by Håkan Nesser
The Return
( Inspector Van Veeteren - 3 )
Hakan Nesser
Hakan Nesser
The Return
You ask me how long life is,
and I shall tell you like it is.
Just as long as the distance
between two dates on a headstone.
— W. F. Mahler, poet
I
August 24, 1993
1
It was the first and the last day.
The steel door was locked behind him and the metallic click hovered for a while in the cool morning air. He took four paces, paused and put down his suitcase. Closed his eyes, then opened them again.
A thin morning mist hung over the deserted car park, the sun was just rising over the nearby town and the only sign of life was the flocks of birds swooping over the fields that surrounded the cluster of buildings. He stood there for a few seconds and indulged his senses. The scent of newly harvested corn wafted into his nostrils. The dazzling light quivered over the asphalt. In the distance, a mile or so to the west, he could hear the persistent hum of traffic on the freeway that carved a path through the open countryside. The sudden realization of the world’s true dimensions gave him a moment of vertigo.
He had not set foot outside these walls for twelve years; his cell had been seven feet by ten, and it dawned on him that it was a long way to the town and the railroad station. An incredibly long way, perhaps impossibly far on a day like this.
He had been offered a taxi, that was normal practice, but he declined. Didn’t want to take a shortcut into the world at this early stage. Wanted to feel the burden and the pain and the freedom in every step he took this morning. If he were to have a chance of succeeding in the task he had set himself, he understood what he needed to overcome. Overcome and get the better of.
He picked up his suitcase and started walking. It didn’t weigh much. A few changes of underwear. A pair of shoes, a shirt, pants and a toiletry bag. Four or five books and a letter.
He had tried on the clothes he was wearing and signed for them at the equipment store the previous day. Typical prison clothing. Black synthetic-leather shoes. Blue pants. Pale gray cotton shirt and a thin windcheater. As far as the locals were concerned he would be as easily identifiable as a Roman Catholic priest or a chimney sweep. One of the many who wandered into the railroad station carrying a cardboard suitcase, eager to leave. Having spent time out here in The Big Gray between the municipal forest and the motorway. Having been so near and yet so far away. One of them. The easily identifiable.
The Big Gray. That’s what they called it around here. For him it was nameless-just a brief stretch of time and hardly any space. And it was a long time since he’d been worried about other people staring at him; a long time since he’d been forced to turn his back on that kind of superficial and pointless contact. He had left his former life without hesitation; there was no alternative, and he’d never longed to return. Never.
You could say he had never really been a part of it.
The sun rose. He had to stop again after a hundred yards.
Wriggled out of his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Two cars overtook him. A couple of warders, presumably, or some other staff. Prison people in any case. Nobody else ventured out here. There was only The Big Gray here.
He set off once more. Tried to whistle but couldn’t hit upon a tune. It occurred to him that he ought to have sunglasses: Maybe he could buy a pair when he got to town. He shaded his eyes with his hand, squinted and scrutinized the townscape through the dazzling haze. At that very moment church bells started ringing.
He glanced at his wristwatch. Eight. He wouldn’t be able to catch the first train. There again, he hadn’t really wanted to: better to sit in the station cafe over a decent breakfast and today’s paper. No rush. Not this first day, at least. He would carry out the task he’d set himself, but the precise timing depended on factors he knew nothing about as yet, naturally enough.
Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. If all these years had taught him anything, anything at all, it was precisely this. To be patient.
Patience.
He continued walking purposefully toward town. Took possession of the deserted, sun-drenched streets. The shady alleys leading from the square. The worn cobbles. Strolled slowly along the path by the brown, muddy river where listless ducks drifted in a state of timeless inertia. This was in itself something remarkable-walking and walking without coming up against a wall or a fence. He paused on one of the bridges and watched a family of swans huddled together on a muddy islet, in the shade cast by chestnut trees on the riverbank. Observed the trees as well, their branches that seemed to stretch down as much as upward. Toward the water as well as the sky.
The world, he thought. Life.
A spotty youth stamped his ticket with obvious distaste. Single ticket, yes, of course. He gave him a look, then headed for the newsstand. Bought two newspapers and some men’s magazine or other featuring large, naked breasts, without displaying the slightest embarrassment. Next, a pot of coffee in the cafe, freshly made sandwiches with jam and cheese. A cigarette or two. Another hour to go before the train, and it was still morning.
The first morning of his second return, and the whole world was full of time. Innocence and time.
Hours later he was nearly there. He’d been alone in the carriage for the last few miles. Looked out through the scratched, dirty window; watched fields, forests, towns and people marching past-and suddenly everything fell into place. Took on their own specific significance. Buildings, roads, the sub-tle interplay of the countryside. The old water tower. The soccer fields. The factory chimneys and people’s back gardens. Gahn’s Furniture Manufacturers. The square. The high school. The viaduct and the houses along Main Street. The train ground to a halt.
As he disembarked he noticed that the platform had a new roof of pale yellow plastic. The station building had been renovated. New signs as well.
Apart from that it was just as before.
He took a cab. Left the town behind. A quarter of an hour’s drive with nothing said, following the shore of the lake that sometimes vanished, sometimes glittered beyond cornfields and copses of deciduous trees, and then he was there.
“You can stop after the church. I’ll walk the last bit.”
He paid and got out. There was something vaguely familiar about the driver’s wave as he drove off. He waited until the car had made a U-turn and disappeared behind the dairy. Then 7
he picked up his suitcase and the plastic carrier bag of gro-ceries and set out on the last lap.
The sun was high in the sky now. Sweat was running down his face and between his shoulder blades. It was farther than he remembered, and more uphill.
But then, it was twelve years since the last time.
The house was also twelve years older, but it was still there.
She had cleared a path as far as the steps, as promised, but no more. The borderline between garden and forest seemed to be blurred, birch saplings had invaded, grass and undergrowth were three or four feet high along the house walls. The roof of the barn was sagging, the roof tiles seemed to be rotting away, an upstairs windowpane was broken, but it didn’t bother him.
Insofar as he had expected anything, it all came more or less up to expectations.
The key was hanging under the gutter, as it should have been. He unlocked the door. Had to give it a heave with his shoulder in order to open it. It seemed to have swelled a bit.
It smelled stuffy, but not excessively so. No rot, no mice, apparently. There was a note on the kitchen table.
She wished him all the best, it said. That was all.
He put his suitcase and the plastic carrier on the sofa under
the clock and looked around. Started to walk round the house and open windows. He paused in front of the mirror in the bedroom and examined his own image.
He had aged. His face was gray and hollow. His lips thinner and more severe. His neck looked puffy and wrinkled. His shoulders lopsided and somehow dejected.
Fifty-seven years old, he thought. Twenty-four behind bars. No wonder.
He turned his back on himself and started looking for a gun. He had to have a gun, no matter what, so he’d better find one right away. Before he started having second thoughts.
As evening approached he sat in the kitchen with the letter.
Read it through one more time, his cup of coffee standing on the flowery tablecloth.
It wasn’t long. One and a half pages, almost. He closed his eyes and tried to see her in his mind’s eye.
Her dark eyes, marked already by death, on the other side of the grill. Her hands wringing.
And her story.
No, there was no other way.
II
April 20-May 5, 1994
2
It was one of those outings.
There should have been four adults, of course. Or at least three. That had been the intention, but half an hour before they were due to leave Henriette had phoned to report yet another less than convincing indisposition. Shortly afterward it became clear that Hertl ought to stay behind and assist the nurse, who was due that afternoon to vaccinate the two-year-olds.
Which meant that only Elisabeth and Moira were left. It could be taken for granted that Moira would feel a migraine coming on sooner or later. So in practice Elisabeth would be in sole charge of the whole flock. But so what? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Fourteen of them. Varying in age between three and six.
Eunice, six, set the ball rolling by throwing up in the bus after a mere five hundred yards. Paul, three, peed himself copiously at about the same time. Shortly afterward Ellen and Judith, four and five, attempted to scratch each other’s eyes out over a green scarf with pink rabbits. Emile, three and a half, started yelling for his mother so loudly that the whole bus shook, and Christophe, six, had a toothache.
They were well behaved as they got off the bus when it stopped at the edge of the woods. She counted them quickly.
All present and correct. Fourteen, fifteen with Moira. She took a deep breath. Three hours of walking through the trees, grilling sausages, a treasure hunt and various botanical excur-sions lay in store. She could just about see the sky getting darker through the crowns of the trees, and she wondered how long it would be before it started pouring down.
It took barely twenty-five minutes, in fact, but they were quite a long way into the woods by then. Moira had started to feel a throbbing in her forehead and was keeping fifty yards ahead of the main group so as not to make it any worse. Erich and Wally had been teasing Eunice so much that the fat little girl refused to stay with the others: She was walking by herself in among the trees and undergrowth instead of sticking to the path, but Elisabeth kept shouting to her to maintain contact.
One of the Jumpers twins had fallen and hit his head on a tree root, so she had to carry him. The other one was playing around behind her, clinging to her belt with grubby fingers.
“It’s started raining!” yelled Bartje, four.
“I want to go home!” squealed Heinrich, five.
“Stupid bastards,” declared Erich and Wally. “Clear off home and screw your mom.”
“Screw her,” squeaked an anonymous three-year-old.
“Shut up, Wally and Erich,” hissed Elisabeth. “If you don’t I’ll cut your ears off.”
Moira had stopped at one of the volunteer corps huts where they were going to have lunch.
“We’re in luck,” she whispered when the main group had caught up with her. As usual she felt obliged to whisper to prevent the migraine from bursting out into full bloom. “Hurry up now and come in out of the rain!”
Even before Wally had got as far as the door it had dawned on Elisabeth that it was locked, and the key was in Hertl’s purse in the staff room.
“It’s locked, for fuck’s sake!” yelled Erich. “Hand over the damn key!”
Moira looked uncomprehendingly at Elisabeth, who sighed. Closed her eyes and counted up to three. It was raining cats and dogs, and she could feel her heels slowly sinking into the soaking wet grass.
“I’m cold,” piped the Jumpers brat in her arms, shivering.
“I’m hungry,” said the other one.
“Don’t say you’ve forgotten the key, you stupid bitches!”
yelled Erich, hurling a lump of mud at the wall.
Elisabeth thought for three more seconds. Then she thrust her injured patient into Moira’s arms, went around to the back of the hut and smashed a window.
It stopped raining after about an hour. All the packed lunches had been eaten, Elisabeth had read eighteen fairy tales that she’d read eighteen hundred times before, some of the five-and six-year-olds had gone off exploring on their own and were so caked in mud that she doubted whether the bus driver would allow them on board again. Moira had managed to snatch some sleep in an upstairs room and felt a little bit better, but not much. Gerard, three years old and allergic, had come out in an angry rash on his face and around the crook of his arms, thanks to a candy with nuts that some as-yet-unidentified friend had tricked him into eating. One of the four-year-olds and a three-year-old had peed themselves.
Apart from that, everything was under control. She decided to assemble the children on the steps outside and prepare for the walk back to the bus stop.
Thirteen. There were only thirteen of them. Fourteen with Moira.
“Who’s missing?” she asked.
It turned out to be Eunice.
Preliminary cross-questioning revealed that she had vanished about twenty or maybe even thirty-five minutes ago.
Nobody was exactly championship class when it came to timing, and the reason for her disappearance was not all that clear either-Wally or Erich, or possibly both of them, might have hit her with a lump of wood, Marissa could perhaps have called her a fatty-face. Or maybe she had a stomachache.
Most likely a combination of all those things.
After a few minutes of vague shouting and screeching, Elisabeth decided that a search party was called for.
Moira would have to look after the three- and four-year-olds inside the hut, while she would take the older children with her into the woods.
Older? she thought. Five and six years old. Seven of them.
“We’ll walk in a line at ten-yard intervals,” she explained.
“We’ll keep shouting all the time, and keep in sight of each other. Is that clear?”
“Yes, boss!” yelled Wally, giving her a salute.
It was Wally who eventually found her.
“She’s sitting in a goddamn ditch, hiccupping,” he said.
“Over there. She says she’s found a dead body without a head.”
Elisabeth knew right away that this was the truth. The time was ripe for the day’s highlight.
In fact it wasn’t only the head that was missing. The body-
what was left of it-had been wrapped up in a thick carpet, and there was no time to extract from Eunice an explanation of why on earth she had wanted to investigate it. Perhaps a bone had been sticking out. In any case, the well-built and strong little girl had managed to drag it far enough out of the ditch for her to be able to unroll it. The carpet was soaked through. . and covered in mold and fungi and every imagina-ble kind of decay, it seemed to Elisabeth. It was falling to pieces in some parts, and the body in the middle of it was no doubt in just as bad a state.
No head, then. No hands, no feet.
“Back to the hut!” she bellowed, clutching the shivering Eunice tightly in her arms.
She suddenly felt violently sick, and it struck her that what she had just been staring at was one of those visions that would turn up faithfully in her mind’s eye
every dark night for the rest of her life.
3
“Report, please,” said Hiller, clasping his hands.
Reinhart gazed up at the ceiling. Munster dutifully performed the throat-clearing ritual and Van Veeteren yawned.
“Well?” said Hiller.
“Let me see,” said Munster, leafing through his notebook.
“Come on now, get a grip!” said the chief of police, checking his rolled-gold wristwatch. “I have a meeting in twenty-five minutes from now, an outline report will suffice.”
Munster cleared his throat again.
“Well, we’re dealing with the body of a man,” he began.
“Found at about one yesterday afternoon in some woods on the outskirts of Behren, about twenty miles from here. Found by a six-year-old girl. . she was on an outing organized by the day nursery she attends. The body was wrapped up inside a carpet in a ditch about forty yards from the nearest passable road, and it had been lying there for a long time.”
“How long?”
“A good question,” said Reinhart. “A year, perhaps. Maybe more, maybe less.”
“Can’t that be established accurately?” Hiller asked.
“Not yet,” Van Veeteren said. “Meusse is working flat out on it. But at least six months in any case.”
“Hmm,” said Hiller. “Go on.”
“Well,” said Munster, “it hasn’t been possible to identify the body as the murderer cut off his head, his hands and his feet. . ”
“Can we be certain that it was a murder?” asked the chief of police. Reinhart sighed.
“No,” he said. “Obviously, it could be a straightforward natural death. Somebody who couldn’t afford a proper
funeral, though. It’s an expensive business nowadays. . The widow no doubt donated his head and the rest to medical research, in accordance with the wishes of the deceased.”