he has gone home. He hadn’t slept in a day and a half.”
You probably haven’t either, Irene thought. But maybe it was more peaceful at work than at home with all the kids.
“Fingerprints?” the superintendent asked.
“Yes. Jacob Schyttelius’s and a few others. But they are smudged and could have been acquired at the bookstore before it was purchased. Schyttelius left a lot of prints on it. He must have read the whole book; several passages are underlined.”
“Can we keep it?” Irene asked.
“No. We aren’t done with it yet. I’ll bring it back as soon as possible.”
The investigators had to be satisfied. The technician replaced the two plastic bags in his cotton sack and left.
The room was silent after his exit. Then Andersson cleared his throat and said, “This changes things. Jacob may have had a rifle and ammunition hidden at the cottage, as well as a hidden book that some damn leader of Satanists in the USA wrote. Why?”
Hannu was the first one to break the silence. “The rifle may mean that he felt threatened.”
“Yep. Otherwise, according to law, he should have stored the weapon and ammunition in his father’s gun cabinet. You’re forbidden to keep them unlocked as he did.”
Irene nodded. “Since Jacob was shot first, it seems likely that the murderer found the rifle and ammunition behind the panel and used it to kill him. Then he took the loaded weapon with him to the rectory and shot Mr. and Mrs. Schyttelius. How many rounds were still in the murder weapon?”
The superintendent consulted his notes before he answered. “Three.”
Irene went on. “Then he reloaded between the murder of Jacob and the murders of Sten and Elsa.”
She turned toward Hannu. “When did Jacob buy his rifle?”
“In June last year.”
“The moose hunt isn’t until October, right?”
“He may have wanted to practice before the autumn hunt. Or maybe Hannu is right: Jacob might have felt threatened,” Tommy said.
“By whom? And how did the killer know that Jacob had hidden the rifle behind the wooden panel?”
“No idea.”
“We won’t get any farther with the rifle. But I’m sitting here wondering why he hid the book,” Andersson said.
“Because it was pro-Satanic? It wouldn’t have looked good, since he was said to be helping his father trace the Satanists,” said Fredrik.
Irene mused, “Maybe he was trying to understand the Satanists. Maybe it helped him to search.”
“Maybe. But I think we need to question Rebecka Schyttelius as soon as possible,” Superintendent Andersson said.
“I’ve spoken with Inspector Glen Thompson of the London Metropolitan Police. He’s our contact person and is keeping an eye on her. She’s not doing well; after the news was broken to her, she broke down completely. She might be allowed to come home from the hospital tomorrow. Yesterday she told him she had no idea as to any motive for the murders.”
“Have you found any other relatives?”
“Sten Schyttelius had a sister fourteen years older than he.
She’s in a group home for patients with senile dementia in Mariestad. Never married. No children. The middle sister died two years ago of breast cancer. She was ten years older than her brother. The dead sister had two sons. One lives in Stockholm and one lives here, in the city. The one from Stockholm will drive down tomorrow, and then both nephews will come here. I’ve scheduled a meeting with them at two o’clock.”
“And Elsa?”
“She was an only child. There are a few cousins, but I haven’t been able to reach any of them. They all appear to be much older than she was.”
“Okay. Tommy or Irene will have to go to London to interview Rebecka Schyttelius,” the superintendent said.
Tommy looked uncertain. “Could it wait until next week?” he asked.
“Yes. It may be best to let her recover a bit more. Hopefully, we will have more information by then, too. One of you should locate Jacob Schyttelius’s ex-wife first and see what she has to say.”
Tommy leaned toward Hannu and half-whispered, “Have you found out anything about her?”
Hannu smiled faintly. Some questions were so stupid, they didn’t require an answer.
“I’VE NEVER been to London. Have you?”
“Yes. On a language study trip in ’74. The only thing I learned was to drink a lot of beer. And then there was a red-haired girl named Patricia, and she taught me. . . .”
Tommy left the sentence unfinished, raised his eyebrows meaningfully, and formed his mouth into a quiet whistle.
Irene’s parents had never had the money to send her on any language study trips; she’d had to work during the