by Håkan Nesser
Why didn’t he come?
Even if time no longer existed, she had the feeling that something must have delayed him. She made up her mind to count up to four thousand heartbeats, and if he hadn’t arrived by then, she would…
… she would count another four thousand heartbeats.
Was it possible to distinguish between a thousand heart beats and another thousand heartbeats? Could it be done? And if so, what was the point?
And as she counted, that hand squeezed tighter and tighter.
The cloud grew.
Death filled her.
“I’m late,” he said, and she could barely hear his voice.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He sat there in silence, and she noticed that she was now counting his breaths. Rasping in the darkness as usual, but even so his, not hers… something that didn’t emanate from her self.
“Tell me your story,” she begged.
He lit a cigarette and suddenly she felt the faint glow grow ing and forcing its way inside her… all at once the whole of her body was filled with light and the next moment she lost consciousness. She woke up in a glittering white world, where a pulsating and vibrant gleam was so strong and powerful that it was rumbling inside her. Vertiginous spirals spun around inside her head, and she plunged into them, was sucked up and carried by this infernally rotating whiteness, this flood of rag ing light…
Then it began to recede. The torrent slowed down and found a slowly swaying rhythm; waves and breakers, and the smell of earth returned. Of earth and smoke. Once again she saw only darkness and a trembling red point, and she realized that something had happened. She didn’t know what, but she had been elsewhere and was now back. And the cloud was no longer spreading.
Something had happened.
“Tell me your story,” she said, and now her voice was steady, like before. “Tell me about Heinz Eggers.”
“Heinz Eggers,” he said, and hesitated as he usually did at the start. “Yes, I’ll tell you about Heinz Eggers as well. It’s just that I am so tired, so very tired… but I’ll keep going to the end, of course.”
She had no time to reflect on what his words might imply.
He cleared his throat and started.
“It was in Selstadt… she moved there. Or was moved there. Was taken in hand by the social services and placed in Trieckberg; do you know Trieckberg?”
“No.”
“One of those community homes that manages to help the odd patient… doesn’t just allow them to drift out then back in, out and back in, until they finally die of an overdose or a dirty needle. It manages to help the odd patient. Then… we had contact, good contact; we went to visit her, and she wasn’t too bad. There was a spark of light again, but after a few months we heard that she had run away… it was a long, long time before we were tipped off that she might be in Selstadt. Trieck berg isn’t far from there. I drove to Selstadt and searched… after a few days I dug up an address and went there. It was a drug den, of course. I’ve seen a fair amount, but I’ve never seen anybody in a worse state than Brigitte and the other woman in
Heinz Eggers’s stable… that’s what he called it. His stable. He obviously thought I’d come for a quick session with one or both of his whores. He might have had more, come to that…”
He paused.
“What did you do?” she asked after a while.
“I hit him. Punched him on the nose. Hadn’t the strength to do any more than that. He disappeared. I phoned for an ambu lance and got both of them into hospital… she died three weeks later. Bitte died at the hospital in Selstadt. Forgive me,
I’m too tired to go into the details.”
“How?”
He waited again and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
Dropped it on the floor and stamped out the glow with his foot.
“Slit her own throat as she threw herself out of a sixth-floor window… wanted to make sure. That was September 30, 1988. She was twenty-seven years old.”
He remained sitting there for longer than usual this time. Sat the usual three or four yards away from her in the darkness, breathing heavily. Neither of them spoke; she gathered there was nothing else to add. He had finished now.
He had achieved his vengeance.
The story was told.
It was all over.
They sat there in the darkness, and it seemed to her that they were simply two actors who happened to be still onstage, even though the curtain had long since come down.
What now? she wondered. What comes next?
What will Horatio do after the death of Hamlet?
Live and tell the story one more time, as he had been requested to do?
Die by his own hand, which is his wish?
In the end she dared to put the question:
“What do you intend to do?”
She could hear him give a start. Perhaps he had actually fallen asleep. He seemed to be enveloped by infinite weariness, in any case, and she immediately felt that she would have liked to give him advice.
Some kind of comfort. But there was none, of course.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve played my part. I must receive a sign. Must go there and wait for a sign…”
He stood up.
“What day is it?” she asked suddenly, without knowing why.
“It’s not day,” he said. “It’s night.”
Then he left her again.
Well, I’m still alive, she thought in surprise. And night is the mother of day…
50
Van Veeteren took the lead.
Led the way through the darkness that was starting to become less intense. A narrow strip of gray dawn had forced its way in under the trees, but it was still too early to make out anything but vague outlines, flickerings and shadows. Sound still held sway over light, the ear over the eye. A jumble of faint rustling and squeals from small animals scuttling away from their feet as they moved forward. A strange place, thought
Munster.
“Take it easy now,” Van Veeteren had urged them. “It’s a helluva lot better to arrive a quarter of an hour later without being discovered.”
They eventually turned the corner and emerged onto the stone paving. Van Veeteren opened the door. It squeaked faintly, and Munster could sense that he was concerned; but they were all inside within half a minute.
They split up. Two up the stairs. He and Munster down stairs.
It was pitch-dark, and he switched on his flashlight.
“It’s only a guess,” he whispered over his shoulder, “but I’m pretty damn sure that I’m right, even so!”
Munster nodded and followed hard on his heels.
“Look!” exclaimed Van Veeteren, stopping. He pointed the beam at an old doll’s house crammed full of toys: dolls, teddy bears and everything else you could think of. “I ought to have realized even then… but that would have been asking a bit much, I suppose.”
They continued downward, Munster half a step behind him. The smell of soil grew stronger-soil and the slight re mains of stale cigarette smoke. The passage grew narrower and the ceiling lower, making them crouch slightly, leaning for ward-groping their way forward, despite the flickering beam from the flashlight.
“Here,” said Van Veeteren suddenly. He stopped and shone the flashlight on a solid wooden door with double bolts and a bulky padlock. “Here it is!”
He knocked cautiously.
No sound.
He tried again, a little harder, and Munster could hear a faint noise from the other side.
“Inspector Moerk?” said Van Veeteren, his cheek pressed against the damp door.
Now they could hear a clear and definite “Yes,” and simulta neously Munster felt something burst inside him. Tears poured down his face and nothing on earth could have stopped them.
I’m a forty-two-year-old cop standing here weeping like a little kid. Godammit!
But he couldn’t care less. He stood behind Van Veeteren’s back and wept u
nder the cover of darkness. Thank you, he thought, without having any idea whom he was addressing.
Van Veeteren took out the crowbar, and after a couple of failed attempts managed to make the padlock give way. He drew back the bolts and opened the door…
“Take the light away,” whispered Beate Moerk, and all
Munster could see of her were the chains, her mass of tousled hair and the hands she was holding over her eyes.
Before doing as she’d asked, Van Veeteren shone the beam around the walls for a few seconds.
Then he muttered something unintelligible and switched off.
Munster fumbled his way over to her. Raised her to her feet… she leaned heavily on him, and it was clear that he would have to carry her. He carefully lifted her up, and noticed that he was still crying.
“How are you?” he managed to blurt out as she laid her head on his shoulder, and his voice sounded surprisingly steady.
“Not too good,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”
“No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “I ought to have realized sooner, though… I’m afraid you’ll have to keep the chains on for a bit longer. We don’t have the right equipment with us.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Beate Moerk. “But when you’ve got them off, I want a bathroom for three hours.”
“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “You’ve built up plenty of overtime.”
Then he started to lead them back.
Kropke and Mooser were already waiting for them on the patio.
“He’s not at home,” said Kropke.
“Oh, shit,” said Van Veeteren.
“You can put me down if you like,” said Beate Moerk. “I might be able to walk…”
“Out of the question,” said Munster.
“Where the hell is he?” grunted Van Veeteren. “It’s half past five in the morning… shouldn’t he be in his goddamn bed?”
Beate Moerk had opened her eyes, but was shading them with her hand from the faint light of dawn.
“He was with me not long ago,” she said.
“Not long ago?” said Kropke.
“I have a bit of a problem with judging time,” she explained. “An hour… maybe two.”
“He didn’t say where he was going?” asked Van Veeteren.
Beate Moerk searched her mind.
“No,” she said. “But he wanted a sign, he said-”
“A sign?” said Mooser.
“Yes.”
Van Veeteren thought that over for a while. He lit a ciga rette and started pacing up and down over the paving stones.
“Hmm,” he said eventually and came to a halt. “Yes, that’s possible, of course… why not? Munster!”
“Yes.”
“See to it that the chains are removed and get Inspector
Moerk to the hospital.”
“Home,” said Beate Moerk.
Van Veeteren muttered.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll send a doctor instead.”
She nodded.
“Kropke and Mooser, come with me!”
“Where do you think he is?” asked Kropke when Munster and
Moerk had left.
“With his family,” said Van Veeteren. “Where he belongs.”
51
“I’ll be all right,” said Beate Moerk.
“Sure?”
“Of course. A spell in the bath and I’ll be a rose again.”
“The doctor will be here in half an hour. I’d prefer to stay until then.”
“No, thank you,” she said with a faint smile. “Get back to your family now.”
He paused, his hand on the door handle.
“That report… ” he said. “How much of it did you read, in fact?”
She laughed.
“All right, I’ll come clean. Nothing. It was the pagination that intrigued me. When I handed over the original, I looked at the last page and saw that it numbered thirty-five, at the bot tom… I think I said something about it at the time.”
“True,” said Munster, remembering the moment.
“There were no numbers on the copy… that’s all. I didn’t know a thing about his daughter when I drove to the station.
I’ve only been working here for four years; she was dead when
I started. I just wanted to check if I could find anything in the copying room. I suppose he must have seen me when I arrived, or as I was leaving… that’s all. Maybe it was pure coinci dence; I don’t know if he thought I knew something. Anything else you’re wondering about?”
Munster shook his head.
“Well, quite a bit in fact,” he said. “But it can wait.”
“Go now,” she said. “But give me a hug first, if you can stand the stink.”
“Come on, I’ve been carrying you around all morning,” said Munster, throwing his arms around her.
“Ouch,” said Beate Moerk.
“So long, then,” said Munster. “Look after yourself.”
“You too.”
He saw him from some considerable distance away.
In the faint light of dawn, he was standing in the same place as he’d been that evening, right at the beginning.
Back then, when he’d chosen not to approach him. Not to disturb his sorrow.
Like then, he had his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
Head bowed. He was standing perfectly still, legs wide apart, as if he’d been waiting for a long time and wanted to make sure that he didn’t lose his balance.
Concentrating hard. Deep in what might have been prayer,
Van Veeteren thought, but perhaps he was simply waiting.
Waiting for something to happen.
Or perhaps it was just sorrow. His back made it so clear he didn’t want to be disturbed that Van Veeteren hesitated to approach. He gestured to Kropke and Mooser to keep their dis tance… so that he would have him to himself for at least a short while.
“Good morning,” he said when there were only a couple of yards left, and Bausen must have heard his footsteps in the gravel. “I’m coming now.”
“Good morning,” said Bausen, without moving.
Van Veeteren put his hand on Bausen’s shoulder. Stood still for a while, reading what it said on the headstone.
Brigitte Bausen
6.18.1961-9.30.1988
Helena Bausen
2.3.1932-9.27.1991
“Yesterday?” said Van Veeteren.
Bausen nodded.
“Five years ago. As you can see, her mother didn’t quite make it in the end… but she was only three days short.”
They stood in silence for a while. Van Veeteren could hear
Kropke coughing in the background, and held up a warning hand without looking around.
“I ought to have realized sooner,” he said. “You’ve given me a few signs.”
Bausen didn’t answer at first. Shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head.
“Signs,” he said eventually. “I don’t receive any signs… I’ve been standing here, waiting, for quite a long time, not just right now…”
“I know,” said Van Veeteren. “Perhaps… perhaps the absence of any is a sign in itself.”
Bausen raised his eyes.
“God’s silence?” He shuddered, and looked Van Veeteren in the eye. “I’m sorry about Moerk… have you released her?”
“Yes.”
“I needed somebody to explain everything to. Didn’t realize that before I took her, but that’s how it was. I never thought of killing her.”
“Of course not,” said Van Veeteren. “When did you gather that I’d caught on?”
Bausen hesitated.
“That last game of chess, perhaps. But I wasn’t sure-”
“Nor was I,” said Van Veeteren. “I had trouble finding a motive.”
“But you know now?”
“I think so. Kropke did a bit of research yesterday… what a disgusting mess.”
“Moerk knows all about it. You can ask her
. I haven’t the strength to go through it all again. I’m so tired.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“That telephone call yesterday…” said Bausen. “I wasn’t fooled; it was more a question of being polite, if you’ll ex cuse me?”
“No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “It was an opening gam bit I’d made up myself.”
“More of an endgame,” said Bausen. “I thought it took you a bit long, even so…”
“My car broke down,” said Van Veeteren. “Shall we go?”
“Yes,” said Bausen. “Let’s.”
V
October 2
52
The beach was endless.
Van Veeteren paused and gazed out to sea. There were big waves, for once. A fresh wind was gathering strength, and on the horizon a dark cloud bank was growing more ominous. No doubt it would be raining by evening.
“I think we should go back now,” he said.
Munster nodded. They’d been walking for more than half an hour. Synn had promised a meal by three o’clock, and the children would no doubt need some cleaning up before they would be allowed at the table.
“Bart!” yelled Munster, waving. “We’re going back now!”
“All right!” shouted the six-year-old, completing his final attack on the enemy buried in the sand.
“I’m tired,” said Munster’s daughter. “Carry me!”
He lifted her onto his shoulders, and they started walking slowly back along the beach.
“How is he?” asked Munster when he felt that Marieke had fallen asleep and Bart was sufficiently far ahead.
“Not too bad,” said Van Veeteren. “He’s not that concerned about the future. The main thing is that he’s done what he had to do.”
“Did he want to be caught?”
“No, but it didn’t matter very much either. He was in an impossible position once Moerk started on his trail, of course.”
Munster thought for a moment.
“How many lines were there about Brigitte Bausen in the