The Glass Devil by Helene Tursten Read Free Book Online

“Fellowship Hall.” It pointed at a low yellow brick house with a flat roof in the style of buildings from the late 1960s.
    Irene had called the Kullahult Church Association before they left. Deaconess Rut Börjesson had answered. She seemed articulate and efficient, despite the fact that her voice shook with suppressed tears. She promised to gather all the association’s employees in the Fellowship Hall to make things easier for the officers. Irene had informed her that three investigators would arrive, so the questioning would go quickly. She imagined that there could hardly be very many people employed by the church; therefore, she was surprised when they entered the hall and counted ten people waiting.
    A small, thin woman dressed in mourning clothes came forward. Her thin gray hair was cut in a short bob, untouched by dye or a permanent. Her eyes, behind thick glasses, were red-rimmed and tear-filled. The woman stretched out her ice-cold hand to the officers one by one and told them that she was Rut Börjesson, the deaconess. Then she introduced her colleagues.
    First was a tall woman with mahogany-colored hair. She was probably over fifty, but her figure was slender and her face still beautiful. “Well-preserved” was a good adjective for her. Rut Börjesson introduced her as the church accountant, Louise Måårdh.
    “With two ‘å’s.” Louise smiled and held out her cool hand.
    Irene was one hundred and eighty centimeters 2 tall in her stocking feet, and Louise Måårdh was almost as tall. She was surprised to meet a woman who could have once been a photographer’s model working as a church accountant in a country parish. This was explained when a dark man in a pastor’s shirt next to her introduced himself as Bengt Måårdh, the assistant rector of Ledkulla parish. Still, Louise Måårdh didn’t look like a clergyman’s wife to her. My assumptions are probably at fault, thought Irene. She’d pictured a round and happy woman who smelled of newly baked rolls, smiling, serving the women in the church sewing circle. Louise Måårdh looked as if she spent her spare time on the golf course rather than in front of an oven.
    The same could have been said for her husband. He was tall and slender, with clean-cut features. His dark hair, just beginning to be streaked with gray, contrasted nicely with his tanned skin. After a glance at Louise’s face, Irene concluded that the Måårdh family had recently been on a ski trip and had had good weather.
    The look in Bengt Måårdh’s brown eyes was sad and serious. He took Irene’s hand in both of his, and for a confused second Irene had the impression that he was planning on extending his condolences to her. Instead, he mumbled a few words about how incomprehensible it was that Mr. and Mrs. Schyttelius were no longer with them. Not to mention their son . . . the assistant rector’s voice broke as he shook his head without letting go of Irene’s hand. She had begun to extract it from his grip when he released it with a mumbled apology.
    Jonas Burman stood next to Bengt Måårdh. They greeted each other briefly. Irene noted that the young assistant rector looked pale but resolute.
    The short, dark-skinned woman at his side was Rosa Marqués. She was not quite middle-aged and spoke very good Swedish, though with a distinct accent. The deaconess explained that she cleaned both the Fellowship Hall and the rectory.
    There was yet another married couple in the room. They looked to be in their sixties and introduced themselves as the church sextons, Siv and Örjan Svensson. They took care of the custodial duties in Kullahult and Ledkulla parishes. He was short and slender; she was also short, but plump. There we have the cinnamon roll maker, Irene thought.
    A man in a checked shirt and carpenter’s pants stepped forward energetically and introduced himself. “Stig Björk, cemetery caretaker,” he said, and smiled. The smile created rays of wrinkles around his blue