by Håkan Nesser
“The odds?” wondered Mulder, slowly raising one well-trimmed eyebrow.
“The probability of whether you will be able to tell me exactly what rag the bit of paper comes from before you go home tomorrow.”
Mulder lowered his eyebrow.
“Eighty-six out of a hundred,” he said.
“Eighty-six?” said Reinhart.
“I rounded it off,” said Mulder.
“Wrapping paper,” commented Reinhart later in the car, as he gave Moreno a lift home. “Just like at the butcher’s.”
“But surely they don’t wrap meat up in newspaper?” said Moreno. “I’ve never come across that.”
“They used to,” said Reinhart. “You’re too young, you’re just a little girl.”
I’m glad there are some people who still think that, Moreno thought as she thanked him for the lift.
35
He had to ring the bell three times before Mauritz Leverkuhn opened the door.
“Good afternoon,” said Münster. “It’s me again.”
It took Mauritz a few seconds to remember who the visitor was, and perhaps it was that short space of time that put him out of step from the very start.
Or perhaps it was the flu. In any case, when it had registered with him that it was the police, he didn’t react with his usual aggression. He simply stared at Münster with vacant, feverish eyes, shrugged his coat-hanger shoulders, and beckoned him in.
Münster hung his jacket on a hook in the hallway and followed him into the living room. Noted that it looked bare. It seemed temporary. A sofa and two easy chairs around a low pine table. A teak-veneered bookcase with a total of four books, a few DVDs, and a collection of various ornaments. A television set and a black stereo system. On the table was a porno mag and a few advertising leaflets, and the window ledge was livened up by a cactus two inches high and a porcelain bank in the shape of a naked woman.
“Do you live alone?” Münster asked.
Mauritz had flopped down into one of the easy chairs. Despite the fact that he was obviously still unwell, he was fully dressed. White shirt and neatly pressed blue trousers. Well-worn slippers. He hesitated before answering, as if he still hadn’t made up his mind what attitude to adopt.
“I’ve been living here for only six months,” he said in the end. “We split up.”
“Were you married?”
Mauritz shook his head with some difficulty and took a drink from the glass in front of him on the table. Something white and fizzy: Münster assumed it was some kind of vitamin drink, or something to reduce his temperature.
“No, we just lived together. But it didn’t last.”
“It’s not easy,” said Münster. “So you’re on your own now?”
“Yes,” said Mauritz. “But I’m used to that. What do you want?”
Münster took his notebook out of his briefcase. It wasn’t necessary to sit taking notes in a situation like this, of course, but it was a habit, and he knew that it gave a sort of stability. And above all: an opportunity to think things over while he pretended to be reading or writing something.
“We have a bit of new evidence,” he said.
“Really?” said Mauritz.
“It could well be that your mother is innocent.”
“Innocent?”
There was nothing forced about the way he pronounced that word. Nothing, at least, that Münster could detect. Just the natural degree of surprise and doubt that one might have expected.
“Yes, we think she might have confessed in order to protect someone.”
“Protect someone?” said Mauritz. “Who?”
“We don’t know,” said Münster. “Have any suggestions?”
Mauritz wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve.
“No,” he said. “Why would she do something like that? I don’t understand this.”
“If this really is the case,” said Münster, “she must have known who actually killed your father, and that must have been someone close to her, in one way or another.”
“You don’t say?” said Mauritz.
“Can you think of anyone who would fit the bill?”
Mauritz coughed for a few seconds, his flabby body making the chair shake.
“No,” he said eventually. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at. She didn’t have much of a social life, you know.… No, I can’t believe this. Why would she do that?”
“We are by no means sure,” said Münster.
“What’s the new evidence you referred to? That would suggest this interpretation?”
Münster studied his notebook for a few seconds before replying.
“I can’t go into that, I’m afraid,” he said. “But there are a few other things I’d like to talk to you about.”
Excessively phlegmatic, he thought. Is it the flu, or is that his normal state? Or is he putting on a show?
“What other things?”
“Your sister, for instance,” said Münster. “Irene.”
Mauritz put down his glass with an unintentional clang.
“What do you mean?” he said, and now, at last, there was a trace of irritation in his voice.
“They’ve sent us a letter from the home where she lives.”
That was a barefaced lie, but it was the line he’d decided to take. Sometimes it was necessary to take a shortcut. He was reminded of Persian words of wisdom he’d picked up somewhere: A good lie travels from Baghdad to Damascus while the truth is looking for its sandals.
Not a bad thing to bear in mind, Münster thought. With regard to short-term decisions, at least.
“You have no right to drag her into this business,” said Mauritz.
“Does she know what’s happened?” Münster asked.
Mauritz shrugged, and his aggression crumbled away.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But you must leave her in peace.”
“We’ve received a letter,” Münster repeated.
“I don’t understand why they would write to you. What do they say?”
Münster ignored the question.
“Do you have much contact with her?” he asked instead.
“You can’t see Irene,” said Mauritz. “She’s ill. Very ill.”
“We’ve gathered that,” said Münster. “But that wouldn’t prevent you from visiting her now and again, would it?”
Mauritz hesitated for a few seconds and took a drink from his glass.
“I don’t want to see her. Not the way she’s become.”
“Wasn’t she your favorite sister?”
“That’s nothing to do with you,” he said, and the irritation was returning. Münster decided to back off.
“I apologize,” he said. “I realize that this must be difficult for you. It’s not a lot of fun having to sit here and ask you such questions either. But that’s my job.”
No answer.
“When did you last visit her?”
Mauritz seemed to be considering whether or not to refuse to make any comment. He wiped his brow again and looked wearily at Münster.
“I’m running a temperature,” he said.
“I know,” said Münster.
“I haven’t been there in a year.”
Münster made a note and thought that over.
“Not for a year?”
“No.”
“Did your parents use to visit her?”
“My mother did, I think.”
“Your other sister?”
“I don’t know.”
Münster paused and studied the pale gray walls.
“When did you split up with that woman?” he asked eventually.
“What?” said Mauritz.
“The woman you used to live with. When did she move out?”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with it.”
“But would you kindly answer the question even so,” said Münster.
Mauritz closed his eyes and breathed heavily.
“Joanna,” he said, and opened
his eyes. “She left me in October. She’d been living here for only a couple of weeks. We fell out, as I said.”
October, Münster thought. Everything happens in October.
“These things happen,” he said.
“Yes, they do,” said Mauritz. “I’m tired. I need to take a pill and go to bed.”
He sneezed twice, as if to stress the point. Fished out a crumpled handkerchief and blew his nose. Münster waited.
“I understand that you’re not in good shape,” he said. “I’ll leave you in peace soon enough. But do you remember Lene Bauer?”
“Who?”
“Lene. She was called Gruijtsen in those days. You sometimes went on vacation together. In the sixties.”
“Ah, Lene! Good Lord, I was only a kid then. She spent most of the time with Ruth.”
“But that episode in the shed—no doubt you remember that?”
“What shed?” asked Mauritz Leverkuhn.
“You hid there instead of going to school.”
Mauritz took two deep, wheezing breaths.
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” he said. “Not a goddamn clue.”
Münster checked into a hotel down by the harbor that seemed about as run-down as he felt. He showered, then dined in the restaurant in the company of two decrepit old ladies and a few members of a handball team from Oslo. Then he returned to his room and made two phone calls.
The first was to Synn and Marieke (Bart was not at home, as it was a Wednesday and hence film club at school). Marieke was being visited by a girlfriend who would be sleeping over, and hence had time only to ask him what time he’d be coming home. He spoke to his wife for one and a half minutes.
Then Moreno. That call lasted nearly half an hour, and of course that said quite a lot in itself. She informed him about the new plastic bag in Weyler’s Woods and the ongoing investigation into the scrap of newspaper; but most of the time they talked about other things.
Afterward he couldn’t really remember what. He spent an hour watching three different films on television, then showered again and went to bed. It was only eleven o’clock, but he was still awake when the clock struck two.
36
Thursday the eighth of January was a comparatively fine day in Maardam. No sun, but on the other hand no rain—apart from a couple of hesitant drops just before dawn. And a good five degrees above freezing.
Bearable, in other words; and there was also a feeling of cautious optimism and a belief in the future about continued efforts to throw light on the Leverkuhn case.
The Leverkuhn–Van Eck–Bonger case.
Reports from the Forensic Chemistry Lab were arriving in quick succession, but today both Reinhart and Rooth were content to follow developments by telephone. They didn’t want to suck up too much to Intendent Mulder, and they did have other things to see to.
The first message arrived at ten o’clock. New analyses of the typeface and paper showed that in all probability the Van Eck strip of paper had come from one of two publications: Finanzpoost or Breuwerblatt.
It took Ewa Moreno five seconds to hit upon the possible link with the Leverkuhns.
Pixner. Waldemar Leverkuhn had worked—for how long was it? Ten years?—at the Pixner Brewery, and the Breuwerblatt must surely be a magazine for people connected with the beer industry. There was no reason to assume that a subscription would cease when a worker retired.
“Leverkuhn,” said Moreno when she, Reinhart, Rooth, and Jung gathered for a run-through in Reinhart’s office. “It comes from the Leverkuhns, I’ll bet my reputation on it!”
“Steady,” said Reinhart, enveloping her in a cloud of tobacco smoke. “We mustn’t jump to conclusions, as they say in Hollywood.”
“Your reputation?” said Jung.
“Metaphorically speaking,” said Moreno.
After a few productive telephone calls they had discovered all they needed to know about both magazines. Finanzpoost was very much a business publication with financial analyses, stock exchange reports, tax advice, and speculation tips. Circulation 125,000. Came out once a week, and was sold to subscribers and also over the counter. Number of subscribers in Maardam: more than 10,000.
“Fucking bourgeois rag,” said Reinhart.
“For the bastards who decide the fate of the world,” said Rooth.
Breuwerblatt was a different kettle of fish. It was published only four times a year and was a sort of trade journal for brewery workers in the whole country. Print run last year: 16,500. No over-the-counter sales. Distribution in Maardam: 1,260. One of the subscribers was Waldemar Leverkuhn.
“One thousand two hundred and sixty!” said Rooth. “How the hell can there be so many brewery workers in Maardam?”
“How many beers do you drink a week?” wondered Jung.
“Ah, well, yes, if you look at it like that,” said Rooth.
It was agreed unanimously to put the bankers on the shelf for now and concentrate instead on the much more respectable producers of beer; but before they could even start there was a knock on the door and an overweight linguist by the name of Winckelhübe—a specialist in semiotics and text analysis—entered the room. Reinhart recalled contacting Maardam University the previous evening, and welcomed Winckelhübe somewhat reluctantly. He explained the situation in broad outline and gave him a copy of the magazine extract, a room to himself, and a request to deliver a report as soon as he thought he had anything useful to say.
While Reinhart was busy doing this, Moreno contacted the editorial office of Breuwerblatt, which luckily was located in nearby Löhr, and after a typically efficient visit by young Krause, half an hour later they had two copies of each of the last three years’ issues lying on the table.
“Good God!” said Rooth. “This is going like clockwork. We’ve barely got time to eat.”
And it was Rooth who found the right page.
“Here we are!” he yelled. “Three cheers!”
“Altho’ a poor blind boy …,” said Reinhart. He went over to Rooth to check.
No doubt about it. The little strip of paper sticking out of Else Van Eck’s bottom in Weyler’s Woods came from the September issue of the previous year’s Breuwerblatt. Pages eleven and twelve. At the top on the left—a two-column announcement about a working environment conference in Oostwerdingen. The picture on the reverse side was part of a table and a suit belonging to the county governor who was officially opening a new brewery in Aarlach.
“This is pretty clear,” said Reinhart.
“Crystal clear,” said Moreno.
“It’s obvious he has cirrhosis of the liver,” said Rooth, examining the governor close up.
There followed a few seconds of silence.
“Did you say there were twelve hundred and sixty subscribers?” asked Jung. “So it doesn’t necessarily …”
“Don’t be such a prophet of doom!” said Rooth. “Of course it’s from the Leverkuhns. So she’s done in the old lady Van Eck as well, I’ll stake my damned … house on it.”
“Metaphorically speaking?” asked Moreno.
“Literally,” said Rooth.
Reinhart cleared his throat.
“The evidence seems to suggest it might be from the Leverkuhns,” he said. “In any case, shouldn’t we order some coffee and discuss the matter in somewhat more formal circumstances?”
“I’m with you there,” said Rooth.
During the coffee session another report arrived from the Forensic Chemistry Lab, and Reinhart had the pleasant task of informing Intendent Mulder that they were already dealing with the matter.
Since it was rather urgent. In the unlikely event of there being other stuff to attend to at the lab, there was nothing now to prevent them from getting on with it.
“I understand,” said Mulder, and hung up.
Reinhart did the same, lit his pipe, and smiled grimly.
“So, where were we?” he said, looking around the table.
“Oh, shit!” said Moreno.<
br />
“There speaks a real woman,” said Rooth.
But Moreno made no attempt to comment.
“It’s just dawned on me,” she said instead.
“What has?” said Jung.
“I think I know how it happened,” said Moreno.
Thursday the eighth of January was a relatively fine day in Frigge. Before setting off Münster noted that the gale had died down during the night and that the morning presented a pale blue non-threatening sky, and a temperature probably a few degrees above freezing.
He set out shortly after nine, weighed down by the same tiredness he had been feeling for the last few months. Like an old friend almost. At least I have a faithful stalker, he thought cynically.
According to the directions he had been given, the Gellner Home was situated just outside the town of Kielno, only a couple of miles from Kaalbringen, where he had spent a few weeks some years ago in connection with a notorious axe murder. As he sat driving through the flat countryside, he recalled those weeks in September. The idyllic little coastal town, and all the bizarre circumstances that eventually led to the capture of the killer.
And Inspector Moerk. Beate Moerk. Another female colleague he had gotten to know too well. Perhaps he ought to ask himself if this was a flaw in his character—being unable to keep certain female colleagues at the necessary professional distance?
He wondered what she was doing nowadays. Was she still in Kaalbringen? Was she still single?
And Bausen! What the hell was Chief Inspector Bausen doing now? He made up his mind to ask Van Veeteren the next time he saw him. If anyone would know, he would.
The drive took less than an hour. For some reason the Gellner Home was signposted from the motorway, and he had no trouble finding it. He parked in a lot with space for a hundred or so cars, but there was only a handful of vehicles there at the moment. He followed a series of discreet signs and entered the reception in a low, oblong building on top of a ridge. The whole complex seemed to be spread out over a considerable area. Yellow and pale green buildings two or three stories high. Lawns and plenty of flower beds and trees. Small copses and a strip of larches and mixed deciduous trees encircling the grounds. Irregular paths, paved with stone, and frequent groups of benches around small tables. The whole place seemed attractively peaceful, but he didn’t see a single person in the open air.