Woman with Birthmark

by Håkan Nesser

  On his guard, as usual. His gun was always within reach. And he kept himself hidden.

  Only one more night. Just one.

  He didn't bother to think about how he would go about things in the future. He didn't have the strength, after all those efforts that had led nowhere.

  He would leave here tomorrow.

  He would make some new decisions tomorrow.

  He listened to the eight o'clock news, then sneaked out into the darkness. Paused as usual outside the front door, pistol in hand, eyes skinned and ears cocked; then he set off for the village and the inn. The air was still warm, and it seemed to him that the spring he'd woken up to that morning had decided to stay on. At least for a few more days.

  “Shouldn't we contact the police in Saaren?” said Reinhart when they'd been driving for forty kilometers and the chief inspector hadn't said a word.

  “Have you forgotten who's chief of police there?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Oh my God! Yes, of course. Mergens. No, it would be best to keep him out of this.”

  Van Veeteren nodded and lit his third cigarette within twenty minutes.

  “What the hell would we say to him, anyway?” he said after a while. “Ask him to come down like a ton of bricks on Mrs. Biedersen, and lock her up until we get there?”

  Reinhart shrugged.

  “He'd like that,” he said. “No, you're right. We'll deal with this ourselves.”

  “Can't you go a bit faster?” Van Veeteren wondered.

  It was a quarter past eight before deBries managed to get through to Dagmar Biedersen. She had just gotten back from a shopping spree and a last-minute visit to the hairdresser, and she sounded tired. When contact was made with Van Veeteren and Reinhart, it transpired that they were only about ten minutes away from Saaren, and so it was decided that it wasn't necessary to involve other police districts at this stage.

  “Good timing,” said Reinhart. “We'll go straight to her place. Tell her we'd like a couple of beers.”

  “But what exactly are you implying?” wondered Mrs. Biedersen, placing two protective hands over her new hairdo.

  “Can't we sit down somewhere and discuss the whole business quietly and calmly?” Van Veeteren suggested.

  Reinhart led the way into the living room and sat down on a red plush sofa. The chief inspector invited Mrs. Biedersen to sit down in one of the armchairs, while he remained standing.

  “We have reason to believe that your husband is in danger,” he began.

  “In danger?”

  “Yes. It's connected with those earlier deaths. Can you tell us where he is at the moment?”

  “What? No … well, perhaps, but surely it can't be …”

  “I'm afraid it can,” said Reinhart. “Where is he?”

  Without warning, Dagmar Biedersen burst into tears. Something had given way inside her, and her meager chest was convulsed by sobbing. Tears came flooding forth.

  Oh, hell! Van Veeteren thought.

  “My dear Mrs. Biedersen,” he said, “all we want to know is where he is, so that we can sort everything out.”

  She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I'm being silly.”

  You certainly are, Van Veeteren thought. But answer the question, for Christ's sake.

  “He's probably … up at the cottage, I assume. That's where he called me from a few days ago, at least.”

  “The cottage?” wondered Reinhart.

  “Yes, we have a holiday cottage, or whatever you'd like to call it—it's where he grew up, in fact. We go there sometimes. He often spends time there on his own, as well….”

  “Where?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Oh, excuse me. In Wahrhejm, of course.”

  “Wahrhejm? And where is Wahrhejm?”

  “Excuse me,” she said again. “It's between Ulming and Oostwerdingen. Just a little village. It's about a hundred kilometers from here.”

  Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

  “Are you sure he's there?”

  “No, as I said…. But I think so.”

  “Is there a telephone in the cottage?”

  “No, I'm afraid not. He usually phones from the inn. He likes to be undisturbed when he's up there.”

  Van Veeteren sighed.

  “Just our damned luck,” he said. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a couple of minutes, Mrs. Biedersen? The inspector and I need to exchange a few words.”

  “Of course,” she said, and vanished into the kitchen.

  “Now what?” asked Reinhart when she was out of earshot.

  “I don't really know,” said Van Veeteren. “I have the feeling that it's urgent—but, of course, there's nothing to say that it really is.”

  “No,” said Reinhart. “I have the same feeling, of course. But you're the boss.”

  “Yes, I know that,” said Van Veeteren. “And you're the one who does whatever I say. Go and phone the police in Ulming—they must be the nearest—and tell them to get out there and nab him.”

  “Nab him?”

  “Yes, arrest him.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “I couldn't care less. Make something up, whatever you like.”

  “With pleasure,” said Reinhart.

  While Reinhart was doing what he'd been told to do in Biedersen's study, the chief inspector turned his attention to the worried wife, in the hope of extracting further information.

  “To be absolutely honest with you,” he said, “it's probable that this woman is aiming to kill your husband, Mrs. Biedersen. Naturally, we hope to stop her.”

  “Oh my God,” said Dagmar Biedersen.

  “When did you last see him?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “A couple of weeks ago—almost three weeks, in fact.”

  “Does anybody else know that he's there?”

  “Er, I don't know.”

  “Is there any possibility that this woman has found out that he's there? Somehow or other?”

  “No—but …”

  He could see how the realization suddenly dawned on her. The color drained from her face, and she opened and closed her mouth several times. Her hands wandered back and forth over the buttons of her rust-red blouse without finding a resting place.

  “That … er … that woman,” she said.

  “Well?”

  “She phoned.”

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  “Go on!”

  “A woman phoned from Copenhagen. She claimed to be a business acquaintance of my husband's, and then …”

  “And then?”

  “And then she asked if I knew where he was. Where she could get in touch with him.”

  “And so you told her?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Yes,” said Dagmar Biedersen, slumping back in the armchair. “I told her. Do you think … ?”

  Reinhart returned.

  “Done,” he said.

  “All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Let's go. We'll be in touch, Mrs. Biedersen. You'll be staying at home tonight, we hope?”

  She nodded, and was breathing heavily, her mouth open wide. Van Veeteren gathered that she would be barely capable of getting up from the sofa, never mind anything else.

  “The place is full of women,” said Biedersen, looking around the bar.

  “Don't you know what day it is today?”

  “No.”

  “International Women's Day,” said Korhonen. “This is what usually happens every year. Every woman in the village turns up.”

  “A damned silly invention,” said Biedersen.

  “Of course, but it's good for business. Anyway, you can sit here in the corner as usual, and avoid having to get too close to them. A beer and a whiskey chaser, as usual?”

  “Yes please,” said Biedersen. “Have you got the photos of your Thai girlfriend?”

  “I'll come and show you them in just a minute or two,” said Korhonen. “I just have to serve the ladies first.”
>
  “Okay,” said Biedersen. Took both his glasses and sat down at the empty table in the corner between the bar counter and the kitchen door.

  Hell and damnation, he thought. This is an opportunity for camouflage if ever I saw one. I'd better play it safe tonight.

  And he felt in his jacket pocket.

  41

  “What the hell's going on?” wondered Ackermann.

  “I don't know,” said Päude, starting the car. “In the middle of the match as well.”

  “The match?” said Ackermann. “Fuck the match. I was just about to start pulling her panties down when he phoned. That delicious little Nancy Fischer, you know.”

  Päude sighed and switched on the radio to hear the end of the soccer report, instead of having to listen to an account of his colleague's love life—he was treated to enough of that on a regular basis.

  “Halfway in, you might say,” said Ackermann.

  “What do you think of this Biedersen character?” asked Päude in an attempt to change the subject.

  “Cunning,” said Ackermann. “Do you reckon we should just arrest him for vagrancy and wait for further orders? You don't think he's dangerous, do you?”

  “Munckel said he wasn't.”

  “Munckel can't tell the difference between a hand grenade and a beetroot.”

  “Okay, we'd better be a bit careful then. How far is it to Wahrhejm?”

  “Eighteen kilometers. We'll be there in ten minutes. Shall we put the siren on, or the light at least?”

  “Good God, no! Discretion, Munckel said. But I don't suppose you know what the word means?”

  “Of course I do,” said Ackermann. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

  “Another one?” said Korhonen.

  “Yes, of course,” said Biedersen. “Must just go and take a leak first. But that's a good-looking piece of skirt you've got there. A hell of a good-looking piece of skirt.”

  “Easy to maintain as well,” said Korhonen, smirking.

  Biedersen stood up and noticed that he was a bit tipsy. Perhaps it'll be as well to cut out the whiskey and stick to good old beer, he thought as he worked his way past a contingent of women sitting at two long tables and disturbing the peace. Laughing and singing. Apart from himself there were only two male customers in the whole of the bar. The old school janitor who was sitting at his usual table with a newspaper and a carafe of red wine. And an unaccompanied man in a dark suit who had arrived a quarter of an hour ago.

  All the rest were women, and he held on to the gun in his jacket pocket as he passed them, with his back to the wall.

  Women's Day, he thought as he stood and allowed the beer to take the natural way out. What a bloody silly idea!

  The door opened and the man in the dark suit came in. He nodded at Biedersen.

  “At least we can get a bit of peace in here,” said Biedersen, gesturing with his head at all the commotion outside. “I've nothing against women, but …”

  He broke off and reached for his jacket pocket, but before he had a chance to grab his pistol he heard the same plopping sound twice, and knew it was too late. A dark red flood washed over his eyes, and the last thing he felt, the very last thing of all, was a terrible pain below the belt.

  Päude pulled up outside the inn.

  “Go in and ask the way,” he said. “I'll wait here.”

  “Okay,” said Ackermann with a sigh. “His name's Biedersen, right?”

  “Yes,” said Päude. “Werner Biedersen. They're bound to know where he lives.”

  Ackermann got out of the car and Päude lit a cigarette. It's a relief to be rid of him for a few minutes, he thought.

  But Ackermann was back after ninety seconds.

  “Stroke of luck,” he said. “I bumped into a guy on his way out who knew where he lives. Keep going straight ahead, a hundred and fifty meters or so.”

  “All right,” said Päude.

  “Then turn left,” added Ackermann.

  Päude followed the instructions and came to a low stone wall with an opening in it.

  “Looks dark in there,” said Ackermann.

  “But there's a house there in any case. Take the flashlight and have a look. I'll wait here. I have the window open so you only need to shout if you need me.”

  “Wouldn't it be better if you went?” wondered Ackermann.

  “No,” said Päude. “Get going.”

  “Okay,” said Ackermann.

  I'm seven years older, after all, thought Päude as Ackermann got out of the car. With a wife and children, and all that.

  The radio suddenly crackled into life.

  “Hello. Päude here!”

  “Munckel! Where the hell are you?”

  “In Wahrhejm, of course. We've just gotten to his house. Ackermann's gone in and …”

  “Get him out again! Biedersen's been shot dead in the john at the inn. Get your asses there and cordon the place off!”

  “Oh, shit!” said Päude.

  “Make sure that not a soul leaves the premises! I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Roger,” said Päude.

  More crackling, then Munckel vanished. Päude shook his head.

  Oh, shit, he thought again. Then he got out of the car and shouted for Ackermann.

  42

  It can't be true, I'm dreaming! was the thought that Van Veeteren had sat wrestling with for the last twenty-five minutes. Ever since he heard the report on the radio.

  This kind of thing simply doesn't happen. It must be a hoax, or a misunderstanding.

  “I swear to God I thought I was dreaming!” said Reinhart as he pulled up. “But we're there now. It looks as if what they said was right.”

  Two police cars were already in place. Nose to nose diagonally across the road, with their blue lights flashing. Presumably to inform everybody in the village who had the good fortune to miss the news broadcast, Van Veeteren thought as they hurried into the inn. A uniformed officer was guarding the door, and several others were inside the premises, where the mood of fear and anxiety seemed to be tangible. The customers—almost exclusively women, he was surprised to see—had been herded together behind two tables, and their whispers and low-voiced discussions reached Van Veeteren's ears in the form of an unar-ticulated but long-suffering lament. A fleeting image of cattle about to be slaughtered flashed before his eyes. Or prisoners in concentration camps on their way to the showers. He shuddered, and tried to shake off any such thoughts.

  Stop it! he commanded his own thoughts. It's bad enough without you making it any worse.

  A man with thinning hair about the same age as Van Veeteren came up to him.

  “Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?”

  He nodded and introduced Reinhart.

  “Munckel. Well, this is a cartload of shit if ever I saw one. He's in there. We haven't touched anything.”

  Van Veeteren and Reinhart went to the men's room, where one of the constables was stationed.

  “Ackermann,” said Munckel, “let these gentlemen in.”

  Van Veeteren peered inside. Studied the lifeless corpse for a few seconds before turning to Reinhart.

  “Ah well,” he said. “Exactly the same as usual. We might as well leave him lying there until the forensic team gets here. We can't do anything for him.”

  “The silly bugger,” muttered Reinhart.

  “When did it happen?” asked the chief inspector.

  Munckel looked at the clock.

  “Shortly after nine,” he said. “We were alerted at a quarter past—it was Mr. Korhonen who phoned. He's the bartender.”

  A dark-haired man in his fifties stepped forward and introduced himself.

  “It happened less than an hour ago,” said Van Veeteren. “How many people have left the premises since then?”

  “I don't really know,” said Korhonen hesitantly.

  “Who found him?”

  “I did,” said an elderly man with a loud voice and a checked shirt. “I just went to th
e john for a pee, and there he was. Shot in the balls as well. A cartload of shit …”

  A shudder seemed to pass through the group of women.

  Oh yes, dammit! It had eventually dawned on Van Veeteren. International Women's Day, March 8. That was why they were all here. Macabre—she couldn't have hit upon a better day.

  “So when did Biedersen go in there?” Reinhart asked.

  Korhonen cleared his throat nervously.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I think I know who did it. It must have been that other guy.”

  “Who are you referring to?” said Munckel. “Why haven't you said anything before now?”

  “That other guy,” he said again. “The one sitting over there …”

  He pointed.

  “He went to the bathroom immediately after Biedersen—I remember now.”

  “A man?” said Van Veeteren.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Where is he?” said Reinhart.

  Korhonen looked around. The man in the checked shirt looked around. All the women looked around.

  “He's left, of course,” said Munckel.

  “He's gone!” shouted one of the women. “I saw him leave.”

  “You can bet your life he didn't hang around,” muttered Reinhart.

  “Is one of you called Van Veeteren?” asked a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties.

  “Yes, why?”

  “This was lying on his table. I noticed it just now.”

  She came up and handed over a white envelope. Van Veeteren took it and stared at it in bewilderment.

  I'm dreaming, he thought again, and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Open it!” said Reinhart.

  Van Veeteren opened it.

  “Read it!” said Reinhart.

  Van Veeteren read it.

  “Where is there a telephone?” he asked, and was directed to the lobby by Korhonen. Reinhart went with him, signaling to Munckel that he should keep everybody where they were in the restaurant.

  “What the hell's going on?” he whispered as the chief inspector dialed the number. “Give me the letter!”