in a few hours’ time, Irene’s jaw dropped when confronted by a man who didn’t look at all like she had expected. Because, as far as Irene knew, this one had been dead for almost twenty years. His murder had been featured on the front pages of newspapers all over the world and on news programs around the globe. Now he stood before her, peering at Irene with brown eyes behind round-framed eyeglasses. His thick shoulder-length dark-brown hair was parted in the middle. A white cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves was open at the neck and hung outside his faded jeans. On his otherwise bare feet were a pair of sandals.
His name was John Lennon.
But when he held out his hand and introduced himself, he claimed that his name was Christian Lefévre.
He smiled when he became aware of Irene’s surprise. In a friendly way, he said, “I’ve won some look-alike contests. People are usually startled when they see me. It’s actually become a fun thing. Especially since the Beatles are my idols, although I was too young during their golden years.”
Christian Lefévre stepped aside to let them in. They took off their coats in the narrow vestibule and were shown into an airy room with a high ceiling. Sunlight entered through tall curtainless windows, filtered through the leaves of the large green plants. Colorful and expensive framed posters of various computers hung on the walls. The Beatles’ “Yesterday” flowed into the room from concealed speakers.
Irene counted three laptop and four desktop computers, standing on wooden desks that had been covered with clear varnish in order to show off the grain of the wood. The thin metal rectangles, the laptops, were closed and rested together on a separate table. Only two of the computers were on.
“Unfortunately, Rebecka couldn’t handle the tension before this meeting. I had to drive her to see Dr. Fischer this morning.”
“Is she going to stay there?” Glen asked.
“Don’t know. But she’ll probably take a sedative. It won’t be possible to speak with her today.”
Irene didn’t know if it was her imagination, but she thought there was a note of satisfaction in Christian Lefévre’s voice.
Glen said, “Okay. Then we’ll interview you.”
That wasn’t what Lefévre had expected. His surprise was apparent. “Me? Why? I don’t know anything.”
“Maybe, but we still want to speak with you.”
“But I have a lot of work . . . now, since Rebecka hasn’t been able to work for a while. . . .”
“It won’t take long.”
Thompson was adamant. Lefévre shrugged his shoulders in a very French way and walked toward a closed door. “We can talk in here,” he said, opening the door and showing them into the room with a sweeping gesture.
It was a small kitchen that also contained an inviting sofa and chairs covered in soft black leather. A bright red rug covered part of the floor, a spot of color in the otherwise white and black room. The only wall decoration was an exquisite horsehead in red glazed ceramic.
“Coffee or tea?” Lefévre asked.
“Coffee,” Irene answered quickly before Glen had time to decline.
He had had a break at the hotel but she hadn’t, and now she was ready for coffee. Christian filled an electric kettle and turned it on. Irene realized too late that instant coffee was on its way. As long as it wasn’t decaf, it would suffice, she comforted herself.
Lefévre took his time, setting out plastic mugs, tea bags, sugar, milk, and Nescafé. When the water boiled and he had poured it into the mugs, he couldn’t stall any longer. He was forced to sit. There was no doubt that he didn’t like the situation.
Glen observed him closely before he asked, “Why don’t you want us to speak to Rebecka?”
Christian focused on his mug. The water, colored a golden brown from the contents of the tea bag, seemed like the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. It was a long time before he answered.
“I’m not trying to keep you from speaking with Rebecka.”
“Yes, you are.”
Christian fished out the tea bag and threw it into an empty mug in the middle of the table.
“Maybe you’re right. I want to protect her. She doesn’t have the strength even to think about what’s happened, not to mention talk about it. She gets sick if you even refer to . . . what happened.”
“How long has she been sick?”
He quickly looked up but then looked away again. “What do you mean? Since the murders—”
“No. She was depressed before.”
“How do you—? September.”
“Has she out