Woman with Birthmark

by Håkan Nesser

  “He was overflowing with manly attributes,” she said eventually. “They are best in the early stages. By the age of forty they have somehow changed. I hope you don't mind my saying that.”

  “Not at all,” said Münster. “I'm forty-three. But that isn't what we should be talking about. You don't have any suspicions, I take it?”

  She shook her head.

  “And he hadn't mentioned anything?”

  “No. But we didn't talk to one another all that often. A telephone call once a week, perhaps. He had a life of his own.”

  “What was your daughter doing there? When she found him, that is.”

  “She'd gone to fetch some books. She was the one most in touch with him. They could talk to each other, I think, and her school is only a couple of blocks away from Weijskerstraat. She used to go there to study sometimes. When she had a free period, for instance.”

  “And she had a key?”

  Wanda Piirinen nodded.

  “Yes. It's worst for her, that's for sure. It'll take time…. A pity she should have to be the one who found him as well.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Please be gentle with her, if you have to interview her several times. She didn't sleep much last night.”

  Münster nodded.

  “We talked to her quite a lot yesterday. A smart girl.”

  Suddenly Wanda Piirinen had tears in her eyes, and he wondered if he had misjudged her slightly. He felt it was about time to take his leave.

  “Just one more thing,” he said. “Ryszard Malik. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “He's the one who was shot on the previous occasion, isn't he?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I've never heard the name before, I'm quite sure.”

  “Okay, many thanks,” said Münster, rising to his feet. “I hope you'll get in touch if you think of anything you consider might be of interest to us.”

  “Of course.”

  She showed him out. For some reason she remained in the doorway until he had clambered into his car in the street outside. When he started the engine, she raised her hand as a sort of farewell gesture before disappearing into the house.

  That's that, then, Münster thought. Another insight into another life. And as he did a U-turn in the deserted suburban street, he suddenly felt something dark and somber stick its claws into him.

  “Hell and damnation,” he muttered. It must be something to do with the time of year….

  “Fired!” said Jung. “Can you believe that he was actually in the process of being fired? For Christ's sake, I thought it was impossible for a teacher to get the boot!”

  They were in the car again, on the way back to the police station. The visit to the Elementar school had taken up three hours of their time, but the outcome was not bad at all. After a short introductory conversation with Greitzen, the headmaster, they had spent most of the time with the school's so-called staff welfare group—three women and three men—and the picture of Rickard Maasleitner that had emerged was undoubtedly a colorful one.

  He was evidently one of those pedagogues who should have chosen a different career. That was soon clear to Jung. A job in which he didn't have such good opportunities to take advantage of his position. To use and misuse his power.

  The incidents in December had not been the first ones. By no means. Maasleitner's twenty-five-year teaching career had been littered with similar intermezzos. What had kept him in his job were esprit de corps, misguided solidarity on the part of colleagues, interventions by school leaders and others; but it was crystal clear that many people were sick and tired of him. Not to say everybody.

  “There are two types of teacher,” a hardened, chain-smoking counselor had explained. “Those who solve conflicts, and those who create them. Unfortunately, Maasleitner belonged to the latter category.”

  “Belonged to?” a gently ironic but confidence-inspiring woman, a language teacher, had commented. “He was their uncrowned king. He could hardly walk across the school playground without stirring up trouble. He could pick an argument with the flagpole.”

  Moreno had wondered if Maasleitner had enjoyed any kind of support from the staff even so, and what the outcome of his suspension would have been, if it had progressed to a natural conclusion, as it were. Needless to say the problem had been discussed in the staff welfare group—whose function was to deal with delicate matters like the problems caused by Maasleitner—and there was a surprisingly firm agreement that they would have let it take its natural course. They would have left Maasleitner to dig his own way out of the hole he had created himself, as best he could.

  That indubitably said quite a lot about the situation. And about Maasleitner.

  “But he must surely have had a few allies?” Jung had suggested.

  But not a single name was mentioned. Perhaps that was a way of presenting a united front, it had occurred to Jung afterward. Perhaps it was only natural. But there again, it was rather odd. Maasleitner had just been murdered, after all…. Don't speak ill of the dead, and all that. But here the opposite seemed to be the case.

  Terrible, he thought. If the people you have been working with every day—in some cases for more than twenty years—had nothing but shit to throw at a man lying helpless on the ground, well … It indicated that he hadn't been anybody's favorite, that was definite.

  They had spoken to some of the pupils as well. Six of them, to be precise; one at a time. These somewhat younger witnesses displayed rather more consideration and respect for the dead. To be sure, Maasleitner had been a pain, but it was going over the top for somebody to go and shoot him. Kick him—yes! Kill him—no, no! as one young man put it. A couple of the girls had even tried hard to find the odd nice thing to say about him, although their efforts gave the distinct impression of being rather strained and forced.

  He was knowledgeable, and sometimes fair, he didn't have any particular favorites—those were among the good qualities they mentioned. (In other words, he thought just as badly about all of them, Jung thought to himself.)

  In the end they had gone back to the headmaster's study again. He served them coffee and wondered if they needed any further information—and hoped that if so, they could arrange to dig deeper outside school hours.

  Neither Moreno nor Jung thought they had much more to ask about at this stage. Apart from what could have caused his murder and who did it, of course; but the headmaster had merely shaken his head in response to that.

  “You mean, can I think of anybody who would want to eliminate him? No. I assume you are not looking for a young murderer. Our oldest pupils are sixteen years of age. I can't imagine that any member of our staff would … No, that's out of the question. He wasn't exactly well liked, but it's completely out of the question.”

  “What do you think?” asked Moreno as they waited at a red light down by Zwille.

  “Well,” said Jung, “I wouldn't like to be the headmaster and need to say a few words at the funeral. Good Lord, no.”

  “It's wrong to tell lies in church,” said Moreno.

  “Exactly.”

  “And Malik doesn't seem to have had any connection with the school at all. No, I think we can leave them in peace and let them get on with their studies.”

  Jung said nothing for a while.

  “How about going for lunch somewhere instead?” he said as the police station loomed up in front of them. “There's two hours to go before our meeting.”

  Ewa Moreno hesitated.

  “Okay,” she said. “At least they won't have us getting in the way if we do that.”

  · · ·

  DeBries started the tape recorder even before Alwin Malgre had settled down in the visitor's chair.

  DEB: Welcome, Mr. Malgre. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Wednesday evening.

  M: So I understand.

  DEB: So, your name is Alwin Malgre, and you live at Weijskerstraat 26B?

 
; M: That's correct.

  DEB: Would you mind speaking a bit louder, please?

  M: Why?

  DEB: I'm recording our conversation on this tape recorder.

  M: Oh …

  DEB: Anyway. I take it you are aware that a murder was committed in the apartment block where you live at some time between midnight and two in the morning last Wednesday night?

  M: Maasleitner, yes. It's terrible.

  DEB: Your apartment is next door to his, I understand. Can you please tell me what you were doing the night before last?

  M: Er, let me see…. Yes, I was at home, reading….

  DEB: Do you live alone in the apartment?

  M: Yes, of course.

  DEB: And you didn't have any visitors?

  M: No.

  DEB: Please go on.

  M: I was at home reading all evening. Cramming, perhaps I should say. I had to attend that seminar because Van Donck didn't have time….

  DEB: Who's Van Donck?

  M: My boss, of course.

  DEB: What is your work, and what exactly was this conference? Is that where you were yesterday?

  M: Yes, in Aarlach. I work at the Stamp Center. Van Donck is my boss…. Well, there's just the two of us in the firm. You could say that I'm his assistant.

  DEB: You sell postage stamps, is that right?

  M: And buy. Are you interested in philately, Mr…. Mr…. ?

  DEB: DeBries. No. What was this conference all about?

  M: More of a seminar, really. Seminar and auction. About the problems resulting from the collapse of the Soviet Union. This time it was mainly the stamps issued by the Baltic states that we were discussing. I don't know if you realize the chaos that has been caused in philately by the formation of all these new states…. It's a gold mine for us as well, of course, depending on how speculative you want to be.

  DEB: Naturally. Anyway, we can go into that some other time. Back to Wednesday evening, if you wouldn't mind.

  M: Well, I don't know what to say. I came home at half past six or thereabouts. Had my evening meal and started reading. Had a cup of tea at about half past nine, I should think it was…. Watched the nine o'clock news on the telly as well, of course. Well, and then I suppose I sat up until about half past eleven, roughly.

  DEB: So you were asleep from half past eleven, is that right?

  M: No, I carried on reading until about a quarter to one. In bed, that is. Van Donck had acquired two new books that same afternoon, and obviously, I didn't want to go to Aarlach underprepared. I'd have a bit of time on the train as well, naturally, but …

  DEB: Did you notice anything?

  M: Excuse me?

  DEB: Did you notice anything unusual during the evening?

  M: No.

  DEB: You didn't hear anything around midnight?

  M: No…. No, I was in bed by then. The bedroom faces the courtyard.

  DEB: So you didn't notice when Mr. Maasleitner came home?

  M: No.

  DEB: Nothing else around that time either?

  M: No.

  DEB: Do you usually hear noises from inside Maasleitner's apartment?

  M: No, the building is extremely well insulated.

  DEB: We've gathered that. Were you well acquainted with your neighbor?

  M: Maasleitner, you mean?

  DEB: Yes.

  M: No, not at all. We said hello if we bumped into each other on the stairs, but that's all.

  DEB: I understand. Is there anything else you saw or heard that you think might be connected with the murder?

  M: No.

  DEB: Nothing you noticed that you think we ought to know about?

  M: No—What are you referring to?

  DEB: Anything at all. Something unusual that has happened recently for instance?

  M: No … no, I can't think of anything.

  DEB: You don't know if Maasleitner had any visitors these last few days?

  M: No, I've no idea. You'd better ask the other neighbors. I'm not all that observant….

  DEB: We can't very well expect you to be. Anyway, many thanks, Mr. Malgre. If anything occurs to you, please get in touch with us without delay.

  M: Of course. Thank you very much. This was most interesting.

  Extremely productive, deBries thought after Malgre had left the room. He lit a cigarette, stood by the window, and gazed out over the town.

  Three hundred thousand people, he thought. There sometimes seemed to be pretty high walls between all of them. While one of them gets shot and killed, his neighbor is in bed ten meters away, reading up on Estonian postage stamps.

  But no doubt that's what was meant by the concept of privacy.

  · · ·

  It took Van Veeteren about a minute to discover that having lunch while reconstructing what had happened was not a good idea. When he entered Freddy's bar and restaurant through the low door, Enso Faringer was already sitting at their reserved table, and his nervousness was obvious from a distance.

  Van Veeteren sat down and produced a pack of cigarettes: Faringer took one and dropped it on the floor.

  “So,” the chief inspector began, “we might as well have a bite to eat, seeing as we're sitting here.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “So this is where you spent Wednesday evening, is it?”

  Faringer nodded and adjusted his spectacles, which evidently had a tendency to slide down his shiny nose.

  “I understand you are a German teacher.”

  “Yes,” said Faringer. “Somebody has to be.”

  Van Veeteren was not sure if that was meant as a joke or not.

  “You presumably knew Maasleitner well?”

  “Er … not really, no.”

  “But you used to meet, I gather?”

  “Only sporadically. We'd go out for a beer now and then.”

  “Such as last Wednesday?”

  “Yes, like last Wednesday.”

  Van Veeteren said nothing for a while in order to give Faringer an opportunity of saying something off his own bat; but it was a waste of time. His eyes were moving ceaselessly behind his thick glasses, he was wriggling and squirming in his chair and fiddling with the knot of his tie.

  “Why are you so nervous?”

  “Nervous?”

  “Yes. I have the impression you're frightened of something.”

  Faringer emitted a very short laugh.

  “No, I'm always like this.”

  Van Veeteren sighed. The waiter came with the menu and they spent a few minutes perusing it before deciding on today's special.

  “What did you talk about on Wednesday?”

  “I can't remember.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don't recall. We had a bit too much to drink, and I often get these black holes in my memory.”

  “But you must remember something, surely?”

  “Yes, I know that Maasleitner asked me about the situation at school. He was in a bit of a mess. He asked me to help him.”

  “How?”

  Faringer scratched at his neck, where he had some kind of a rash.

  “Oh, I don't know. Keep my eyes open, I assume.”

  “He didn't ask you to take an initiative?”

  “An initiative? No. How would I be able to take an initiative?”

  No, Van Veeteren thought. That would be out of the question, of course. Enso Faringer wasn't the type to take initiatives.

  The lunch lasted for forty-five minutes, despite the fact that Van Veeteren canceled dessert and coffee; and by the time he sat down in the driver's seat of his car, he was convinced of one thing. Faringer had been telling the truth. The little German teacher had no recollection of the measures he and Maasleitner had drawn up to save the world during the evening of the murder. Van Veeteren had also talked to the staff at Freddy's, and nobody found it the least bit strange that the “little Kraut” had lost his memory. On the contrary.

  It had simply been one of those evenings.

&
nbsp; So that was that, Van Veeteren thought. Deep down he was also rather grateful—having to sit there and listen to Enso Faringer's account of a whole evening of drunken rambling would hardly have constituted an unmissable experience.

  When he was about halfway back to the police station, he found himself with something else to think about. It had started raining again, and it was clear that if he didn't do something about replacing that damned windshield wiper as soon as possible, something nasty was likely to happen.

  But then again, he knew that the moment he did something about replacing a broken part, something else would break.

  His car was like that, that's all there was to it.

  A bit reminiscent of life itself.

  15

  “Why did you give Heinemann the job of sifting the background?” wondered Reinhart. “I mean, he needs a week in order to have a shit.”

  “Could be,” said Van Veeteren. “But at least he's meticulous. Let's start without him. Somebody pour out the coffee. Miss Katz promised to serve us something tasty.”

  “Sounds good,” said Rooth.

  “Let's start with the scientific guff,” said the chief inspector, distributing a set of photocopies. “I don't think you'll find anything sensational there.”

  The seven detectives present each read through the brief reports from the pathologist and the forensic team (all apart from Van Veeteren, who had already digested them, and Rein-hart, who preferred to fill his pipe); and the consensus was that sure enough, they didn't contain anything new. Generally speaking, they merely confirmed what was already known—cause of death, time of death (now made more precise, assigned to the period between 2345 and 0115), the weapon (a 7.65-millimeter Berenger, ninety-nine percent certain to be the same gun used for the murder of Ryszard Malik). No fingerprints had been found, no trace of anything unusual; the piece of metal used to jam the lock was made of stainless steel, available all over the place and impossible to trace.

  “All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Let's record the crap, so that Heller can use it as a lullaby to send him into dreamland over the weekend.”

  He started the tape recorder.

  “Run-through of the case of Rickard Maasleitner, Friday, February second, three-fifteen p.m. Those present: Van Veeteren, Münster, Rooth, Reinhart, Moreno, deBries, and Jung. Reinhart and deBries first.”