Glen pointed at a large white four-story house with a beautifully ornamented façade. The first floors had narrow balconies running along the whole width of the house, where flowers in boxes and pots were already blooming. The balconies faced a thickly wooded park surrounded by a high iron fence. The general public could only peer through the bars at the greenery, because a sign hanging on the gate told them that it was private.
They walked past a large Tudor-style red brick house, continued to the next cross street, and found themselves on Ossington Street. A pub was located at the corner which, according to the black sign with an ornate golden text, was called “Shakespeare.” The building that housed the pub looked considerably older than the surrounding structures. It was low with small, lead-paned mullioned windows, painted a dull greenish-brown color.
Even here on Ossington Street, scaffolding dominated, particularly on one side. Most of the houses on the other side seemed to have been restored already. Glen Thompson stopped in front of a white stucco house with a bright red door. Two brass plates shone on the door, but the distance was too great for Irene to be able to read them.
“Here it is,” Glen announced after checking the address on a piece of paper.
Irene noted that the next house and Rebecka’s house looked identical, aside from the fact that the neighbor’s door was bright blue. There were even two matching brass plates on the blue door.
A high stone stoop led up to the red door. “Datacons. Lefévre amp; St. Clair” read the larger sign. “Rebecka Schyttelius” had been engraved on the smaller one. So Rebecka lived at her place of work.
Glen Thompson pushed the shiny new brass-surrounded doorbell. There was a faint dingdong from inside the house. After a few seconds, they heard quick steps and the door opened.
For the second time in a few hours’ time, Irene’s jaw dropped when confronted by a man who didn’t look at all like she had expected. Because, as far as Irene knew, this one had been dead for almost twenty years. His murder had been featured on the front pages of newspapers all over the world and on news programs around the globe. Now he stood before her, peering at Irene with brown eyes behind round-framed eyeglasses. His thick shoulder-length dark-brown hair was parted in the middle. A white cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves was open at the neck and hung outside his faded jeans. On his otherwise bare feet were a pair of sandals.
His name was John Lennon.
But when he held out his hand and introduced himself, he claimed that his name was Christian Lefévre.
He smiled when he became aware of Irene’s surprise. In a friendly way, he said, “I’ve won some look-alike contests. People are usually startled when they see me. It’s actually become a fun thing. Especially since the Beatles are my idols, although I was too young during their golden years.”
Christian Lefévre stepped aside to let them in. They took off their coats in the narrow vestibule and were shown into an airy room with a high ceiling. Sunlight entered through tall curtainless windows, filtered through the leaves of the large green plants. Colorful and expensive framed posters of various computers hung on the walls. The Beatles’ “Yesterday” flowed into the room from concealed speakers.
Irene counted three laptop and four desktop computers, standing on wooden desks that had been covered with clear varnish in order to show off the grain of the wood. The thin metal rectangles, the laptops, were closed and rested together on a separate table. Only two of the computers were on.
“Unfortunately, Rebecka couldn’t handle the tension before this meeting. I had to drive her to see Dr. Fischer this morning.”
“Is she going to stay there?” Glen asked.
“Don’t know. But she’ll probably take a sedative. It won’t be possible to speak with her today.”
Irene didn’t know if it was her imagination, but she thought there was a note of satisfaction in Christian Lefévre’s voice.
Glen said, “Okay. Then we’ll interview you.”
That wasn’t what Lefévre had expected. His surprise was apparent. “Me? Why? I don’t know anything.”
“Maybe, but we still want to speak with you.”
“But I have a lot of work. . now, since Rebecka hasn’t been able to work for a while. . ”
“It won’t take long.”
Thompson was adamant. Lefévre shrugged his shoulders in a very French way and walked toward a closed door. “We can talk in here,” he said, opening the door and showing them into the room with a sweeping gesture.
It was a small kitchen that also contained an inviting sofa and chairs covered in soft black leather. A bright red rug covered part of the floor, a spot of color in the otherwise white and black room. The only wall decoration was an exquisite horsehead in red glazed ceramic.
“Coffee or tea?” Lefévre asked.
“Coffee,” Irene answered quickly before Glen had time to decline.
He had had a break at the hotel but she hadn’t, and now she was ready for coffee. Christian filled an electric kettle and turned it on. Irene realized too late that instant coffee was on its way. As long as it wasn’t decaf, it would suffice, she comforted herself.
Lefévre took his time, setting out plastic mugs, tea bags, sugar, milk, and Nescafé. When the water boiled and he had poured it into the mugs, he couldn’t stall any longer. He was forced to sit. There was no doubt that he didn’t like the situation.
Glen observed him closely before he asked, “Why don’t you want us to speak to Rebecka?”
Christian focused on his mug. The water, colored a golden brown from the contents of the tea bag, seemed like the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. It was a long time before he answered.
“I’m not trying to keep you from speaking with Rebecka.”
“Yes, you are.”
Christian fished out the tea bag and threw it into an empty mug in the middle of the table.
“Maybe you’re right. I want to protect her. She doesn’t have the strength even to think about what’s happened, not to mention talk about it. She gets sick if you even refer to. . what happened.”
“How long has she been sick?”
He quickly looked up but then looked away again. “What do you mean? Since the murders-”
“No. She was depressed before.”
“How do you-? September.”
“Has she out sick since September?”
“No. She has been able to work quite a bit. It’s been good for her, distracted her from sad thoughts and anguish. But sometimes she became unable. . Listen here, what does this have to do with the murders in Sweden?”
Irene interjected, “We don’t know. We’re looking for a motive. Did you ever meet Rebecka’s parents, or her brother?”
“No.”
“Did Rebecka say anything to you about someone in her family having been threatened?”
At first Christian looked surprised, then he said, vaguely, “No, she didn’t say anything. But wasn’t there something in the papers about a clue which led to Satanists?”
“The papers wrote that, yes. Has Rebecka said anything to you about Satanists?”
He sipped at the hot tea, while he appeared to be trying to remember.
“It was quite a while ago. Her father asked for her help in tracking Satanists via the Internet.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Rebecka mentioned it in the fall, saying that he’d asked a year before that. So, more than a year and a half ago.”
“And she never said anything to you about personally feeling threatened?”
“No. Never,” he said firmly.
“Did she say or do anything unusual at the beginning of last week?”
“You mean before the murders were discovered?”
“Yes. On Monday or Tuesday.”