by Håkan Nesser
But there was no doubt at all that there were a lot of critical voices complaining about Oscar Yellinek and his flock. Nevertheless, the general opinion seemed to be that they were pretty harmless – a collection of vulnerable and confused melancholics who could be left to get on with whatever kept them happy, so long as they left ordinary honest people in peace.
Which is what they had evidently been doing since Yellinek’s release from prison. No public meetings. No ads in newspapers or anywhere else. No missionary activities. Any recruitment was obviously carried out by members on a private basis.
It could hardly be said that there was any reliable information available regarding the Pure Life’s activities and ideas, however.
Neither Münster’s nor Kluuge’s informants could provide any such thing.
So that was that. Van Veeteren slid the papers to one side and mopped his brow. Looked to see if there was anything drinkable around, but it was clear that it was not part of Chief of Police Malijsen’s routine to offer unexpected visitors a drink. Or perhaps he had locked the stuff away in some secure hiding place, safe from the grasp of stand-ins or any other possible spongers.
‘All very fishy,’ muttered the chief inspector.
He wasn’t sure if that comment was aimed at Yellinek or Malijsen. Probably at both of them. He sighed. Lifted the telephone receiver and started to ring Kluuge’s home number, but then stopped. Better to let him devote his energy to his family, he decided.
Better – moreover – to give himself the opportunity of discussing the situation with himself over a cold beer in the garden of the City Arms Hotel.
In so far as a run-through was called for now, that is.
And – in so far as it was called for now – two beers. The City Arms Hotel’s garden wasn’t a bad place to be on a day like this; he’d gathered that when he passed it on his way to the police station earlier in the day. Not bad at all.
He stood up. Purity? he thought – for the fiftieth time since he had taken his leave of Yellinek out at Waldingen. It didn’t inspire any good associations this morning either.
I suppose I’ve been living among the dregs for too long, Chief Inspector Van Veeteren thought.
The two men were busy clearing brushwood from the edge of the road. The chief inspector braked and got out of the car.
‘Good afternoon. A bit on the warm side today.’
The elder of the men switched off his saw and gestured to his companion to do the same.
‘A bit on the warm side today,’ the chief inspector repeated, as he realized they would have been unable to hear a word of his first greeting.
‘You can say that again,’ said the man, putting down his saw.
‘My name’s Van Veeteren. Police. I’m a detective. Would you mind answering a few questions?’
‘Eh? Er . . . yes, of course.’
He stood up straight and beckoned to the younger man, indicating that he should come closer.
‘Mathias Fingher. This is my son, Wim.’
Both of them shook hands, after first wiping theirs on their trousers.
‘What’s it all about?’
Van Veeteren cleared his throat.
‘Harrumph. The Pure Life.’
If the Finghers were surprised, they showed no sign of it.
‘Okay.’
‘Do you have any contact with them? You’re their next-door neighbours after all – as it were.’
‘Well,’ said Mathias Fingher, tilting his cap over the back of his neck. ‘What do you mean?’
He was evidently the one expected to conduct the conversation. His son stood a couple of paces behind, eyeing the chief inspector, and chewing gum.
‘Do you ever meet any of them?’
Fingher nodded.
‘Yes, of course. They buy potatoes and milk from us. Eggs and carrots, and a few greens sometimes. They come every evening to collect it.’
Aha, Van Veeteren thought. A close contact at last.
‘Who actually comes?’
‘It varies.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Always four of them. Plus Yellinek, of course.’
‘Four girls every evening?’
‘And Yellinek. I suppose the girls take it in turns.’
Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
‘Do you usually speak to them?’
‘Well, not really. We don’t usually say much. Why do you ask?’
The chief inspector put a finger to his lips, and that seemed to be a sufficient explanation. As usual. Even if respect for officers of the law might vary, people seemed to accept that this secrecy business was something you just didn’t question; it was an observation he’d made many times.
Stupidity is best clad in secrecy as Reinhart used to say.
‘Do you ever talk to the girls?’
Fingher thought for a moment, then shook his head.
‘No, they . . . they always stay in the background, sort of.’
‘The background?’
‘Yes, they always wait by the wagon until Yellinek tells me what they want. Very quiet little girls, they seem a bit . . .’
‘A bit what?’
‘Hmm, I don’t really know. You sometimes wonder what they get up to over there.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, I don’t want to accuse anybody of anything. People have a right to think whatever they like, and they always pay up, no problem – which is more than you could say about some folk.’
Van Veeteren wondered who the some folk might be.
‘What’s your own opinion of them? There are all kinds of rumours going round . . .’ It was worth a try.
Fingher scratched the back of his head, and dropped his cap. Picked it up and stuffed it into his back pocket.
‘God knows. I wouldn’t trust any of my kids with them, that’s for sure. But they don’t do me any harm. As I said.’
‘What about Oscar Yellinek?’
Fingher suddenly seemed embarrassed.
‘I know nothing about him. Nothing at all.’
‘But you know what some people say?’
It was obvious that Fingher was unsure of what to say about his unholy alliance.
‘Hmm,’ he said eventually. ‘That he lives with his three women, I suppose.’
Aha, the chief inspector thought again. We’re getting somewhere at last.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘What about the girls?’
Fingher shrugged.
‘No idea. But they bathe naked, and I expect they get up to all sorts of things as well . . .’
‘Really?’
‘According to what you hear, that is. But I know nothing . . . No, best to leave them alone and mind one’s own business.’
Maybe you’re right, Van Veeteren thought. But as I’ve come all this way . . .
‘How many of them are there?’ he asked.
Fingher looked as if he were counting.
‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘Ten, fifteen perhaps. I really don’t know.’
‘Do you go to Waldingen sometimes?’
Fingher shook his head.
‘Hardly ever. Only if they need help with something. They had some problems with the pump, and we were there a couple of afternoons a few weeks ago. But it’s usually them who come here.’
Van Veeteren took out his pack of cigarettes and offered it to them, but both father and son shook their heads. He considered taking one himself, but thought better of it and went for a toothpick instead.
‘How often do their parents come to visit?’
‘Never,’ said Fingher. ‘I’ve never seen an adult there – apart from that Yellinek and his three women. But they don’t do us any harm, as I said. They haven’t been up to something, have they?’
Van Veeteren didn’t respond. Wondered if he ought to continue firing questions at them just in case, or whether it would be more sensible to save them for another occasion later on. If that should become necessary.
‘I
might well get back to you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for talking to me, Mr Fingher.’
Fingher and son nodded and took their hands out of their pockets. All four of them. Van Veeteren eased himself into the car and continued his journey along the narrow forest track. By the time he turned the first bend, he could hear the sound of the chainsaws again.
Well I’ll be damned, he thought. Three of them?
Shouldn’t he have realized that right away?
But the bottom line was that the range of his sexual imagination had shrunk somewhat as the years passed.
What could be more natural? he asked himself in a flash of depressing honesty.
No, enough of fantasies! Time for the lion’s den.
Or was it a snake pit?
I’m still on a roll when it comes to stringing words together! he thought as he parked between the same pine trees as last time. Every cloud has a silver lining. If the Krantze thing fell through, maybe he could start writing his memoirs instead. The main thing was that he had alternative moves to fall back on . . . if it turned out that he had to choose between check or a knight gambit.
Alternative moves?
A length of bleached cotton was approaching, and he did his best to put a hasty stop to the flow of imagery.
11
There was barely room on the rickety bedside table for the necessaries. Two bottles of beer, some crispbread, a little plastic tub of marinated garlic cloves and a few generous slices of game pâté. He had found the whole lot at Kemmelmann & Sons, a little deli only fifty metres from the hotel, and when he realized that he had already been to all the decent eating places in town, he had given in to temptation. A quiet evening in his room was not a bad idea at all; it was ages since he had eaten marinated garlic, and of course there was nothing to stop him going out later on for a glass of beer or wine.
After he’d finished his homework, that is.
Satisfied with these arguments, he leaned back on the bed and slid a clove of garlic into his mouth. Followed it up with a piece of bread, a chunk of pâté and a substantial swig of beer before switching on the tape recorder and starting to listen to the fruits of his afternoon exertions.
Yellinek first.
VV:
Your name, please.
OY:
Oscar Yellinek, of course. Why so formal all of a sudden?
VV:
Could you speak a little more clearly please, Mr Yellinek? The more turgid the contents, the more important the formalities. I thought we were in agreement on that.
OY:
Words, Chief Inspector. You live in a world of empty words.
VV:
Rubbish. Anyway, my requirements are simple. I want a list of names, addresses and telephone numbers of all the participants in this camp. I want to talk to your three assistants and with two of the girls. Unless I find anything that needs following up, I promise to leave you in peace after that.
[Silence for five seconds.]
VV:
May I ask you to confirm that you have understood the requirements, Mr Yellinek? I trust you are not intending to continue your non-cooperation, like an itching mule?
[Where do I get it all from? Van Veeteren wondered, feeling pleased with himself. He took another chunk of pâté.]
OY:
You are the instrument of power, Chief Inspector, not of justice. You are the one holding the sword, not I. One day you will—
VV:
That’s enough, thank you. Save your preaching for your flock. Let me ask you a few questions first, in your capacity as the person responsible for the Waldingen camp and the spiritual leader of the Pure Life. Is it true that you indulge in sexual relationships with all three of your assistants?
[No reply]
VV:
Would you like me to repeat the question?
OY:
I would like you to gather up your shame and leave the premises immediately. You have no idea what—
VV:
Would such relationships be consistent with the moral values of your church and its attitude towards women?
OY:
You represent a perverted and decadent society, Chief Inspector, and allow me to finish what I’m saying this time. If you want insight and guidance regarding another way of living, you can write to our church in Stamberg and your application will be treated in exactly the same way as everybody else’s.
VV:
I wouldn’t dream of it.
OY:
I’m not insisting you do.
VV:
There are many people who consider you to be a charlatan, Mr Yellinek.
OY:
The masses and the righteous speak different languages, Chief Inspector. I am guided by the voice of God, nothing else. If you want to insult me further, I am at your service. Otherwise I have duties to attend to.
VV:
How many girls are taking part in the camp?
OY:
Twelve, as I’ve already said.
VV:
How many were there to start with?
OY:
Twelve.
VV:
Thank you. I think you are lying, but that’s another matter. Please go and attend to whatever it is you have to do, and make sure your assistants come to see me one after the other.
OY:
My conscience is clear, Chief Inspector. Yours will haunt you. Believe you me.
VV:
Crap. One more thing, incidentally. In connection with the law suit against you in 1990, did you undergo any kind of mental examination?
OY:
Of course not.
VV:
Oh, excuse me – if you had done, it’s clear, you wouldn’t be sitting here now.
OY:
You are exceeding your authority, Chief Inspector.
VV:
I have an inner voice that guides me.
OY:
Remember that I have warned you.
VV:
Go away. But make sure the people I want to speak to come to see me.
OY:
On the Day of Judgement you—
VV:
Thank you, that’s all for now.
The chief inspector switched off the tape recorder and took two more garlic cloves with pâté. Washed it all down with beer, which he first swilled round and round inside his mouth; the aftertaste of Oscar Yellinek was not something to be taken lightly. Then he fast-forwarded for a few seconds before pressing the play button again.
VV:
Your name?
UF:
Ulriche Fischer.
VV:
Age, place of residence and occupation?
UF:
Forty-one. I live in Stamberg and work in the Pure Life church.
VV:
Doing what?
UF:
Various things, mostly practical chores.
VV:
Are you married?
UF:
No.
VV:
What are your tasks here at the camp?
UF:
We share all the work. Cooking, washing up, laundry and cleaning. We assist Yellinek, of course.
VV:
Do you partake in the teaching of the girls?
UF:
Yes, at times.
VV:
In what way?
UF:
I’ve no intention of talking to you about that kind of thing.
VV:
Why not?
[Five seconds of silence.]
VV:
Has Yellinek forbidden it?
[Silence.]
VV:
How long have you been a member of this sect?
UF:
I’ve been in the Pure Life since 1987.
VV:
Are you in a sexual relationship with Yellinek?
[Silence.]
VV:
If you continue refusing to answer my questions, I’ll take you away from here and subje
ct you to an entirely different kind of cross-examination.
UF:
That’s up to you, Chief Inspector.
VV:
Is it true that you dabble in driving out devils?
UF:
Those are your words, not mine.
VV:
What the hell do you mean by that?
UF:
I’d be grateful if you didn’t swear in my presence.
VV:
Yellinek was found guilty of indecency and illegal compulsion six years ago. What do you have to say about that?
UF:
It was an unjust verdict. There is a higher authority.
VV:
Can you explain this principle of purity?
UF:
I don’t think you would be receptive to my teaching.
VV:
But your little girls are receptive?
[Silence.]
VV:
Is it not the case that Yellinek’s ideas are so infantile that they are most suited to children and the mentally retarded?
UF:
You are insolent. I had expected more correct behaviour.