by Håkan Nesser
“Did he confess this time?”
“Confess? Did he hell! Didn’t give an inch. He’d had it off with the girl a few times, that was all, he claimed. There was another show trial, but we’ll take that another time. He’s a one-off, in any case…. Was a one-off, I should say.”
“Meaning what?”
“Nobody else in this country has ever been found guilty of first degree twice, despite denying it. Totally unique.”
DeBries pondered.
“Psychiatric report?” he asked.
“Both times,” said Rooth. “Fit as a fiddle, they reckoned. No doubt about it.”
“Did he rape them as well?”
Rooth shrugged.
“I don’t know. No traces of sperm at all events. But they were both naked when found. Strangled, by the way, both times. Same method, more or less.”
“Hmm,” said deBries, clasping his hands behind his head. “And now he’s bought it as well. Something fishy there, I can’t help thinking. Where’s Münster, to jump from one thing to another?”
Rooth sighed.
“At the hospital,” he said. “Surely you don’t think our detective chief inspector can resist a goody like this.”
“A goody?” said deBries. “For fuck’s sake.”
14
Münster removed the paper from around the yellow roses and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. The nurse was waiting for him with a guarded smile, and as she opened the door for him, she whispered, “Good luck.”
I’ll no doubt need it, Münster thought as he entered the room. The bed immediately to the left was empty. Lying in the bed to the right, next to the window, was Van Veeteren, and the first thing to come into Münster’s head was an old, not very funny story about why the inhabitants of the city of Neubadenberg were so incorrigibly stupid.
Because they do things the wrong way round in their maternity wards.
They throw away the babies and raise the afterbirth.
Van Veeteren an afterbirth? Perhaps it wasn’t quite as bad as that, but as he tentatively approached the bed it was clear to him that he wouldn’t be called upon to play badminton in the immediate future.
“Hmm,” he said hesitantly, standing by the foot of the bed.
Van Veeteren opened his eyes, one at a time. A few seconds passed. Then he also opened his mouth.
“Shit.”
“How are you?” Münster asked.
“Pull me up,” snarled Van Veeteren.
Münster put the flowers on the bedcover and managed to raise the patient into a half-sitting position, more or less—with the aid of a few pillows and the chief inspector’s wheezing instructions. The color of his face reminded Münster of strawberries that have been marinating in spirits overnight, and there was nothing to suggest that that wasn’t how Van Veeteren felt as well. He repeated his welcoming speech.
“Shit.”
Münster picked up the roses again.
“These are from all of us,” he said. “The others send greetings.”
He found a vase and filled it with water from the washbasin in the corner. Van Veeteren watched proceedings suspiciously.
“Huh,” he said. “Give me some as well.”
Münster poured him a glass from the jug on the bedside table, and after a second one, Van Veeteren appeared to be capable of conversation at least.
“I must have dozed off,” he said.
“You get extremely tired after an operation,” said Münster. “It’s normal.”
“You don’t say.”
“Reinhart sends his special regards and says he’d like you to remember that pain drives out evil.”
“Thank you. Well?”
Raring to go again already? Münster thought and sat down on the visitors’ chair. He opened his briefcase. Took out the envelope and propped it up against the vase of flowers.
“I’ll put the photocopies here. They’re only from the newspapers. It will take a bit of time to dig out the records of the trial, but I’ll pop in with them tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll look through them after you’ve gone.”
“Don’t you think you ought to have a good rest first, when…?”
“Hold your tongue,” snapped Van Veeteren. “Don’t talk such a lot of crap. I’m feeling better by the second. And there’s never been anything wrong with my head, for Christ’s sake. Tell me what you’ve all been doing!”
Münster sighed and launched into an account of the visit to Kaustin and the search of Verhaven’s house.
“The forensic team hasn’t finished yet, of course, but everything points to him being our man. He only seems to have been at home for one day. In August last year. There was a newspaper, some food marked with a use-by date and a few other things. It appears to have been the twenty-fourth, the same day as he was released. A few witnesses saw him arriving—in the village, that is. Maybe he stayed the night; some things suggest that. He went to bed in any case. The clothes he was given on leaving prison are still there.”
“Hmm?” said Van Veeteren. “Hang on a moment…. No, carry on; it’s OK!”
“They haven’t found anything startling. Nothing to suggest that he died there. No bloodstains, no weapon, no sign of violence. But over eight months have passed since then, of course.”
“Time doesn’t heal all wounds,” said Van Veeteren, rubbing his hand gingerly over his stomach.
“No,” said Münster. “That’s possible. We shall see. It’s possible that he was murdered there the same day. Or night. The butchery might have been done there or somewhere else. It could have been anywhere.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren again. Münster leaned back against the wall and waited.
“Pull me up!” said Van Veeteren after a while, and Münster repeated the procedure with the pillows. Van Veeteren pulled a face as he worked himself into a slightly better position.
“It hurts,” he said, nodding toward his stomach.
“What did you expect?” Münster asked.
Van Veeteren muttered something and took another drink of water.
“Heidelbluum,” he said eventually.
“Eh?” said Münster.
“He was the judge,” said Van Veeteren. “In both trials. He must be eighty now, but you’ll have to go and see him.”
Münster made a note.
“I have the impression that he’s good,” Van Veeteren added. “A pity Mort’s dead.”
Detective Chief Inspector Mort was Van Veeteren’s predecessor, and Münster gathered that he must have been involved in the second of the cases at least. Probably in both. What was clear was that Van Veeteren did not play a major role in either; Rooth had already checked that.
“Then there’s the motive, of course.”
“Motive?”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“I’m tired,” he said. “Give me your views on the motive, please.”
Münster thought for a few moments. Leaned his head back against the wall and contemplated the meaningless pattern of squares formed on the ceiling by the lamps.
“Well, I think there are several possibilities,” he said.
“Such as?” Van Veeteren asked.
“I suppose an inside job is the first obvious one. Something to do with prison, that is. Some sort of settling of accounts.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Right,” he said. “You’d better look into what he got up to while he was locked up. Where was he, by the way?”
“Ulmentahl,” said Münster. “Rooth’s on his way there now.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “Next? Another motive, that is!”
Münster cleared his throat. Pondered again.
“Well, if it isn’t anything to do with what happened in prison, it could have something to do with what happened in the past.”
“It could indeed, certainly,” said Van Veeteren, and it seemed to Münster that the pale gray color vanished briefly from his face.
“Ho
w?” said Van Veeteren. “For hell’s sake, Inspector, don’t try and tell me you haven’t given a thought to this! It’s over a day since you received the damned tip-off.”
“Only half a day since we were sure,” said Münster apologetically.
Van Veeteren snorted.
“Motive!” he said again. “Come on!”
“Somebody who didn’t think the prison sentence was long enough,” said Münster.
“Possibly,” said Van Veeteren.
“Somebody who hated him. One of those women’s friends who had been waiting for revenge, perhaps. It’s a bit hard to get inside a prison and kill a man, after all.”
“Very hard,” said Van Veeteren. “Unless you get another prisoner to take on a contract, that is. There could well be the odd one who wouldn’t be too hard to persuade. Have you any other suggestions?”
Münster paused for a moment.
“It’s not exactly a suggestion,” he said.
“Out with it even so,” said Van Veeteren.
“There’s no evidence for it.”
“I want to hear it nevertheless.”
His facial color had intensified again. Münster cleared his throat.
“All right,” he said. “There’s a slight possibility that he was innocent.”
“Who?”
“Verhaven, of course.”
“Really?”
“Of one of the murders at least, and it could have something to do with that…somehow or other.”
Van Veeteren said nothing.
“But it’s pure speculation, naturally….”
The door opened a few inches and a tired nurse stuck her head round it.
“Could I remind you that visiting time is over. Dr. Ratenau will be doing his rounds in a couple of minutes.”
Van Veeteren gave her a dirty look, and she withdrew her head and closed the door.
“Speculation, ah yes. Don’t you think I can allow myself a bit of speculation while I am residing here in the dwelling of the condemned?”
“Of course,” said Münster, getting to his feet. “Goes without saying.”
“And if,” Van Veeteren continued, “if it turns out that this poor bastard has spent twenty-four years in prison for something he hasn’t done, then…”
“Then?”
“Then damn me if this isn’t the biggest legal scandal to hit this country in a hundred years. No, the biggest ever!”
“There is no evidence to support it,” said Münster, as he headed for the door.
“Calpurnia,” said Van Veeteren.
“Excuse me?” said Münster.
“Caesar’s wife,” explained Van Veeteren. “Suspicion is enough. And there is suspicion in here,” he added, tapping his forehead with his index finger.
“I’m with you,” said Münster. “Good-bye for now, then. I’ll call in tomorrow afternoon, as I said.”
“I’ll phone this evening or tomorrow morning and tell you what I need,” said Van Veeteren to round things off. “Tell Hiller that I’m in charge of this from here on in.”
“Will do,” said Münster as he slunk through the door.
Ah well, he thought as he waited for the lift. He doesn’t seem to have changed fundamentally.
15
PC Jung looked at his watch and sighed. He had arranged to meet Madeleine Hoegstraa at her home at four o’clock, and rather than arrive too early he had decided to spend three quarters of an hour in a bar in her neighborhood in the outskirts of Groenstadt. The drive there had gone much faster than he’d expected, and needless to say he was well aware that the key was his deep-seated fear of arriving too late for anything at all.
He sat down at one of the window tables with a large cup of Bernadine. The curtains were semi-transparent, and he could see blurred images of passersby: Just for a moment he had the impression of watching an old surrealistic movie. He shook his head. Movie? Good God, no! Exhaustion, that’s what it was. The usual setup: cops too shattered to keep awake.
He stirred his hot chocolate and started sketching out questions in his notebook instead. Now that he started examining it more closely, it dawned on him that it was really a vocabulary book full of French verbs, and he realized that he must have put it in his briefcase after testing Sophie on her homework the other night.
Sophie was thirteen, getting on for fourteen, and the daughter of Maureen, whose company he’d been keeping for some time now.
Quite a long time, to be honest, even if opportunities to be together were few and far between. And as he sat there waiting for time to pass by, he started to wonder a bit vaguely if anything serious would ever come of it. Of him and Maureen, that is. Tried to work out if that was really what he wanted.
And above all: Did Maureen want it?
Maybe it was better if she didn’t. Better to leave the cake uncut and just pick off a currant here and there when he felt like it. As usual, in other words. The same old routine.
He sighed once more and took another sip.
But he liked Maureen and liked being together with Sophie in the evenings and helping her with her math lessons. Or French, or whatever it happened to be. It had only happened three or four times so far, but it had struck him that for the first time in his life, he had been playing the role of father.
And he liked it. It had a sort of dimension he hadn’t experienced before. That gave him a feeling of equilibrium and security and stability, things that hadn’t exactly featured prominently in his life hitherto.
Not clear precisely what that meant, but even so.
Sure is, he muttered to himself—and at the same time, he wondered where on earth he had picked up such a silly expression.
But when he thought about those unassuming evenings, the simple and yet awe-inspiring task of taking on a bit of responsibility for a growing child—well, he had to admit that he hoped that one of these days Maureen would pop the question.
Ask him to stay on. Throw his hat into the ring. Move in and make a family of them.
On other days the same idea could frighten him to death. He was well aware of that and would never dream of raising the matter himself. But the thought was there all right. A sort of secret wish, something close to his heart whose delicacy or frailty was so sensitive that he never dared to pick it up and examine it in detail. Never really come to grips with it.
The fact was that life had its cul-de-sacs; and needless to say, it wasn’t always possible to turn back and retreat.
What the hell am I on about, he thought.
He checked his watch once more and lit a cigarette. Another quarter of an hour. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to interviewing Mrs. Hoegstraa. As far as he could make out, he was required to cross-question an upper-class lady of the old school. A privileged and spoiled woman with an abundance of rights but no corresponding obligations. That’s the impression she had given on the telephone, at least. Mind you, it wasn’t at all clear how this fitted in with Verhaven.
Verhaven had never been a member of the upper classes, surely.
No doubt she would pin him down, no matter what. Note his characteristic young man’s smell of tobacco and cheap aftershave lotion. Stained trousers and dandruff on his shoulders. Sum him up, then make sure to keep him at arm’s length. Imply that people of her social standing regarded the police as servants. That was something they had committed themselves to and thrown their weight behind aspects of society that had to be maintained: money, the fine arts, the right to dispose of one’s wealth as one sees fit—and so on.
Fuck it all, he thought. I’ll never get over this. I’ll always be standing here with my dirty cap in my hand, and I’ll keep on bowing to my superiors as long as I live.
I’m so sorry to impose on you. So sorry that I have to ask you a few questions. So sorry that my dad was sacked by the printing works and drank himself to death.
Oh dear, I’m so sorry, your ladyship, I must have got it wrong. Of course, I want to be buried in the pet cemetery with all the dogs. Tha
t’s where I belong!
He emptied his mug of hot chocolate and stood up.
I worry too much, he thought. That’s my problem.
I hope she doesn’t serve up chamomile tea, he thought.
Mrs. Hoegstraa kept the safety chain on and examined his ID through the narrow crack.
“Sorry about that; I try to be very careful,” she said as she opened the door wide.
“You can never be too careful,” Jung said.
“Please come in.”
She led him into a living room overfilled with furniture. Invited him to sit in one of the pair of plush armchairs, like thrones in front of the fire. There was also a glass-topped table teeming with cups and saucers, scones, cookies, butter, cheese and jam.
“I always drink chamomile tea myself,” she said. “For my stomach’s sake. But I don’t suppose that would appeal to a man. Would you like coffee or a beer?”
Jung sat down feeling relieved. He had evidently misjudged this plump little woman somewhat. His worries had been exaggerated and originated from inside himself. As usual, perhaps.
This lady was human, no doubt about that. She exuded warmth.
“I wouldn’t say no to a beer,” he said.
Perhaps there was something else about her, he thought as he watched her head for the kitchen. Something he was well acquainted with.
A bad conscience, no less?
“Fire away,” he said. His notebook with the questions he’d planned to ask could wait a bit. He might not even need to produce them at all.
“Where shall I start?” she asked.
“At the beginning, perhaps,” he suggested.
“Yes, I suppose that would be best.”
She took a deep breath and settled down in her chair.
“We have never been in close touch,” she said. “You will obviously have gathered that we severed all connections after these…this murder business. But to tell you the truth there wasn’t much contact before that either.”
She took a sip of tea. Jung put a slice of cheese on a cracker and waited.
“There were three of us siblings. My elder brother died two years ago, and I’ll be seventy-five this fall. Leopold was an afterthought, as they say. I was seventeen when he was born. Both Jacques and I had left home by the time he started school.”