“No. He didn’t move down until August.”
“When did you and Christian go to Stockholm?”
“The end of July.”
“So Christian has never met your family?”
“No.”
“And he isn’t your boyfriend?”
Rebecka shook her head weakly in reply.
“Who were you going to visit in Stockholm?”
Rebecka turned her head away and didn’t answer for some time. Finally, she whispered, “Save the Children Sweden.”
Dr. Fischer hit the armrests on the chair firmly with the palms of his hands and said, “No. Now this is enough. Rebecka can’t handle any more.”
Irene saw that he was right. Rebecka lay in the armchair like a punctured balloon.
“Thank you, Rebecka, for helping me. I know how difficult this has been for you,” she started, but was interrupted by Rebecka mumbling something that sounded like “… no one can understand,” but Irene wasn’t completely sure.
Irene quickly took out her card and handed it to Glen.
“Glen, please write down the telephone number of the Thompson Hotel and your number in case she wants to reach me later in the day.”
Glen did as she asked. Irene held the card out to Rebecka.
“You can reach me at the numbers on the back of the card until five thirty tonight. Then I have to fly home. After that, you can reach me at the numbers on the front. And you can, of course, always reach me on my cell phone number. Don’t forget to dial the country code, plus forty-six, if you call my cell number.”
Rebecka nodded. She let the hand with the card sink into her lap without taking a look at it.
“I HAVE a meeting at three o’clock. How about going to eat lunch now?” Glen suggested.
Irene thought that sounded like a good idea. Breakfast had been on the meager side.
“I’ll pick you up at the hotel just after five thirty tonight. You can keep your room until then. Then you’ll have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat at the airport before the flight home. What do you want to do on your own this afternoon?” Glen asked when they were in the car again, weaving their way through the heavy traffic.
“Actually, no idea. What do you suggest?” Irene said.
“Do you like old buildings, or shopping, or what?”
“Shopping I did yesterday, and old buildings really aren’t my thing. Something fun that doesn’t cost a lot of money,” Irene concluded.
Glen thought about it for a little while. Then he brightened up. “I know! The Tate Modern. Then we can eat at a good restaurant nearby.”
They drove over the Thames and turned to the left at the bridge abutment. Glen found an empty parking space where he managed to insert the Rover by a feat of advanced parallel parking. They went into a three-story building which turned out to be one restaurant on three levels. The top floor was, for the most part, made up of a terrace. A large sign explained that one could rent the entire top floor for large parties. The wind and gray weather outside didn’t really inspire such use on that particular day. Irene preferred the delicious pub warmth of the bottom floor.
They found an empty table and hung their coats over the chair backs to show that they were taken. At all four corners of the table, a metal disc with an engraved number had been inserted. They had to go up to the bar to order, state their table number, and await table service. One didn’t walk back to the table empty-handed, though: Instead, one carried a glass of beer.
Irene had chosen lasagna; Glen, potato and tuna salads. The servings were extremely generous and the food very good. The stereotype that Englishmen couldn’t cook seemed mistaken to Irene. She had eaten well during her two days in this country. She actually hadn’t eaten typical English food, though, but Chinese, South American, and Italian, consumed in the company of a dark-skinned half Scottish/half Brazilian named Glen. Nothing during her trip had really been “typically English.” Maybe the beer would be.
“What impression did you get of Rebecka?” Glen asked.
“She’s really sick; it’s obvious. But I don’t know if she’s suffering from a normal depression or if she’s simply overcome with fear. It seemed to me as if terror has sapped her strength. She was completely exhausted.”
Glen nodded. “I, too, sensed that she felt anguished. But she actually spoke with you and answered your questions.”
“Yes, she answered the questions. Not that it added much to what we already knew. But I have the feeling that she still hasn’t told us everything. What is she afraid of? Who is she afraid of? Why won’t she talk?”
“A lot of questions without answers,” Glen said.
“I still don’t know if she fears for her own life. She denied that anyone in the family had been threatened. Yet three of them have been murdered.”
Glen looked at her thoughtfully. “Rebecka is a mystery. She fascinates me. She’s beautiful, intelligent, but so frightened and isolated. You must speak with her again; you should wait a while but then you must get her to talk. One problem is that she doesn’t want to hear about the funeral or that she should go to Sweden. It hasn’t even been possible to bring it up,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“The pastor from the Seaman’s Church who was with me when we first told her what had happened. He asked her to get in touch if she wanted help finding someone who could assist her, like a funeral director. I called him to find out if Rebecka had been in touch with him. She hasn’t. He was concerned, because there are certain practical arrangements to be made as to funerals and estates.”
“I can call him if you want. It might be a good idea to ask him to contact Dr. Fischer. He can raise the question with Rebecka when he sees that she feels a bit better and has the strength to discuss it.”
“That might be a good solution.”
Glen took out a notebook and flipped through it for a while before he found the number he was looking for. “Here! The Swedish Seaman’s Church, Assistant Rector Kjell Sjönell,” Glen read aloud.
Irene laughed when Glen tried to pronounce the Swedish sj sound. She wrote down Kjell Sjönell’s number and his office hours.
THEY WALKED along the Thames and talked about the dramatic occurrences of the last twenty-four hours.
“I’m going to write down your account of the attack. I’ll fax it to you so that you can read through it and sign it. I don’t know yet if you’ll need to come here again to testify at the trial against those villains, if they happen to recover enough for there to be a trial. I’ll find out,” Glen told her.
“Why do you think they chose me as a victim?” Irene asked.
“Well, they saw a woman leaving a restaurant alone, a restaurant that seemed to be quite lively. There was a good chance that she was intoxicated. A perfect robbery victim.”
Suddenly, Irene remembered the taxi she had seen just as she’d reached the street. She had left her jacket open because it had been warm inside the restaurant. Gravedigger and the Butcher would have seen the reflection of their headlights on her gold jewelry. Instinctively, she grabbed the golden pendant which was hanging around her neck.
After a walk of about a kilometer or so, Glen pointed at a large building that rose up a short distance from the Thames. “That’s the Tate Modern. It’s an old electrical station that was converted into a modern museum. The ceiling height in the old turbine hall is thirty-five meters. But it’s actually fun to walk and look around. Kate and I were there just a few weeks ago. There’s a lot to see. And it’s free.”
“How come it’s free?”
“Built with donations. From the Guggenheim Fund, I think.”
Irene had never heard of that fund, but there appeared to be a lot of money in it if it could finance the massive building that rose in front of them. Of course, the fund hadn’t built the building itself, but made sure it was renovated and filled with art.