, Jenny was a huge fan of animals; now she looked at her dog accusingly. Sammie didn’t seem the slightest bit guilty, but he noticed that the charge in the air was negative and not to his advantage. He did what he usually did in this situation: He quickly headed up the stairs to the second floor and crawled under a bed. He usually stayed there until the storm had blown over.
“Did Baj . . . Mr. Bernhög see Sammie kill Felix?”
“Yes. He was only a few meters away, sweeping outside the gate. When he understood what had happened, he started chasing me and Sammie with his broom, but I ran in here and locked the door. Then he yelled outside that he was going to kill Sammie.”
Irene started to get angry. “Did he also swing the broom at you?”
Jenny looked surprised. “Of course. I was holding on to the leash.”
Irene didn’t bother putting her jacket on when she went out again. She went through the Bernhögs’ gate and stepped up to the always freshly painted front door. It was thrown open before she had a chance to ring the doorbell.
“This is going to cost you—” Bernhög started.
Irene interrupted him in an authoritative police voice. “Be quiet! I understand that you’re upset that Felix is dead, and I apologize for that, but you are partly to blame. Your cat was running around loose outside, and that always presents a risk. It could have been run over or killed in a fight with other animals. The only way to avoid such risks is to have an indoor cat. My dog was on a leash. It wasn’t running and chasing your cat. That Felix wasn’t able to keep himself out of Sammie’s reach is something neither we nor Sammie can do anything about.
“What is, however, very serious is that you threatened my daughter and chased her with a broom. If this happens again, I’ll report you!”
Bernhög did his goldfish imitation again. He looked like he might be about to have a stroke, but at that moment Irene was so angry that she didn’t care. His health was supposed to be so bad, yet he was able to chase people and dogs with a broom! After having remained silent and clenching her fists in her pants pockets for so many years, it felt really good to blow off some steam. She stared at him one last time before she turned on her heel and walked back to her house.
SHE HAD overreacted. She had to admit it. At the time, it had felt good to vent many years’ worth of pent-up anger, but now the pale ghost of reflection appeared in the innermost corner of her conscience. The poor Bernhögs had, after all, lost their dearly beloved cat. And it was the Huss family’s fault. Or, anyway, that of certain members of the family. Irene sent an accusing look in Sammie’s direction, but it didn’t affect him. He lay under the glass table, snoring loudly and digesting his dinner. Irene had crawled onto the couch with a cup of coffee after dinner. The TV poured out these incessant game shows with the chance of winning millions or nothing at all, but the thought of the dead cat was unavoidable and she paid no attention to the TV.
Jenny had gone off somewhere, and Katarina was expected to be home from her training at any moment. Krister was working late; in the best case, he wouldn’t arrive home until after one.
Her thoughts shifted to the Schyttelius case. She was going to try to contact Rebecka the next day, and then she would have to decide when she was going to London. She must not forget to get in touch with Thompson at the Yard. What was the weather like in England this time of year? What should she wear? She couldn’t forget her passport. It was new, applied for because of the trip she and Krister were going to take to Greece in August. It would be their first trip abroad since the twins were born. It would be warm and pleasant on Crete. . . .
SHE WOKE with a start. A police car with flashing blue lights was chasing a white van on the TV. The blaring of the police siren had awakened her. Dazed with sleep, she looked at the clock on the VCR; it was almost midnight.
She got up with stiff, creaking limbs and turned off the television. Sammie came jumpi
ng up from his place under the glass table and immediately informed her that he needed to go out. There was nothing that could be done about it. He hadn’t been out since the cat murder.
Irene put on her jacket and boots with a sigh. The cool night air woke her. It was a clear night with shining stars and a nearly half moon.
They passed the Bernhögs’ house on the way back. Through the kitchen window, Irene could see Margit Bernhög sitting at the kitchen table with an untouched glass of milk in front of her, staring out the window with red eyes. It was clear that she had been crying. Irene realized that Margit couldn’t see her because of the light over the kitchen table.
Irene felt miserable when she reentered her own house. Sammie ran ahead of her into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and pretended that he was sound asleep.
Irene peeked into Katarina’s room and heard her daughter’s steady breathing. The bed in Jenny’s room was still empty.
THE WHOLE family slept in on Saturday morning. Just before ten o’clock, Irene awakened because Sammie was licking her right foot, which had ended up outside the cover. He could never resist feet, the sweatier the better.
“Yuck! Dogs are so disgusting!” she hissed at him and slapped him on the nose.
Krister mumbled something unintelligible and turned over. Irene would have to walk the dog. No activity could be heard from the girls’ rooms; Irene hadn’t expected any.
The sun was shining and it was almost perfectly still. Irene walked down toward Fiskebäck’s small boat harbor. Snowdrops and crocuses bloomed in front yards, and Easter lilies were shooting up close to house walls. A slight breeze blew down by the ocean, heavy with the scent of salt and rotten seaweed. Irene filled her lungs and felt revitalized. This was true wealth: having free admission to the ocean.
KATARINA WAS in the process of setting the table and fixing breakfast when Irene came home. As soon as she had taken Sammie’s leash off, he rushed into the kitchen to say that a liver paté sandwich or two would be just the thing. One of the other two members of the family was also up; Irene could hear the shower running upstairs.
“Hi, sweetie. Did you see me sleeping on the couch last night when you got home?” Irene asked.
“Couldn’t miss it. You were snoring,” Katarina replied, smiling teasingly.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“But hello! I was talking to you, but you were sleeping like you were drugged.”
Irene had to admit that she had probably been very tired. She’d had to put in a lot of overtime on the Schyttelius case during the past week. She and Katarina had hardly seen each other for several days; Irene took this opportunity to bring up a ticklish subject.
“Pappa said that you were thinking about participating in a beauty pageant,” she mentioned in a casual tone of voice.
Katarina’s smile was instantly erased. “Yeah. Fun to try.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?” Katarina said.
“Why are you competing in a beauty pageant?”
“You get to meet a lot of interesting people and travel. You get to be like an ambassador for your city and a role model for other girls. An anti-smoking role model. And you get twenty-five thousand SEK,3 cash. And a chance at a modeling job. It’s really well paid.”
Irene stared at her in shock. About a year ago, this girl had said that all beauty pageants were degrading. What she was saying now sounded memorized and was not particularly convincing. Irene posed the question again: “Why are you really competing?”
Her daughter’s face froze in anger but when their eyes met, to her surprise Irene saw that Katarina’s were filled with tears.
“To show him that he’s wrong,” she whispered.
Irene took her in her arms. Unconsciously, she rocked Katarina just as she had done when she was small and had come running to her for comfort.
“‘He’? Micke?” she asked.
Katarina nodded and sniffled. They stood like that for a long time.
The sound of the shower upstairs stopped, and Krister could be heard singing in his falsetto bass voice: “I can’t get no da-dada-da-da-daaa sa-tis-fac-tion, I can’t get no bam-bam-bam-bam-bam sa-tis-faction, but I’ll try and I’ll try and I’ll try-haj-aj. . . .”
Irene pushed her daughter a short distance away and made eye contact. Katarina was forced to smile through the tears.
“He always sings Stones songs in the shower,” she said.
Mother and daughter burst out laughing. Katarina went to get some tissues to dry her eyes and blow her nose. She stood with her back to Irene. Without turning around, she said in flat voice, “When we . . . Micke broke up, he said I was a fat ugly cow.”
“Fat cow! You know that’s not true! That’s the kind of thing people say when they’re upset and angry,” Irene said.
Katarina turned around and looked straight at her.
“No. He was ice-cold. Not a damn bit upset.”
“That can also be a way of showing your anger.”
“He wasn’t angry! Just damned mean!”
Irene nodded and tried to calm the tone of the conversation. “Okay. He was mean. But why do you need to start dieting, and compete in—”
“Like I said, to show him that he’s wrong!”
“What do you prove by competing in this contest?”
“That I’m beautiful and not some stupid fat cow!”
“You don’t prove anything by competing. If you don’t get any farther, you’ll feel like a failure. But it would almost be worse if you won, because life as a beauty queen isn’t the kind of life you really want to live.”
“I want to—” Katarina started, but then stopped herself.
“No, you don’t. You’re good-looking enough, but you’re so much more than that. You’re athletic and active and do well in school. You have a lot of friends and hobbies and I don’t know what all. You’re more than enough as it is. You don’t need to prove a damn thing to yourself, or to anyone else.”
“Who said you’re a fat cow?” came a man’s voice.
Krister stood in the doorway in the white terry-cloth robe Irene had given him as a Christmas present. Neither Irene nor Katarina had heard him come down the stairs. His rusty-red hair was sticking out in all directions. Apparently he had dried it with a towel but not taken the time to comb it.
Irene made a frustrated gesture. “Micke. And that’s why she’s competing in the beauty contest.”
Krister nodded. He stroked Katarina’s cheek and said, “You are letting yourself be manipulated. We men can be real jerks, and we know exactly what hurts the most. Our society is completely obsessed with appearance, and there’s no better way to break a woman than to say that she’s ugly.”
“How do you break a guy, then?” Katarina asked, gruffly.
“Say with a voice as sweet as honey,” Irene volunteered before her husband had a chance to reply, “that he has the world’s cutest tiny little dick. And the fact that he’s a terrible lover is something he can probably fix, if only he’s willing to get help. And then you finish with a beaming smile and add that there’s always Viagra.”
Both Krister and Katarina started laughing, and Irene’s mood improved.
Krister walked over to the stove and poured boiling water through the tea strainer. The coffee had already finished percolating. He opened the refrigerator.
“Anyone else want an egg?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he put four eggs in a pot, filled it with water, and turned on the burner. Then he said to Katarina, “For once, I think you really should listen to your mother. As I said, men can be real jerks; but as you just saw, women can be, too. It usually evens out in the end.”
Katarina opened her mouth to reply, but quickly closed it. She scrutinized her parents, and then said, “Okay. Can we eat breakfast without discussing this any more?”
Her parents nodded and exchanged a look of agreement.
IRENE PHONED Rebecka Schyttelius after they had finished the
ir weekly marketing at Frölunda Torg. The phone rang several times, and she was about to hang up when a man’s voice answered, in English. “Yes?”
Irene was nervous about having to speak English over the phone. Hesitantly, she said, in her stilted English, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Rebecka Schyttelius, but maybe I have the wrong number?”
The man laughed softly. “Not at all. This is Rebecka’s number, but she’s not home right now. Who am I speaking with?”
At first Irene couldn’t remember what her title was in English. When she had finally managed to introduce herself, there was another moment of silence on the line before the man replied, “I understand. Another police officer from Göteborg called for her a few days ago.... She’s been taken to the hospital again. The shock she received was terrible, and it’s only been a short while since she found out ... the horrific news. But I’ve spoken with her doctor, and he says that she might be allowed to come home on Monday.”
Irene thought for a moment before she asked, “May I ask who you are?”
“Christian Lefévre. Rebecka works for my company.”
“The computer company?”
“Yes.”
And what are you doing in Rebecka’s apartment? Irene was about to ask, but she refrained. Maybe it would be best to ask Rebecka first. She also noted the man’s French name, but it seemed to her that he spoke English without an accent.
“Could you tell Rebecka that I called?”
“Of course.”
Irene gave him her numbers: work, home, and cell. Then she hung up.
THEY HAD purchased a lot of good food and were preparing for a cozy evening. Krister was actually scheduled to work this weekend; but his colleague, Lenny, needed the following weekend off, so they had traded.
Jenny had disappeared early that afternoon to rehearse with her band. Before the front door closed behind her, she had informed them that she was staying at Martin’s.
“Who’s Martin?” Irene had called after her but only got the echo of her own question in reply.
The Glass Devil: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 3 Page 11