Kennedy's Brain

by Henning Mankell

  But it was out there on the beaches of Normandy that he had finally stopped, broken his silence, pointed at the sea and said that there was no artist who could paint a wave in a convincing way. Not even Michelangelo could have painted a wave, not even Phidias could have sculpted one. Waves bring home to human beings their limitations, he had said.

  She had tried to protest, to give examples. Surely Hägg, the seascape specialist, had been able to depict waves? All those biblical motifs with empty rafts being battered in a storm, or the sea in Japanese woodcuts? But Aron had insisted, he even raised his voice – which surprised her as he had never done so before.

  It was not possible for a human being to paint a wave in a way that the wave would approve of, said Aron, and therefore it must be true.

  They had never talked about waves again, just that one time on the freezing cold beach where Lucas Cantor had died before reaching dry land. Why had she thought about that now? Was there a message in it, a message about Aron's disappearance she was sending to herself?

  She got out of his bed and went over to the open window. It was dark, a warm breeze wafted into the room. There was a hum of distant traffic, and a clattering from a nearby restaurant kitchen.

  It dawned on her out of the blue: the warm night was deceptive. Aron would never return. All those shadows in the darkness that she had been vaguely aware of, Blanca's lie, Henrik's pyjamas, they all combined to tell her that she too could be in danger. She moved away from the window and checked that the door was locked. Her heart was pounding. She could not control her thoughts.

  She opened the minibar again, and took out the remaining bottles. Vodka, gin, whisky. She got dressed. It was a quarter past four and she took a deep breath before daring to open the door. The corridor was deserted. Even so, she thought she could detect a shadow by the lift. She stood motionless. It was her imagination playing tricks on her, she was creating shadows herself.

  She took the lift down to the empty reception area. She could see the blue glow from a television set in a back room. The sound was barely audible. An old film, she guessed. The night porter had heard her footsteps and come out to the desk. He was young, not much older than Henrik. He had a name tag on his lapel: Xavier.

  'You're up early, Mrs Cantor. It's a warm night, but it's raining. I hope nothing has woken you up?'

  'I haven't slept. My husband has disappeared.'

  Xavier checked the key cupboard.

  'I have his key. He's not in his room. He's been missing since yesterday morning, almost twenty-four hours.'

  Xavier was unaffected by her concern.

  'Are his belongings still in his room?'

  'Nothing has been disturbed.'

  'Then he'll be back, for sure. I expect it was just a misunderstanding?'

  He thinks we've quarrelled, Louise thought, and felt annoyed.

  'There's no question of a misunderstanding. My husband has vanished. I suspect something serious has happened. I need help.'

  Xavier eyed her doubtfully. Louise looked him in the eye.

  Xavier nodded and picked up the telephone. He said something in Catalan. Replaced the receiver carefully, as if not to wake up the rest of the hotel.

  'Our head of security, Señor Castells, lives next door. He'll be here in ten minutes.'

  'Thank you for your help.'

  Thirty years ago I'd have fallen for him, she thought. Just as I fell for a man in an aeroplane on the way to Scotland. But not any more. I wouldn't fall for him nor for Aron, whom I dug up in Australia and has now disappeared again.

  She waited. Xavier served her a cup of coffee. Fear was digging deep down inside her. An old man in cleaner's overalls padded past.

  Señor Castells was in his sixties. He came in without a sound, wearing a long overcoat and with a Borsalino hat on his head. Xavier nodded in the direction of Louise.

  'Mrs Cantor, room 533. She's lost her husband.'

  She thought that sounded like a line from a film. Señor Castells removed his hat, eyed her up and down, then led her into a room off reception. It was small, with no windows, but was comfortably furnished. He invited her to sit down, and took off his overcoat.

  'Tell me about it. Leave nothing out. Take as much time as you need.'

  She spoke slowly, summarising as much for herself as for Señor Castells, who made a few notes. He seemed to become more attentive every time she mentioned Henrik and his death. She said all that she had to say without a single interruption from his side. He paused for a few moments and seemed lost in thought, then he sat up straight on his chair.

  'So you can see no obvious reason why he should hide himself away?'

  'He's not hiding himself away.'

  'I realise that you are very upset about the death of your son. But if I understand the matter correctly, there is no reason to suspect that it was caused by anything other than his own hand. The Swedish police have stated their position. Is it possible that your husband has simply been overcome by grief? Perhaps he feels the need to be alone?'

  'I know something terrible has happened. But I can't prove it. That's why I need help.'

  'Maybe, despite everything, the sensible thing to do would be to remain patient and wait?'

  Louise stood up, angry.

  'I don't think you understand,' she said. 'I'll create merry hell for this hotel if you don't help me. I want to talk to the police.'

  'Of course you can speak to a police officer. But I suggest that you sit down again.'

  He seemed undeterred by her outburst, picked up the telephone and dialled a number. There ensued a brief conversation. Señor Castells replaced the receiver.

  'Two English-speaking police officers are on their way here. They will hear your story, and ensure that a search for your husband is launched immediately. Between now and their arrival, I suggest that you and I have a cup of coffee.'

  One of the police officers was middle-aged, the other younger. They all sat down in the empty bar. She repeated her story, the younger officer made notes, there were not many questions. When they had finished talking, the older officer asked for a photograph of Aron.

  She had removed his passport from the room. They asked for permission to take the passport with them in order to make copies of the photograph, and to make various notes. She would get it back in an hour or so.

  * * *

  It was dawn by the time the police officers left. The security chief had vanished, the door of his office was closed and locked. There was no sign of Xavier in reception.

  She went up to her room, lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Aron had gone to a church, he had lit a candle. And then something had happened.

  She sat up. Had he ever arrived at the church? She stood up and unfolded a map of central Barcelona.

  Which church was nearest to the hotel or the street in which Henrik had lived? It was not clear from the map, she could not be certain which church Aron would have chosen. But he would surely have picked one in the vicinity. Aron was not the type to make unnecessary detours when he had a specific goal in mind.

  When the passport was returned a couple of hours later, she took her jacket and handbag and left the room.

  Blanca was cleaning the glass panels in the front door when she arrived.

  'I need to talk to you. Now, straight away.'

  Her voice was shrill, as if she were castigating some unusually incompetent student who was making a mess of his task at an archaeological dig. Blanca was wearing yellow rubber gloves. Louise took hold of her arm.

  'Aron went to a church last night. He hasn't come back. Which church would he have chosen? It must have been one not far from here.'

  Blanca shook her head. Louise repeated her question.

  'A church or a chapel?'

  'Somewhere where the door would not be locked. Where he could light a candle.'

  Blanca thought for a moment. Louise was irritated by the yellow rubber gloves, and had to force herself not to rip them off.

  'Ther
e are lots of churches in Barcelona, big and small. The nearest to here is Iglesia de San Felip Neri,' she said.

  'Come on,' said Louise. 'We're going there.'

  'We?'

  'You and me. Take those gloves off.'

  The façade of the church was criss-crossed with cracks, but the dark wooden door was standing ajar. The inside was in semi-darkness. Louise paused while her eyes got used to the light. Blanca crossed herself, curtsied and crossed herself again. Right at the front, by the altar, a woman was busy dusting.

  Louise gave Blanca Aron's passport.

  'Show her the photograph,' she whispered. 'Ask her if she recognises Aron.'

  Louise kept in the background while Blanca showed the woman the photo. She studied it in a beam of light from a pretty stained-glass window. Mary with her dead son on the cross. Magdalena with her face averted. A shimmering blue beam of light from the sky.

  You can paint a sky. But not a wave.

  Blanca turned to Louise.

  'She recognises him. He was here yesterday.'

  'Ask her when.'

  Questions and answers. Blanca, the woman, Louise.

  'She doesn't remember.'

  'She must remember. Pay her to remember!'

  'I don't think she wants money.'

  Louise realised that she had offended Blanca who was representing the whole of Catalonian womanhood. But just now she paid no attention. She insisted on Blanca repeating the question.

  Blanca said: 'It might have been between one and two. Father Ramon called in shortly beforehand and told her that his brother had broken a leg.'

  'What did the man in the photograph do when he came here?'

  'He sat down in the front pew.'

  'Did he light a candle?'

  'She didn't notice that. He looked at the windows. Examined his hands. Or he simply sat there with his eyes closed. She only glanced at him occasionally. Like you look at people you don't really see.'

  'Ask her if there was anybody else in the church. Did he come on his own?'

  'She doesn't know if he was alone when he came, but there was nobody sitting next to him in the pew.'

  'Did anybody come in while he was here?'

  'Only the two Perez sisters who come here every day. They light candles for their parents then leave right away.'

  'Nobody else?'

  'Not as far as she can remember.'

  Although Louise could not understand what the woman with the duster was saying in Catalan, she could hear a degree of uncertainty in her voice.

  'Ask again. Explain to her that it's extremely important to me for her to remember. Say it has to do with my dead son.'

  Blanca shook her head.

  'It will make no difference. She's answering the best she can.'

  The woman was hitting the duster against her leg without speaking.

  'Can she point out exactly where Aron sat?'

  The woman seemed surprised, but did as she was asked. Louise sat down.

  'Where was she?'

  The woman pointed towards the altar and the side of an arch. Louise turned round. From where she was sitting she could only see a half of the entrance door. It was still standing ajar. Somebody could have come in without Aron hearing them, or perhaps been lying in wait outside?

  'When did he leave?'

  'She doesn't know. She went to fetch a new duster.'

  'How long was she away?'

  'About ten minutes.'

  'And when she came back, he'd left?'

  'Yes.'

  Louise realised something very important. Aron had left no trace behind because he had had no idea that something was going to happen. But something did.

  'Thank her and tell her she has been of great help.'

  * * *

  They walked back to Blanca's flat. Louise thought carefully. Should she tell Blanca outright that she suspected her of lying about Henrik not having had visitors? Or should she try to win her confidence and wait for her to volunteer the truth? Was Blanca scared? Or was there some other explanation?

  They sat down in the living room.

  'I'll be frank with you. Aron has vanished, and I'm afraid something has happened to him.'

  'What could have happened?'

  'I don't know. But Henrik did not die a natural death. Perhaps he found something out he shouldn't have.'

  'What could that have been?'

  'I don't know. Do you?'

  'He never told me what he was busy with.'

  'You said last time that he told you about his newspaper articles. Did he show them to you?'

  'Never.'

  Once again Louise detected a slight tremor in Blanca's voice. She had considered her answer.

  'Never at all?'

  'Not that I can remember.'

  'And you have a good memory?'

  'No worse than anybody else's, I would say.'

  'I'd like to go back to something you've already answered. Just to make sure that I've understood you correctly.'

  'I've got work I must be getting on with.'

  'This won't take long. You said nobody had been to visit Henrik recently, is that right?'

  'That is correct, yes.'

  'Could anybody have been without you noticing?'

  'It hardly ever happens that somebody comes or goes without me seeing or hearing them.'

  'But you must go out shopping sometimes?'

  'When I go out my sister is here in the flat. She tells me what's happened when I get back. If Henrik had had any visitors or anybody asking for him, I'd have known about it.'

  'When Aron and I left the building in the middle of the night, did you hear us?'

  'Yes.'

  'How could you be sure it was us?'

  'I always listen out for footsteps. Everyone, footsteps are different.'

  I'm not getting through to her, Louise thought. She's not scared, but there is something preventing her from telling me the whole truth. What is she holding back?