IRENE SPENT several pleasant hours at the Tate Modern, among the works of some of the most famous modern artists. For the first time, Irene saw original paintings by Picasso, Monet, Dalí and van Gogh, Leger and Mondrian. She realized that most of the artists she’d thought of as “modern” weren’t actually very recent: Most of them had been productive at the end of the nineteenth century and then up to the middle of the twentieth century. Despite that, they were known as the groundbreakers of modern art. Irene felt the power in the images and understood that they were about what had been “New” around the turn of the twentieth century, which had transformed art forever.
Wandering among the artworks felt instructive, but was also tiring for the feet. She finally ended up in the overcrowded cafeteria at the top of the building, on the seventh floor. She managed to find an empty barstool and order a beer. Sitting and looking at a mixture of people from all corners of the world was intriguing. If she grew tired of them, she could gaze out over London’s rooftops and at the boats below on the Thames. Time flew by until she had to head toward the hotel and the airport.
GLEN DROVE her to Heathrow. Before they parted, Irene said, “I reached the pastor, Kjell Sjönell. He promised to get in touch with Dr. Fischer and then to contact me. We’ll have to see if Rebecka recovers sufficiently to be able to come home to Sweden. Otherwise, I might have to return here once more.”
Glen smiled. “It would be very nice if you could visit us again. But, of course, I hope Rebecka gets better. I’ve been thinking about her and her mystery. I think she holds the key to the truth. Whether she knows it or not.”
Irene nodded. “That’s exactly what I think as well.”
Chapter 14
IRENE STORMED INTO HANNU Rauhala’s office with Sunday’s edition of GT in front of her.
“Hannu! Explain!”
He looked at the black headlines on the front page: “Church accountant who was questioned in SATANIC MURDERS is suspected of EMBEZZLEMENT!”
“Can’t. I only saw it yesterday too.”
Irene was so upset that her voice shook. “How could you talk to Kurt Höök about this?” Höök was GT’s famous crime reporter, and he had his sources. If you had a tip about a criminal activity, Höök was the person you called.
“I haven’t.” Hannu leaned back in his chair and looked her straight in the eye. Irene knew he wasn’t lying. Even if he might need money for the new house and the baby, he would never do something like that.
She threw the paper on Hannu’s desk and sat in the visitor’s chair.
“Honestly, I didn’t think you had. But who else could it have been? Only you and I and Sven knew about these rumors. I’ve been in London. And Sven would never speak with Kurt Höök. They detest one another. By the way, did you find anything that might point to there being some truth behind the accusations?”
“Nothing. The auditor showed me everything, going back ten years. There have never been any suspicions of embezzlement.”
“But this is still a catastrophe for Louise and Bengt Måårdh! It’s going to take a long time before they’re cleared.”
“Who has something to gain if these rumors come out?”
Irene wrinkled her brow. “Urban Berg.”
Hannu nodded.
Irene went into her office and did some serious thinking. She made her decision and placed a phone call. Later on in the day, she would make another, but it was still too early.
LOUISE MÅÅRDH bore obvious traces of the happenings of the last day. Her hair wasn’t combed, and her only attempt at makeup was sloppily swiped-on red lipstick, which clashed with her rust-colored sweater. She was wearing a light green T-shirt with a damp coffee stain on the front. Her dark-blue jeans were wrinkled and her feet were covered only by slippers which were worn at the heel. With a tired gesture, she motioned for Irene to come in.
The Måårdhs didn’t live in a rectory, but in a relatively new house outside Ledkulla. The house was decorated in pastels, which worked well with the modern furniture in light-colored birch. Bookshelves, filled with volumes, towered along the walls. The house had a soothing but sophisticated atmosphere. Even to Irene’s untrained eye, the rugs and art appeared to be of exceptional quality. She understood why suspicions and jealousy had grown over the years. “How can they afford it? It can never add up.” “She manages large sums of money. Think how easy it would be to let a thousand disappear from time to time.”
Louise led Irene into the light, airy living room. “Please, sit down,” she said dully.
Irene sat in a graceful armchair that was covered in light-gray suede. It was really comfortable. Louise sank down heavily onto the gray leather couch across from her. Irene felt uneasy and started, rambling, “I understand that this is terrible. We’re doing everything we can to try to find out what might have happened. It was one lead among many others we were looking into. Just routine. . How GT got ahold of it, we don’t know.”
“I can’t go to work. We’ve been hung out to dry in the press and already judged and found guilty. It doesn’t matter if I’m cleared eventually. People will always whisper ‘No smoke without fire’ and the like. Anonymous calls have already begun. I don’t even dare to go out and get the mail.”
“Has the press called?”
As if in reply, the sound of a ringing telephone cut through the room. After two rings, it fell silent. Someone at the other end of the house answered. Bengt must be home, thought Irene.
“They call all the time. It’s not that difficult to figure out which church accountant has been involved in the investigation of the Satanic Murders. There’s just one. Me.”
Her voice was still creepily toneless. But she couldn’t maintain her self-control any longer. Heavy sobs were wrenched from her and tears ran down her cheeks. Irene managed to find a clean tissue in one jacket pocket; she held it out to Louise, who took it.
Irene’s sympathy for Louise was mixed with growing anger. False rumors are evil, unpleasant, cruel. . and impossible to defend oneself against. Resolutely, she moved next to Louise on the sofa. Anger toward the person who had caused all this unnecessary pain made her voice sound cold.
“Listen and I’ll tell you what happened. Urban Berg came to see me at the police station and told me that Sten Schyttelius suspected you of embezzling money from the parish. Because this is a major homicide investigation, naturally we have to follow every lead we get. The risk of someone’s being revealed as an embezzler would theoretically be a motive for murder-”
Irene didn’t get any farther. Louise jumped up, her apathy and tears replaced by anger.
“Urban Berg! That drunken, hypocritical fool! I’m going to kill him!”
It probably wasn’t the wisest choice of words under the circumstances, but Irene understood. However, Bengt Måårdh looked startled when he stopped, hesitantly, on the threshold to the living room.
“But sweetheart, who is it who’s. .” he said awkwardly. His brown eyes behind his glasses were helplessly confused.
“Urban Berg! That damned Urban! He’s the one who’s behind the whole thing!”
It took them almost ten minutes, using all their powers of persuasion, to calm Louise sufficiently so that Irene could explain.
“Listen, Louise. This is what I think we should do,” Irene said at last.
THE FIRST thing Irene did when she entered her office was to call him. She had his direct number.