by Håkan Nesser
‘Nothing precise, I’m afraid, but the whole trial seemed to be prearranged. Theatre. A sort of play set in a courtroom that was written long before it actually started. The girl was dead, the murderer was found with her dead body on his knee. He was branded a loony from the start, and in people’s eyes he was as guilty as anybody could be. A teacher gives a pupil a bun in the oven and kills her! We had no problem selling the paper that summer.’
‘What was his defence? What line did his lawyer take?’
‘Mentally deranged.’
‘Mentally deranged?’
‘Yes. Not responsible for his actions. There was no other possible strategy. The lawyer’s name was Korring. Maager pleaded guilty through him – he hardly uttered a single word from start to finish of the trial.’
Moreno thought for a while.
‘But what was it that made you think it might not be as simple and straightforward as it seemed? I gather that’s what you thought, is that right?’
Perhovens shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps just my juvenile instinct to rebel. I didn’t like the consensus – still don’t, come to that. I prefer fruitful differences of opinion. But never mind that, what does all this that you’ve just told me about mean? What the hell has happened to that poor girl?’
‘That’s what I would like help in sorting out,’ said Moreno with a sigh. ‘I’ve been brooding over it for quite a few days now, and the only possible thing I can come up with is that there must be a link with the past. Something fishy about that whole business, not everything can have been satisfactorily explained . . . Mikaela Lijphart talks to her dad for the first time in sixteen years. The Murderer with a capital M. Then she starts visiting several other people – I think there are several of them at least – here in Lejnice. Then she goes missing.’
‘And then her father goes missing as well. Why the hell haven’t we written about this? I know we’ve asked for information about the girl, but we haven’t written anything about this background.’
‘Do you have a good relationship with the local police?’ Moreno asked tentatively.
Perhovens burst out laughing.
‘A good relationship? We’ve been conducting trench warfare that makes the Western Front seem like a kiddies’ playground.’
‘I see,’ said Moreno. ‘Vrommel?’
‘Yes, Vrommel,’ said Perhovens, and her eyes suggested a regrettable degree of impotence.
They could hear a cautious tapping on the glass door in the outer room, but she ignored it with a snort. Moreno took the opportunity of changing tack.
‘Did Maager have any sort of support during that time?’ she asked. ‘From any quarter? Were there any other suspects, for instance?’
Perhovens sucked her pen and thought hard.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not as far as I can remember. He seemed to have every bloody inhabitant of the whole town against him. And I mean every single one of ’em.’
Moreno nodded.
‘In some societies the poor bastard would have been lynched.’
‘I understand.’
It was not the first time Moreno had come across a comment similar to Perhovens’ last, and she wondered briefly how she would have reacted herself. Given what the circumstances must have been. Perhaps it was better not to follow up that question too assiduously. It was better, of course, to believe that she would never have entertained the possibility of joining a lynch mob, that no matter what the circumstances she would be able to retain her own sense of justice and integrity.
‘What exactly is it you’re thinking?’ asked Perhovens after a short pause. ‘That it was somebody else who did it? Forget it, if so. It’s impossible. The bastard was sitting there weeping with the corpse on his knee.’
Moreno sighed.
‘Isn’t it possible that she jumped?’
‘Why would he confess in that case?’
Good question, Moreno thought. But not a new one.
‘Who was the doctor?’ she asked, without really understanding why. ‘The one who carried out the post-mortem, that is.’
‘DeHaavelaar,’ said Perhovens. ‘Old deHaavelaar, he used to do everything in those days. Births, illnesses and post-mortems. I think he even dabbled in veterinary matters as well. Anyway, it was his word that counted. As infallible as amen in church. Although he didn’t appear in court, that wasn’t necessary.’
‘Wasn’t necessary?’ said Moreno in surprise. ‘Why ever not?’
Perhovens flung her arms out wide.
‘I don’t know. But they just read out his verdict. The clerk of the court, if my memory serves me correctly. I suppose he had other matters to see to, deHaavelaar.’
The shadow of a suspicion flashed past inside Moreno’s head. From left to right, it seemed, and that very fact – that she noticed the direction – made the actual content disappear. At least, that’s what it felt like. Just a symbol from an alphabet she had never learned. Remarkable.
And immediately afterwards came just as fleeting an image of Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, sitting at a desk and looking at her. Or rather, boring his gaze into her. Very odd, she thought. Surely I’m a bit on the young side for brain haemorrhages?
‘I see,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘Is he still living in Lejnice, this doctor?’
‘DeHaavelaar? Yes on both counts. Still living and still in Lejnice. He must be getting on for eighty, I would think, but he struts around town scattering cynicisms left, right and centre. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Moreno. ‘It was just a thought that flashed past.’
Perhovens looked hard at her for a few seconds, apparently somewhat confused. Then she slammed the palm of her hand down on her notebook.
‘I’m going to write about this – do you have any objections?’
Moreno shook her head.
‘By the way,’ said Perhovens. ‘I think we had an agreement. That bloke on the beach, what’s his name?’
‘Ah yes, of course,’ said Moreno. ‘Van Rippe. His name’s Tim Van Rippe.’
Perhovens frowned again.
‘Van Rippe? Sounds familiar. But no, I don’t know who that is. Are you sure about it?’
‘Do you think I’d sit here giving the wrong name of a murder victim to a journalist?’ said Moreno.
‘Sorry,’ said Perhovens. ‘I forgot that I wasn’t talking to the local police mafia. To change the subject, what do you say to lunch? Maybe we can reach some definite conclusions if we get some protein inside us.’
Moreno looked at the clock and nodded.
‘No harm in trying,’ she said.
Former Town Medical Officer Emil deHaavelaar lived in Riipvej, it turned out, in a large patrician mansion among the dunes. But he declined to meet her there – if it was just about a bagatelle, as she maintained. He might possibly be able to exchange a few words with her at Cafe Thurm later in the afternoon, after a visit to his dental hygienist to have some tartar removed.
At about four o’clock, if that was all right with her. Moreno accepted, hung up and returned to Selma Perhovens at the table where they were eating lunch.
‘A grumpy old curmudgeon?’ she asked.
‘An aristocrat,’ said Perhovens. ‘The last one, if you believe what he says. I interviewed him when his book came out a few years ago. About his forty years as Aesculapius here in Lejnice – you know, the ancient Greek god of medicine and healing. That’s what he called his book, believe it or not: Through Aesculapius’s Magnifying Glass. An incredible load of crap, but I was forced to read it. On the very edge of racial biology. Anyway, he lives alone, with a housekeeper and two greyhounds. Twelve rooms and a tennis court – no, he’s not my type, full stop. How long are you staying, by the way?’
Moreno shrugged.
‘I was intending to go home tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But I want to talk to that Vera Sauger first – I have a meeting with her this evening. Assuming she turns up. I don’t know why I’m poking my nose into
all this stuff, to be honest. I can’t afford to stay in a guest house for ever. My police wage doesn’t allow much in the way of extravagance, I’m afraid. Not even at Dombrowski’s.’
Perhovens gave her what could only be described as a grim clown-smile.
‘How very odd,’ she said. ‘I have to say that money is my biggest unrequited love as well, come to think of it. It always lets me down, is never there when I need it. If you decide to stay on for a few more days you’re welcome to stay at my place. I’ve got a little girl aged eleven, but no man to get in your way, and you can have your own room. I mean it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Moreno, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this energetic journalist. ‘Let’s see what things look like tomorrow morning.’
Perhovens gave Moreno her card, and checked her watch.
‘Oh hell! I’m missing the stallion prize-giving ceremony at the horse show in Moogensball. I must dash!’
After she’d left Moreno stayed behind at the table for a while, wondering whether or not to ring Vegesack. Just to catch up on the latest situation.
But after mature deliberation she decided to postpone that until the evening.
Dr deHaavelaar ordered a cognac and a glass of milk. Moreno restricted herself to a cappuccino.
‘It’s for balance,’ explained the doctor when the waiter came with the tray. ‘Bodily balance is all you need to worry about if you want to live to be a hundred.’
She didn’t doubt for a moment that Emil deHaavelaar would live to be a hundred. He had another twenty years or so to go, to be sure, but he looked like a well-dressed grizzly bear. Tall and broad-shouldered, and with the charisma of a spoilt film star. His white hair was thick and combed back, his moustache as dense as it was trim, and the colour of his skin suggested that he had spent enough hours in the sun out among the sand dunes to last him through any winter, no matter how long it turned out to be. She remembered that Selma Perhovens had used the word ‘strut’, and wondered why.
‘Always assuming one might want to hang on that long in this mish-mash of a world,’ he added, swirling his glass of cognac.
‘Yes,’ said Moreno, ‘one might well wonder about that.’
‘What do you want?’ asked deHaavelaar.
Moreno hesitated for a moment.
‘Winnie Maas,’ she said.
DeHaavelaar slammed his glass down onto the table with a bang. I’ve put my foot in it, Moreno thought. Dammit!
‘Who are you?’ said deHaavelaar.
‘Ewa Moreno. As I said on the telephone. Detective inspector.’
‘Can I see your ID?’
Moreno dug it out and handed it over. He put on a pair of glasses with very thin and presumably extremely expensive frames, and examined it carefully. Handed it back and took off his glasses.
‘Does the chief of police know you’re meeting me?’
She thought for a moment again.
‘No.’
He emptied his glass of cognac in one gulp. Washed it down with half a glass of milk. Moreno sipped her coffee and waited.
‘Why the hell do you want to come here and root around in something that happened twenty years ago?’
‘Sixteen,’ said Moreno. ‘I only wanted to ask a few simple questions. Why are you so agitated?’
‘I’m not agitated,’ he snarled. ‘I’m furious. You’re not even from Lejnice, you don’t know a bloody thing and I’m not going to answer a single question. But what I am going to do is report this to the chief of police.’
He stood up, stroked his thumb and index finger rapidly over his moustache and marched out of the premises.
For Christ’s sake, Moreno thought. What did Selma Perhovens call him? An aristocrat?
31
During the late afternoon and early evening dejection began to dig its claws into her.
Perhaps it had to do with the rain showers that came sailing in from the south-west in a never-ending stream. She lay down on the lumpy bed and tried to read, but it was impossible to concentrate on anything unconnected with Mikaela Lijphart and the major issues associated with her.
Or with herself.
What am I doing here? she wondered. What am I playing around at? A police inspector on holiday! Would a bicycle repair specialist spend his hard-earned leisure repairing bicycles for nothing? I must be mad.
She phoned Clara Mietens, but her solid rock was still not at home. She rang the police station, but Constable Vegesack was out on official business. She rang the automatic weather forecast number, and was informed that several more belts of rain were queueing up over the Atlantic, waiting to move in.
Great, Moreno thought as she started reading the same page for the fourth time.
At seven o’clock she tried Vera Sauger’s number for the first time. No reply. She tried again half an hour later, and continued at half-hourly intervals for the rest of the evening.
After her half-past-seven attempt she considered going out for a meal, but decided not to. Yesterday’s dodgy minced-meat pie didn’t exactly encourage her to risk a repeat performance. She did two hundred sit-ups and forty arms-raises instead, and two hours later she installed herself in the shower and tried to work out what on earth could have made Dr deHaavelaar so extremely upset.
She failed to do so. Not especially surprising, seeing as she told herself it was an impossible task. There was no point in trying to draw conclusions when the grounds for doing so were so inadequate. It was like trying to find footprints in a swamp. Hopeless. Even a confused police inspector ought to understand that.
And eighty-year-olds were not always logical, even if they looked like well-dressed grizzly bears and didn’t strut at all.
One more try, she thought as she dialled Vera Sauger’s number at a few minutes past eleven. If she doesn’t answer now, I’ll give up.
The answer came after three rings.
‘Vera Sauger.’
Thank goodness for that, Moreno thought. Please let me exchange a few words with you as well. Despite the late hour.
And preferably have something constructive to tell me.
She was yet another single woman of about Moreno’s own age.
Will there be any children at all in Europe ten years from now? she thought, as she was ushered into the flat in Lindenstraat. Or will all women have renounced the option of contributing to the proliferation of the human race? What was it Mikael had said? Embrace the cold stone of freedom?
She shrugged off the uninvited questions and sat down at the kitchen table, where her hostess had served up tea and small reddish-brown biscuits that looked like nipples. Coming to visit her hadn’t been a problem, despite the fact that it was almost midnight and that Sauger seemed to be badly in need of some sleep after five days and nights in the archipelago. When Moreno had mentioned the name Mikaela Lijphart on the telephone, Sauger had interrupted her immediately and invited her over.
It’s better to look the person you’re talking to in the eye, Sauger had explained. Moreno had been of the same opinion.
‘So she’s still missing, is she?’ Sauger asked after pouring tea into the yellow cups with large blue hearts on their sides. From some Swedish interior design outlet, Moreno guessed.
‘So you know about it?’
Sauger looked at her in surprise.
‘Of course I do. Why do you ask? Who are you, in fact?’
Moreno produced her ID and wondered how many times she’d already needed to do that this seemingly never-ending day. This was the third, she thought.
‘Are you new here in town?’ Sauger wondered. ‘I don’t recognize you. Not that I have much to do with the police, but still . . .’
‘I’m from Maardam,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m here on holiday. But I met the girl before she went missing.’
Sauger nodded vaguely.
‘So you don’t have any contact with the police station here?’
‘Only occasionally,’ said Moreno. ‘Why do you ask?’
Sauger stirred h
er tea slowly and looked even more bewildered.
‘Because you asked if I knew about it,’ she said.
‘Well?’
‘Of course I damned well know about it. I was at the police station to say my piece before I set off for Werkeney.’
Two awkward seconds passed, then Moreno remembered that Vegesack had said something amounting to what Sauger had said several days ago. That a woman had turned up in connection with the first Wanted notice, but that it hadn’t led anywhere. Wasn’t that the case?
Yes, as far as she could recall. There’d been one woman from Lejnice and another from Frigge. And the one from Lejnice must have been this Vera Sauger who was now sitting opposite her, popping a nipple-biscuit into her mouth.
It suddenly felt as if a rather large-scale short circuit had taken place inside Inspector Moreno’s head. The only thing that seemed anything like certain was that something must be wrong.
And outside her head as well.
‘I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid I must have missed that,’ she said with an attempt at an apologetic smile. ‘What exactly did you have to report?’
‘That she came to see me, of course. I think it’s odd that you don’t know about it.’
‘You reported that Mikaela Lijphart had come here to see you?’ said Moreno. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Sauger.
‘That you spoke to her that Sunday, ten days ago?’
‘Yes.’
Moreno said nothing while the next question slowly took shape in her mind. It took a while.
‘And who did you report this to?’
‘Who to? To the chief of police, of course. Vrommel.’
‘I see,’ said Moreno.
That wasn’t really true, but it didn’t matter. It was more important to take matters further now.
‘And when Mikaela came to see you, what did she want to talk about?’ she asked.
‘About her father, obviously,’ said Sauger. ‘About what happened sixteen years ago. She’d only just heard about it.’
‘Yes, I know about that,’ said Moreno. ‘And what did she want to hear from you?’