by Håkan Nesser
‘I don’t want to,’ she said again. ‘I can’t. It’s so wrong . . . Such a bloody lousy thing to do.’
He didn’t respond. Just sat there, kicking at the gravel without looking at her. They had lost contact with each other now. There was a vast chasm between them, despite the fact that they had just made love and were still sitting on the same bench in the same bloody park. It felt odd, but she wondered if it would have felt like that if she hadn’t been drunk.
‘For Christ’s sake, it’s our baby,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to pretend that anybody else is involved with our baby.’
‘Money,’ he said simply. He sounded both tired and angry. And drunk as well.
‘I know,’ she said
She suddenly felt extremely sad. As if everything was going to pot at a very high speed. Half a minute passed. He was still kicking at the gravel.
‘We worked out a plan,’ he said eventually. ‘For Christ’s sake, you were with me all the way . . . You can’t just let the old bastard exploit you and then change your mind. He must cough up – or would you rather have the randy old goat instead of me? He’s a bloody teacher, for God’s sake!’
She suddenly felt sick. Don’t throw up now, she told herself. Gritted her teeth and clutched her knees tightly. Breathed deeply and carefully, felt the waves coming and going. When they slowly began to ebb away, she burst out crying instead.
At first he just sat there and let her sob away, but gradually he moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulder.
It felt good, and she let the tears keep on coming for quite a while.
When you cry, you don’t need to speak or think, her mother had once told her, and there was some truth in it. Sometimes her hopeless mother could come out with something sensible, but not very often.
The bells in Waldeskirke, where she had been confirmed two years ago, chimed three times: a quarter to one. He lit two cigarettes, and handed her one. Then he produced a can of beer from his shoulder bag, and opened it.
He took several large swigs himself before passing it to her. She drank, and thought that the schnapps had tasted much better. Beer simply couldn’t make you feel warm inside. Strong spirits and wine were much better, she’d always thought that. And they didn’t make you want to pee so much either.
They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, then he said:
‘I have an idea.’
She reminded herself yet again that this was exactly what he had said a few hours ago. Down on the beach. She thought it was strange that he’d been carrying this idea around for such a long time without telling her what it was.
Mind you, this might be another one now.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Let’s talk to him,’ he said.
She didn’t understand what he meant.
‘Right now,’ he said. ‘You can give him a call and we can have a chat with him. And then we’ll see.’
He emptied the can of beer and opened a new one.
‘How many have you got?’ she asked.
‘Just one more. Well?’
She thought for a moment. She badly needed a pee. Really badly.
‘How?’ she said.
‘There’s a phone box over there.’
He pointed in the direction of the fire station.
‘Well?’
She nodded.
‘Okay. I must just have a pee first.’
The viaduct? she thought as she stood in the cramped phone box and dialled the number. Why do we have to meet him up there at the railway viaduct?
She got no further with that train of thought as she could hear the telephone ringing at the other end of the line, then somebody picked up the receiver. She took a deep breath, and tried to make her voice steady.
I hope it’s not his wife who’s answered, she thought.
It was his wife.
14
13 July 1999
Sigrid Lijphart managed to get a room at Kongershuus, thanks to a cancellation – the phone call came while she was still in reception, wondering what to do. It was the holiday season, and vacancies in Lejnice and district were just as hard to come by as usual. In a brief moment of weakness she had played with the idea of turning to somebody she had known back in those days – in her former life, sixteen years ago and more – but she rapidly decided that doing so would be about as pleasant as a foul-tasting belch.
Mind you, there were quite a lot of possibilities for her to choose from. Quite a lot of people who would no doubt have received her with open arms. In order to demonstrate how much they sympathized with the problems she’d had, and to find out a bit more about the details, if for no other reason.
But that was all in the past. She had left those people and those relationships – every single one of them – without a moment’s hesitation, and she had never missed them at all. The very thought must have been no more than a piece of jetsam floating around in the back of her mind, that was obvious. The idea of making contact with somebody from the past. It would never occur to her to make use of any of those ancient contacts that no longer existed in her consciousness, not in normal circumstances and not now either. It would have felt like . . . well, like opening a box and being hit by a foul stench from something that had spent the last sixteen years rotting away. Ugh, no!
I’d rather sleep on the beach, she thought as she stepped into the lift. Thank goodness I got a room.
It was on the fourth floor with a balcony and a splendid view to the west and south-west over the dunes and the long, gently curving coastline as far as the lighthouse at Gordon’s Point.
It was rather expensive, but she only intended to stay the one night, so it was worth it.
She phoned Vrommel and told him where he could contact her, then took a shower. Ordered a pot of coffee from room service, and went out to sit on the balcony.
It was two o’clock. The sun came and went – or the clouds, to be more precise; but it soon became so warm that she could easily have sat there naked if she’d wanted to. Nobody could see her, apart from helicopter passengers and seagulls. Nevertheless, she kept her bra and pants on. And her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. As if there had been somebody watching after all.
Now what? she thought. What the hell am I going to do now?
And panic came creeping up on her like a fever in the night.
Guilt?
Why should I feel guilty? she asked herself. She’d only done what she had to do. Then and now.
She had done what she knew was inevitable. Sooner or later. A child must know the truth about its parents. One side of it, at least. A child had a right to that, an incontrovertible right, and there was no way round that fact.
Sooner or later. And her eighteenth birthday had been decided on long ago.
She thought about Helmut, and his grumbling the previous night.
About Mikaela and her immediate reaction, which had been just about what she had expected.
Or had it really been? Had she really thought that her daughter would take her mother’s advice and let the whole matter rest? Leave everything just as it was, untouched, like something dumb and withered away and forgotten? Not even try to open the lid on it?
Is that really how it was? Had she really believed that her daughter wouldn’t try to find her real father?
Of course not. Mikaela was Mikaela, and her mother’s daughter. Mikaela has reacted exactly as she had expected. Just as she would have done herself.
Had she blamed her?
Had Mikaela blamed her mother for not telling her sooner? Or for telling her now?
No, and no.
Perhaps to some extent because she hadn’t been told the full story – but when she discovered all the facts she would no doubt understand. Definitely. And she had to leave something for Arnold to tell her. Or at least, give him a chance to do so.
But what about Helmut’s grumbling?
Not worth bothering about. As usual.
So why this suff
ocating feeling of guilt?
She’d bought a packet of cigarettes to help her out if an emergency arose. She went to fetch them from her handbag. Went back out onto the balcony, lit one and leaned back on her chair.
The first drag made her feel dizzy.
Arnold? she thought.
Is there something I owe Arnold?
A preposterous thought. She took another drag.
And started thinking about him.
Not a single telephone call.
Not a letter, not even a line, not a word.
Not from him to her, nor from her to him.
It suddenly struck her that if he were dead now, she wouldn’t have known. Or was there some kind of duty to inform? On the part of the Sidonis Foundation? Had she signed any documents to that effect? Did they have her name and address? She couldn’t remember.
If he’d moved out of the home, perhaps Mikaela would never find him?
But he was still there. She’d rung yesterday to check. Oh yes, Mikaela had been there, and he was still there. Those were the facts.
Presumably he’d been sitting there in his own silent hell for all those years. Sixteen of them. Waiting. Perhaps he’d been waiting for her? Waiting for Mikaela to come? Or maybe for her, his lost wife, to visit him?
But probably not. Most likely he had no memory of anything. He hadn’t been well when she took their daughter and abandoned him. There had never been any question of sending him to prison. Not as far as she was aware, at least.
Mad. Completely out of his mind. He’d even wet himself in the middle of the legal proceedings – for some reason that was the detail she had remembered down to the tiniest detail. How he’d just sat there in the middle of the courtroom and let it come gushing forth without moving a muscle . . . No, Arnold had crossed the border into insanity sixteen years ago, and there was no way back.
No way, and no bridges. Just oblivion and a new inner landscape. The more barren and desolate the better, presumably.
She stubbed out her cigarette. Too many words, she thought. There are too many words whizzing around inside me, they’re preventing me from thinking clearly.
Arnold? Mikaela?
But underneath the swirling mass of words was only panic, she knew that – and suddenly she wished she had taken Helmut with her.
Helmut the solid rock, the primary rock.
He had offered to come, insisted in a way, but she had kept him at bay.
This had nothing to do with him. Helmut had no part to play in this situation. It was a transaction to be sorted out between Mikaela and her father. And possibly also her mother.
A transaction? she thought. What on earth am I saying? What do I mean?
And what has happened?
It was not until she’d smoked half of her second cigarette and realized that she’d soaked it through and through with her tears that she went inside and made a phone call.
He wasn’t at home, but eventually she remembered the number of his mobile and got through to him.
She explained that she had spoken to the police, and that they would no doubt have sorted it all out by the evening – but that she’d taken a room for the night, for safety’s sake. And because it would have been a bit too strenuous to drive all the way back home that same day.
Helmut didn’t have much to say in reply. They hung up. She went back out on to the balcony. Sat down on the chair and prayed to God for the first time in fifteen years.
She didn’t think He was listening.
15
14 July 1999
In the end she picked on Münster.
The reason was simple, and she was glad that she didn’t need to explain it to anybody. Not to Mikael Bau, nor anybody else.
The facts were straightforward. Detective Inspector Moreno had been in love with Detective Intendent Mün-ster, and they had very nearly had an affair.
Well, no: not in love, she decided. That word was too strong. Something else similar, but . . . but not quite as significant. Much less, in fact. In any case, the thought that she might have been able – if circumstances had been somewhat different – to start a relationship with a man of paedophile tendencies was so absurd, so utterly out of the question, a definite non-starter. Even the mere thought. She swept it to one side with her big biology broom. It was impossible to think of Münster in that role. Absolutely unthinkable.
It was true, needless to say, that it was extremely difficult to imagine any of her colleagues as a child molester, but she hadn’t been in love with them (not even in the least significant sense of the phrase). So there wasn’t really any contradiction per se. As she seemed to recall having read in her philosophy textbook at grammar school.
So, Münster it was. A rock-solid card to play.
Luckily, he didn’t ask her why she had turned to him rather than anybody else. But he did ask several other questions.
Was she out of her mind? for example.
What the hell did she mean?
How could she put any trust in anything said by an arsehole like Franz Lampe-Leermann?
Moreno explained in measured tones that she didn’t believe Lampe-Leermann any more than she would believe a horoscope in a girl’s magazine, but that she wanted to pass on the allegation as a pure formality since she was now on holiday.
Münster accepted this, but continued commenting for quite some time and she could hear that he was beginning to retreat from his original stance of outraged rejection.
Just as she had done herself. Just as that bastard Lampe-Leermann had no doubt assumed they would do.
‘He must have something up his sleeve, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Moreno.
‘But he must surely have good cause to come out with an allegation like this.’
‘You’d have thought so, yes.’
‘What conclusion have you drawn yourself?’
‘I haven’t drawn any conclusion at all,’ said Moreno. ‘But I haven’t been sleeping very well.’
‘I can well believe that,’ said Münster. ‘What the hell is one supposed to do in a case like this?’
‘Don’t go to Hiller with it, whatever else you do.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Münster. ‘Do you have any more?’
‘I suppose there’s only one possibility.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Go and talk to Scumbag.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry. Talk to Franz Lampe-Leermann.’
‘Hmm,’ said Münster. ‘Where is he now?’
‘In Emsbaden,’ said Moreno. ‘He’s sitting there, waiting for you. I suggest you take care of this yourself, and be extremely discreet.’
Münster said nothing for a few seconds.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said eventually. ‘Thank you for ringing. Have lots of enjoyable, lazy days, so that you’re a good cop again when you come back to work in August.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Inspector Moreno.
That afternoon they took the ferry out to the islands. They spent an hour at low tide strolling along the beaches on Werkeney, then took a smaller boat to Doczum, the site of a bird sanctuary, where they had dinner at an inn in the square surrounded by pot-bellied and well-coiffured tourists of a certain age, showing off their tans.
Mikael explained to Moreno, who was eyeing their fellow-diners with some scepticism, that it was the custom for him and his family to tour the islands every summer. They had done that every year for as long as he could remember, with the exception of 1988 when he had spent a year as an exchange student in Boston.
‘You mean you’ve spent every single summer in Lejnice – or Port Hagen – for the whole of your life?’ Moreno asked.
‘Yes, apart from that one. As I said. Why do you ask?’
Moreno didn’t answer.
No, she thought. I’ve already decided that it’s none of my business.
Nothing to do with me and certainly not with Mikael.
‘You haven’t said a single word about Scumbag all day,’ said Mikael.
‘True,’ said Moreno. ‘Case closed.’
Mikael raised an eyebrow.
‘Really? How did you manage that?’
‘I’ve delegated it. I’m on holiday.’
His eyebrow remained high up on his forehead. It suddenly struck her that he looked like an actor – a third-rate actor in a turkey of a B-film. Was the veil about to fall off at last? she wondered.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘You look odd.’
‘There’s nothing the matter with me,’ he said, and his face began to take on a sort of pedagogical expression. ‘It’s you there’s something the matter with. If the Lampe-Leermann business is over and done with now, I’d like to know what the hell you’re brooding over instead.’
‘Brooding? Me? What the devil do you mean?’
She felt what must be a mixture of resignation and irritation beginning to rise up inside her. And perhaps anger. At his would-be-wise posture – who did he think he was talking to?
He seemed to register her reactions and remained silent for a while. Stared out to sea while tapping his knee with his index and middle fingers. It was a bad habit of his; she’d noticed it long ago, but it was only now that she had recognized it for what it was: a bad habit.
‘Brooding,’ he said again. ‘Don’t be silly. Either you’re beginning to grow tired of me, or there’s something else the matter. I prefer to think it’s the latter. I’m not an idiot.’
Her immediate reaction was to agree with him. Mikael Bau was not an idiot. Claus Badher, who she had dumped five years ago, had been an idiot, so she had some experience of the type. She could make comparisons, and knew what was involved.
One needed to know when one had completed the first chapter of a relationship and was on the way into chapter two – she had read that somewhere, and committed it to memory. Oh, bugger, she thought. Is it never possible to leave your job behind? Does it always have to be there in the background, imposing itself on everything else?