They had passed Marble Arch and continued onto Oxford Street. Traffic was heavy and the sidewalks were jammed with people running in and out of the shops. Glen slowed down, turned onto a cross street, and continued. “He’s being cared for in a special hospital for mentally ill criminals. He’d been in prison for a series of unusually vicious murders and rapes. Some were contract jobs, others he committed for pleasure.”
Glen parked parallel to the sidewalk. When he had turned off the engine, he said softly, “Ned was without oxygen a little too long during your struggle. He’s going to survive, but he’ll probably have permanent injuries, although his brain damage may also have been caused by an overdose. They found high levels of morphine in his blood and he’s a known heroin addict. His system is weakened by drugs and he’s in overall poor health. The Butcher struck his head on the windshield and has serious skull injuries. His condition is critical. And Irene. . . .”
Glen paused and looked into Irene’s eyes. “They found a large knife next to the Butcher. The same one he had stabbed the taxi driver with. It was still bloody.”
Robbery. Rape. Stabbing, and maybe murder. That’s what would have awaited her if she hadn’t managed to get away. She couldn’t keep her knees from shaking when she stepped out of the car. Despite the fact that it was thirteen degrees outside, sweat was running down her back.
DR. FISCHER had his practice in a beautiful stone house a little way from the bustle of Oxford Street. All of the houses along the cross street had been lavishly and reverently renovated.
After having spoken into the intercom to identify themselves, they were admitted. The vestibule was preserved in a Victorian style with a lot of marble and carved dark mahogany. To Irene’s relief, the elevator was completely new and certainly large enough for two people.
A large man in his late fifties was standing at an open door waiting for them when they emerged from the elevator. He had thick steel-gray hair which was combed back over his high forehead, and a short gray beard. His light-gray suit was tight across the shoulders and back, but it looked expensive. His face was wide and powerful. His smile revealed large teeth, but couldn’t compete with his penetrating gray-blue eyes. Despite his elegant clothes, Irene thought that he looked more like a big-game hunter than a doctor. He scrutinized them over the edge of frameless glasses.
“Officers Thompson and Huss, I believe. I’m Dr. Fischer. Come in.”
He made them a slight bow, greeting them without shaking hands, and gestured toward his office. They passed through a dark hall and came to a small living room used as a waiting room. “Rebecka would like us to sit in here,” said Dr. Fischer. He opened the door and stepped across the threshold first. It was furnished with antique furniture which harmonized well with the decorative plaster work of the ceiling and the lead-framed mullions in the top of the windows. There were Oriental rugs on the floor which looked genuine to Irene’s untrained eye. Everything pointed to this not being your average clinic; the charges were doubtless above average as well.
Fischer approached a woman who was seated in an armchair next to one of the windows and laid one hand on her shoulder.
The light came from the side and fell on the right half of Rebecka’s face. Irene could see that she was thinner than she had been in the pictures taken at the Christmas breakfast. She was dressed in a white cotton polo shirt and a black suit in a thin material which was beautifully tailored. As far as Irene could see, she wasn’t wearing any jewelry. Her hair was longer than in the photos, and just as thick. However, it was completely dull, as if it hadn’t been washed for quite some time. It suited her to have lost a few kilos. Her full lips and high cheekbones had become more prominent. Her eyes, looking large and empty in her pale face, betrayed her worry and anguish. Irene could see what it was that had made Christian Lefévre try to keep Rebecka away from them. He wanted to protect her against her own fear and pain.
She heard Eva Möller’s voice again: “Rebecka is like her father. ...”
“Rebecka, these are the police officers who want to speak with you,” said Dr. Fischer.