Woman with Birthmark

by Håkan Nesser

  If he would regret it, in other words.

  Everybody had expected that to be what happened. Needless to say. Maasleitner would do the sensible thing, do the decent thing, and give way. If not before the Christmas holidays, then during them. Obviously … he would be filled with misgivings after due consideration, and all that.

  But that was not what happened at all. He had come to a dead end instead. At quite an early stage he had known that he was not going to back down this time. He had done that before, pleaded guilty and begged to be forgiven for actions he knew deep down, and without a shadow of a doubt, were correct and justified.

  This time that was more obvious than ever. In the case of both of those young thugs. They had received only a fraction of the treatment they really deserved. An ounce of justice for once. And now he was suspended, more or less. As yet they weren't calling it that, and he was still being paid, but, of course, it was only a matter of time before the whole thing was a bit more official. The sack, in other words.

  Three weeks, to be precise. Rickard Maasleitner knew the rules of the game. Understood them and didn't like them. Never had. A safety net for cretins and blackguards. Hell and damnation, he thought as he kicked off the covers. Justice!

  He had barely gotten out of bed when the telephone rang.

  If it's somebody from school, I'll hang up on them, he decided.

  But it wasn't somebody from school. It was a woman's voice. A quite low-pitched and slightly gruff voice.

  “Do you recognize this tune?” it said.

  That was all. Then the music started. Something instrumental. Or a long intro, perhaps. A bit long in the tooth, by the sound of it. But a nice tune.

  “Hello,” he said after listening for about ten seconds. “Is this some kind of quiz?”

  No answer. The music kept on playing.

  He held the receiver some way from his ear and thought for a moment.

  “If you think you can throw me off balance with this kind of bullshit, you're wrong!” he said, and hung up.

  Scum of the earth, he thought. What the hell's this world coming to?

  He put on his dressing gown and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.

  · · ·

  During the rest of the day he received at least eight more telephone calls—he lost count sometime in the early afternoon.

  The same music. No singing, just a band playing, something from the sixties, he thought—he seemed to recognize it vaguely, but couldn't remember what it was called. Or the band playing it.

  Several times he considered pulling out the plug and putting a stop to it, but for some reason he didn't. Instead, each time the phone rang he broke off his reading or his work on the index of the textbook he was busy with. Answered, listened to the music, and stared out over the rooftops and the naked black trees, wondering what the hell was going on. Didn't say a word from the third call onward.

  At first he had been convinced that it had something to do with school, that there was probably some pupil or other behind it; but the longer it went on, the more doubtful he became. Strangely enough his irritation seemed to drain away … drain away and change into something else, an equal mixture of curiosity and another ingredient he didn't quite want to acknowledge. He was reluctant to admit that it was probably fear.

  There was something disturbing about the whole business. Something he couldn't grasp or understand. Sophistication, perhaps? The woman's voice from the first call never came back, only the music, nothing else. The same pop tune, no words…. Quite well played, that had to be said, and, he thought, from the early sixties, if he wasn't much mistaken.

  But even if the voice never returned, he remembered what the woman had said.

  “Do you recognize this tune?”

  It was something he ought to remember. Isn't that what she implied? The music meant something, and of course the point was that he should know what it meant. Surely that was what she implied?

  Hell and damnation, he muttered as he replaced the receiver for the fifth or sixth time. What is it all about?

  It would be some time before Rickard Maasleitner became fully aware of what it was all about. But on the other hand, by then it was all the more obvious.

  12

  Enso Faringer was nervous. That was beyond question. The moment they sat down at their usual table at Freddy's, he had started squirming around and scratching at the ugly rash on his neck he always had in the winter. He also gulped down his beer, and managed to smoke two cigarettes before the food was served.

  The conversation was floating around in circles, and Maasleitner could see that his colleague didn't quite know what leg to stand on. Or rather, what chair to sit on. He had tried to get Faringer to eat out with him on Tuesday evening, but had been given what was obviously an excuse—an old friend was visiting, something like that.

  So he was supposed to believe that Enso Faringer had friends? Maasleitner had a good mind to inquire further about the alleged visit while he had him trapped on the line; but he had swallowed the lie with a wry smile. No point in stirring things up. He played with the idea of putting his colleague on the spot now as well, but let it pass. He didn't want to be awkward. Faringer was a contact, after all. Somebody who had insight into what was going to happen at the Elementar school, even if he was hardly capable of drawing conclusions of his own. Or influencing them in any way.

  Come to that, Faringer was his only contact. There was nobody else he could rely on. In a situation like the one he was in, Maasleitner would have to make do with whatever was available.

  They had kebabs, as usual, and Faringer gossiped tentatively about a few pupils and teachers he knew Maasleitner didn't like. A bit about his aquarium as well, and his father, who had been in a mental hospital for several years, but never wanted to die despite the fact that he was more than ninety-five years old. Enso was in the habit of visiting him about four times a week.

  That was also a sign of his nervousness, of course. The fact that he was gossiping. Faringer's mouth seemed to be ticking over in neutral, as if he were talking to his fish, or to a classroom of pupils when he didn't need to think too hard about what he was saying. Maasleitner was tired of his company after only ten minutes.

  “Whose side are you on?” he asked when Faringer had been served and taken a swig of his third beer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No … well, yes, maybe. No, you'd better explain. I'm not quite with you.”

  “I'm going to get the sack three weeks from now. Or two and a half, to be precise. What do you say to that?”

  Faringer swallowed.

  “You can't be serious? That can't be allowed to happen. I must have a word with …”

  He fell silent.

  “Have a word with whom?”

  “I don't know. But you're surely not going to leave? It'll sort itself out somehow or other.”

  “Don't talk rubbish. Don't try and tell me you don't know the score. It's as clear as day for Christ's sake.”

  “Well …”

  “I'm going to get the boot because I gave those fucking thugs what they deserved, haven't you grasped that? What the hell do you mean by sitting here mumbling on and pretending you don't know what's going on?”

  His anger had spilled over much sooner than he'd expected, and he could see that Faringer was scared. He tried to smooth things over a bit.

  “There must have been some sort of reaction among the staff. Are they just going to stand by and let things take their course, or … or am I going to get some sort of support? What are they saying? That's all I want to know.”

  “I see.”

  Faringer looked relieved.

  “So if you could keep your ear to the ground … listen to what's going on. I mean, you're good at interpreting moods. You have more insight than a few of the others, there's no need to hide your light under a bushel….”

  It was a very clumsily expressed compliment, but he coul
d see that it was effective. Enso Faringer leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. Narrowed his eyes and tried to look like he was thinking hard.

  Maybe he really is, Maasleitner thought.

  “You'd like me to make a few soundings, is that it?”

  Maasleitner nodded.

  “Maybe start a little … campaign?”

  “Well, why not?”

  It was obvious that the beer was starting to affect his colleague's confused mind now, and it dawned on Maasleitner what a waste of time it all was. Needing to turn for help to the likes of Enso Faringer! Sitting here and asking for favors from this universally despised and ignored laughingstock. Herr Fräulein, the pupils called him.

  Besides, he wasn't at all sure what he hoped to get out of it. Just a chance to let off steam, presumably. Give vent to his irritation and his feeling of being trampled underfoot. A stubborn old fool with a bee in his bonnet, was that what he would end up becoming? Slowly but surely he could feel exhaustion and pointlessness grasping him by the throat, and when he saw the little German teacher frown and take a ballpoint pen from his inside pocket, he had the feeling that everything was being enacted in the theater of the absurd.

  A farce.

  Was Faringer going to work out tactics on his paper napkin? Sketch out a manifesto, perhaps? An appeal?

  Bloody hell, Maasleitner thought. Who are all these people I'm surrounded by?

  Or are they all like this, if you scrape a bit at the surface?

  It was not a new question. Barely even a question, come to that.

  More of a statement.

  More beer, he thought. Might as well blur a few edges. Inertia, come and embrace me!

  When they staggered out of the little basement restaurant some considerable time later, the mood was significantly more relaxed. Maasleitner even found it necessary to place his arm over his colleague's shoulders in order to assist his attempts to negotiate the steps leading up to street level. Faringer missed one step altogether, grabbed hold of the iron rail, and roared with laughter; and when they shortly afterward managed to flag down a taxi, it transpired that he had left his wallet on the table. Maasleitner went back to retrieve it while Faringer lay slumped in the backseat, singing a rude song for the scarcely amused but decidedly unimpressed driver.

  As Maasleitner watched the cab's rear lights vanish around the corner by the printing works, he wondered how on earth Enso Faringer would be able to summon up the strength to face his classes the next day.

  As far as he was concerned, that was no longer a consideration that he needed to take into account, and thanks to the alcohol flowing sweetly through his veins he suddenly had the feeling that despite everything, all was well with the world. A nice, comfortable lie-in was in store for him the next morning, and then perhaps a little excursion. To Weimarn? Why not? Provided the weather turned out to be reasonable, of course.

  It wasn't too bad at the moment. The rain had died away. A warm, gentle breeze caressed its way through the town, and as he slowly began to wander through the familiar, narrow alleys that would lead him home to Weijskerstraat, he had the strong impression that there was not really much point in worrying about the future.

  As if to confirm this feeling, at about the same time a lone figure emerged from the dark shadows enveloping the Keymer Church a little farther down the same street.

  It followed him about thirty paces behind; discreetly and silently, as Maasleitner walked over the rounded cobbles, across Wilhemsgraacht, into Weijskerstraat, and right up to the front door. Maasleitner was somewhat surprised to find that it was standing ajar, and that there appeared to be something wrong with the lock. Despite his euphoric state, he paused for a few moments to mutter away about the circumstances—while his pursuer waited patiently in another doorway diagonally across the narrow street. Then Maasleitner shrugged, stepped inside, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

  He hadn't been home for long, hadn't even had time to get undressed, when there was a ring at the door. The clock over the stove in the kitchen said a few minutes past midnight, and as he went to open up he wondered who on earth it could be, visiting him at this time of night.

  Then it dawned on him that it must be Enso Faringer, whose euphoric state had doubtless enabled him to come up with some crazy idea or other, and there was a tolerant smile on his lips as he opened the door.

  Some sixteen hours later his seventeen-year-old daughter opened that same door, and if the circumstances had not been so grotesque, it would probably have still been possible to see traces of that smile on his face.

  V

  February 1–7

  13

  “So there's no doubt, then?” said Heinemann.

  “Not really,” said Münster. “Same ammunition—7.65 millimeter. The technical guys were more or less certain that it was the same weapon, but we won't know that for sure until tomorrow.”

  “Two bullets in the chest, two below the belt,” said Rooth, looking at the photograph lying on the table in front of him. “I'll be damned if it isn't the same thing all over again, more or less. A copy of Ryszard Malik.”

  “Of course it's the same culprit,” said Moreno. “There hasn't been a word in the papers about the bullets below the belt.”

  “Correct,” muttered Van Veeteren. “Sometimes the muzzle we put on journalists actually works.”

  He looked up from the document he was holding and had just read. It was a very provisional medical statement Miss Katz had popped in to hand over, and it suggested that Rickard Maasleitner had probably died between eleven and twelve o'clock the previous night, and that the cause of death was a bullet that had penetrated the heart muscle. The other shots would not have brought about instant death; not taken one at a time, that is—possibly in combination, as a result of blood loss.

  “A bullet in the heart,” said Van Veeteren, passing the sheet of paper on to Münster, who was sitting next to him.

  “He didn't leave Freddy's until shortly after half past eleven,” said Moreno. “It takes at least a quarter of an hour to walk to Weijskerstraat. The murderer can hardly have struck before midnight.”

  “Between twelve and two, then,” said Rooth. “Ah well, we'll have to find out if anybody saw anything.”

  “Or heard,” said Heinemann.

  Rooth stuck his index finger into his mouth, then withdrew it with a plopping sound.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked. “That's about as much noise as is made when you use a silencer. He must have used one, or he'd have woken up the whole building.”

  “Okay,” said Heinemann. “We'll assume that, then.”

  Van Veeteren broke a toothpick in half and looked at the clock.

  “Nearly midnight,” he said with a deep sigh. “We might as well go home now and get some sleep, but so help me God, we'd better make some progress tomorrow. We have quite a few threads to pull at, this time around; and there's no reason why we should be left floundering. The sooner we solve this business, the better.”

  He paused briefly, but nobody took advantage of the opportunity to speak. He could see in his colleagues' faces the same mixture of intense concentration and weariness that he could feel inside his own head. Best to rest for a few hours, no doubt about that. Besides, there wouldn't be much point in waking people up in the middle of the night to answer a few questions. The police had a bad enough reputation as it was; there was no need to make it any worse.

  “This is what we'll do tomorrow,” said the chief inspector. “Reinhart and deBries will continue interviewing the neighbors. The whole block, if there's time. I assume they're still at it now, and I suppose they might as well carry on. It could be that somebody has seen something—the murderer must have called round twice, for God's sake. Once to tamper with the lock, and once to kill. It might be that nobody noticed anything, but we'll have to see…. Heinemann.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to dig into the background. We have details of the whole of Malik's
life. Find out when his and Maasleitner's paths crossed. There must be a link.”

  “Let's hope so,” said Heinemann.

  “Münster and Rooth will take his family. Or rather, the family that used to be his. I have a list of them here. Moreno and Jung will go to the Elementar school….”

  “Oh my God,” said Jung. “That's the school I used to go to….”

  Van Veeteren raised his eyebrows.

  “When was that?” he asked.

  Jung tried to work it out.

  “Eighteen years ago,” he said. “Just one term in the seventh grade, then we moved in the spring. I hardly recall a single teacher. I didn't have Maasleitner in any case.”

  “A pity” said Van Veeteren. “Talk to the headmaster and some of the staff even so, but tread carefully. They're usually very wary of anybody who intrudes on a seat of learning like that. Remember what happened at Bunge?”

  “I certainly do,” said Münster. “Lie low, that's my advice.”

  “I'll bear it in mind,” said Jung.

  “But leave that Faringer character alone,” said Van Veeteren. “I intend to have a little chat with him myself.”

  “A bit of an oddball,” said Münster.

  “Of course,” muttered Van Veeteren. “All teachers are. If they're not odd to start with, they become so as the years go by.”

  He rummaged in his empty breast pocket and looked around the room.

  “Any questions?”

  Rooth yawned, but nobody spoke.

  “Okay,” said the chief inspector, and started collecting his papers together. “We'll meet for a run-through at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you make the most of the time until then. This time we're going to get him.”

  “Or her,” said Münster.