by Håkan Nesser
‘What?’ said Kluuge. ‘What do you mean by that, Chief Inspector?’
But he didn’t receive a reply. The notorious detective inspector simply stood there, swaying back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. Suijderbeck lit his fourth cigarette in the last half-hour, and Servinus had leaned back and fallen asleep with his mouth open wide.
Huh, Sergeant Kluuge thought. It’s not easy, being in charge of a murder investigation. It needs somebody who’s up to it, no doubt about that.
18
He had spent a lot of time and effort on his equipment, but evidently it wasn’t appropriate even so. Not in everybody’s eyes, that is.
‘Are you going to take all that stuff with you?’ asked the young man with a crew cut and sporting a buttercup-yellow tracksuit.
‘Naturally,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Is it a problem?’
‘No, of course not. But cushions and an umbrella…?’
‘Parasol,’ insisted the chief inspector. ‘Protection from the sun. As you may have noticed, it looks like being another hot day. The cushions are for my back and my head – I happen to know how uncomfortable it is, sitting in a canoe, and I intend being away all day. Well, are you going to rent one to me, or aren’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said the youth, a becoming shade of red appearing to contrast with the buttercup yellow. ‘I beg your pardon. So, which one would you like? It’s thirty guilders per day, plus a hundred-guilder deposit.’
Van Veeteren took out his wallet and paid.
‘That one,’ he said, pointing at one of the red Canadian canoes lined up neatly beside the boathouse. ‘The wider it is, the better.’
The young man carried the canoe to the water without needing any assistance, then held on to it while the chief inspector loaded on board the cushions, his briefcase and the parasol. And then himself. For a nerve-racking second, before he flopped down onto the bottom of the boat, he thought it would capsize; but once he had settled down and adjusted the cushions behind his back, he smiled and nodded to the young man, who gave him a good push, sending the canoe gliding over the mirror-like water.
Not bad, he thought as he began paddling cautiously alongside the bank lined with alders. Not bad at all.
Heading east, that’s how he had planned it. Upstream out, downstream back. Mind you, in this early morning stillness the canoe was gliding along so effortlessly that he doubted if there was any current at all. Ah well, no doubt it would make itself felt when he came to some narrower stretches.
He paddled for a hundred strokes before checking his watch. A quarter to nine. Carpe diem! he thought. Dipped his hand into the cool water and rinsed his face. Took off his shirt and shoes, and set off again. Calmly and rhythmically. The temperature was still only about twenty degrees, at a guess; but there was no doubt – as he had explained to the buttercup-yellow youth – that it was going to be a hot day. Another one. But it would be hard to think of a more acceptable way of spending it, surely?
Poor Kluuge, he thought, in a moment of generosity and sympathy.
But if you are only a consultant, you may as well act like one.
In his briefcase he had – apart from newspapers and toothpicks – two bottles of mineral water, a bag of newly baked buns (from the bakery next door to Grimm’s) and a few tomatoes. That was all. No beer, no cigarettes.
It was intended to be that sort of day. One of those days when you get things done, and even so feel younger when you go to bed in the evening than you did when you got up in the morning. As somebody or other – presumably not Reinhart – had once put it.
It was also meant to be a day when, in peace and quiet – one might even say in splendid isolation – he would have an opportunity to put what had happened back there in Waldingen under the microscope.
Mainly that sort of day.
Weigh up the pros and cons, whatever they may be, and listen to the voice of his intuition – it hadn’t been very audible thus far, but then, if he counted Monday – when they had discovered Clarissa Heerenmacht’s dead body – as day number one, this was only the morning of day three. There again, if he started with his arrival in Sorbinowo, he would have to admit that nearly a week had passed by already.
So the chances of his coming up with something or other during his day on the dark waters should be rather more than mere pious hope. Might he be able to find a foothold, and clear his mind of irrelevant junk and prejudices?
Those were the thoughts passing through the chief inspector’s head as he paddled along the river. Left, right, left, right. He had to keep adjusting his course – he was finding it a bit hard to stick to the rhythm he’d learned many moons ago, but what the hell? This wasn’t a display.
It was only when he’d progressed quite a long way up the river, and was beginning to feel the strength of the current, that he felt able to divert the whole of his attention to the thoughts building up in his mind. To the case.
Clarissa Heerenmacht. Waldingen.
The Pure Life. The anonymous woman.
The murderer?
He slowed down; contented himself with just an occasional stroke of the paddle to prevent himself from drifting backwards between the wooded banks. This was countryside, not an urban area. Nothing but coniferous forest teeming with brushwood, and a scent of alder and aspen. The trees leaned over the water: roots and branches reached out across the narrow river, bridges were few and far between. After no more than an hour, he found himself in the midst of what could almost be termed a wilderness – and he understood even more clearly the attraction the Sorbinowo region must have for all categories of outdoor types.
But enough of forest air and bucolic romanticism! The case. Concentration.
He started with the previous day. Forced his thoughts back to the press conference, which he had to admit Kluuge had conducted admirably. The connection between the murder and the Pure Life had been toned down to a minimum – Clarissa Heerenmacht was one of the girls who had been staying at the camp, she had left the site in unknown circumstances, and then been found dead in the forest. That was all.
No tracks. No clues. Not a word about anonymous telephone calls.
And no indications or theories to follow up. So far. But all available officers had been put on the case, and they were doing whatever could be done. No doubt the gentlemen of the press would understand that the police had to be careful about what they made public in these early stages? Excuse me, and the ladies of the press as well, of course.
And so on. It had lasted for over twenty-five minutes, and the chief inspector had only needed to speak on two occasions. Another good mark for Kluuge, no doubt about it, especially as both Servinus and Suijderbeck had been too tired even to open their mouths. Except when they needed to yawn.
Before setting out he had glanced through the two newspapers he had with him in his briefcase. Naturally space was given to the murder – the link between summer and murder and a young girl had an obvious appeal for headline writers, but even so there was considerable restraint. They were holding back, simple as that. No doubt the evening tabloids would make a meal of it, but Van Veeteren didn’t think he could have made a better job of the press conference than Kluuge had managed.
And most important of all, presumably: not a word about the disappearance of Yellinek, the women who refused to speak and the silent confirmands – for the simple reason that Kluuge hadn’t mentioned any of that. Obviously it was only a matter of time before these details became known; but the important thing was to make use of as many hours – preferably days – as possible before that happened.
And best of all: to break through the silence before the newspapers realized that it existed.
When he came to think about it, he noted that he wasn’t at all sure why those thoughts were so important – this business of shielding that damned prophet and his silent congregation from the eyes of the world.
Why?
No reasonably plausible answer occurred to him. Only an intu
itively demanding call of duty which of course wasn’t remotely like what he really thought should happen to that damned circus, but nevertheless he recognized its existence.
A sort of tipping point probably, he thought. Not unlike the dilemma the police found themselves in whenever it came to protecting Nazi thugs from counter-demonstrators. It was obviously not a good advertisement for the police if the skinheads were manhandled and perhaps even killed while the police hid round a corner, cleaning their nails.
Or?
Anyway, he didn’t like thinking about the Pure Life. The moment he began to reflect on that self-denial and purity lark, and the innocent young girls, he was filled with disgust, and only wanted to forget about it all. Didn’t want to know.
So why not let the press pack loose on them? Why not put the sanctimonious prats in the pillory?
All right, he thought. It must be my motherly instinct being triumphant once again.
Or was it simply a certainty that if the general public and the media started poking around in this religious backwater, things would become intolerable? From both a moral point of view, and that of investigating the case. Perhaps that was a more likely explanation after all.
After these humanistic musings – and feeling empowered by the almost clinical systematic he had employed so far – he decided to concentrate his attention on the main problem.
Who had murdered Clarissa Heerenmacht? And why?
The image of her dead body suddenly loomed in his mind’s eye. The spotlight in the dark forest. Her pale skin. The marbling and the blood. He recalled that she hadn’t even made it to her thirteenth birthday, and he could sense the feeling of impotence coming on once more.
Oh shit! he thought, rinsing his face with clear, cold water. I shouldn’t have bothered to look at her. I should have refused. My quota of suffering – other people’s suffering – is already filled.
Perhaps it’s time to lie low for a while, he decided, in order to dispel the gloom. I don’t need to enter the heart of darkness.
After a few problems he managed to tether his Canadian canoe by wedging it underneath a projecting root. It swayed a little in the current, but seemed to be comparatively secure even so. He opened his umbrella to shield him from the worst of the sun. Drank half a bottle of mineral water and ate a bun. Adjusted the cushions and settled down. Then waited for a minute or so until a fairly precise and developable premise occurred to him, but the only thing in his mind was the same old question:
What the hell is all this about?
Not especially precise, he was the first to admit that.
Let’s take it in chronological order, anyway:
First: An unknown woman calls and reports a missing person. When she thinks the police reaction has not been good enough, she calls again.
Question: Who is she?
Another question: Why does she call?
He lay still for quite a while without moving so much as a finger, allowing these questions to wander back and forth in his mind. Especially the second one – what the devil was her motive for telephoning the police? But in the end he gave up. No trace of an answer occurred to him, and no unexpected reflections cropped up.
Secondly: Four days later the same woman calls again. Gives detailed instructions as to where to find a murdered girl. Sergeant Kluuge follows the directions and discovers poor Clarissa Heerenmacht, not quite thirteen years old, taking part in the Waldingen camp… Raped, strangled, dead. (But still alive as recently as the previous day – on the Sunday afternoon – when he himself had questioned her about goings-on in the sect, the Pure Life.)
Conclusion one: If the unknown woman had been telling the truth on the first two occasions, she couldn’t have been referring to Clarissa Heerenmacht.
Conclusion two: It seemed not totally improbable that there could be another dead girl in the forest around Waldingen.
Oh hell! the chief inspector thought and took a tomato. He must keep all this at arm’s length. Next?
Let’s see… Thirdly: Oscar Yellinek – prophet and spiritual shepherd of the infernal Pure Life sect – goes up in smoke in connection with the death of Clarissa Heerenmacht, having first instructed the whole of his flock – ewes as well as lambs – to remain silent. Conclusion?
Conclusion? Van Veeteren thought. Yes, what the hell can one conclude?
He closed his eyes and tried once again to open his mind to any thoughts that might occur; but the only thing to arrive was a question mark.
But eventually two – ridiculously simplified – alternatives.
Number one: Oscar Yellinek had raped and murdered Clarissa Heerenmacht (and perhaps also another or others of his young confirmands), and then done a runner in order to escape justice and the day of reckoning.
Number two: Yellinek had nothing to do with the girl’s death, but had chosen to go to earth rather than expose himself to all the cross-examinations and harassment he knew would be the inevitable consequence of the situation.
Commentary on number two: Yellinek was a cowardly bastard. That corresponded with earlier observations.
Necessary corollary of number two: Yellinek must have known about the murder of Clarissa Heerenmacht before the police did!
The chief inspector closed his eyes. Wrong, he thought. It might just be that he knew she had disappeared.
But no doubt the whole line of argument was a ridiculous oversimplification, as already said. About as thin and tenable as a soap bubble, you could say. He sighed. Decided to change track. Systematics are all very well, but it might be time for a spot of less logical thinking.
But before the chief inspector could turn his attention to that, he realized that he would soon be confronted by a very different kind of problem.
How? he thought. How – in this the best of all worlds – can a bloke manage to pee from a canoe? A curse on that damned mineral water!
For the rest of the day – especially on the journey back – Chief Inspector Van Veeteren spent most of the time thinking about that inner landscape.
What could it be that was going on behind the neutral and expressionless faces of Madeleine Zander, Ulrich Fischer and Mathilde Ubrecht? And what was simmering away inside the grim-faced teenaged girls?
Not to mention how long they’d be able to keep it up.
Yesterday evening he’d visited both the camp and the psychiatric clinic where the women were locked up in isolation. He hadn’t bothered to attack the wall of silence himself, merely sat and watched as Kluuge and the detectives from Rembork tried to break through. It wasn’t exactly an unmissable event, but the sergeant was obviously right in suggesting that one of the girls would crack first.
But it was difficult to ignore the unethical aspect of the situation. Or at least, he had difficulty in doing so. The whole business stank of dodgy and dirty goings-on. As far as the young girls were concerned, that is. Of course it was the role of the police to get stuck into whatever turned up – but to subject youngsters to ruthless interrogations with the aim of making them betray a sacred promise – and in other words betray their faith – well, that was pushing things a bit.
Never mind that Yellinek is mad. Never mind the Pure Life’s obscure teachings. Never mind the murder. It was an inner landscape that somebody was intending to crush, and dammit all, safety nets were going to be needed.
When all these misguided individuals woke up. For surely they would eventually wake up?
Perhaps what is written between the lines really is best.
Things were a bit different with regard to the locked-up women. He would have nothing against giving them a bit of a grilling. It wasn’t impossible that he might have a chance to do so that evening – Servinus and Suijderbeck had agreed to spend the day interrogating them, and the fewer rests the women had, the better, presumably.
An even more attractive thought, of course, was the possibility of coming face to face again with Yellinek himself. But on Van Veeteren’s own terms this time. On home ground, as it were. Sit
ting at a rickety table in the filthiest and smelliest cell he could find. Looking him in the eye and giving him a really hard time.
But there was nothing he could do about that. Yellinek wasn’t around. All they had was fourteen witnesses who refused to say a word. No openings. No threads.
But no matter what, he would have liked to spend some time wandering around that inner landscape. It could have taught him a great deal.
People are unfathomable, he thought.
That’s why we can understand them, he added after a few seconds’ paddling.
When the chief inspector berthed skilfully and elegantly at the jetty close to Grimm’s Hotel, he had been away for over seven hours, and as far as the basic questions were concerned – Who? and Why? – he was more or less back where he started.
But he had made up his mind to follow a particular line. Or to hold a particular series of meetings, rather – there were people he would like to exchange words with and ask a few specific questions.
Always assuming it was possible to get hold of people at this time of year. That was something that couldn’t be taken for granted.
The youth with the crew cut had changed into a green tracksuit, unless it was a different person altogether. The chief inspector stepped ashore without getting his feet wet, and declared himself satisfied with both the canoe and the trip as a whole. He then walked straight to the cafe and ordered a dark beer.
I don’t want to feel thirty years younger than I did this morning, he thought, and so bought a pack of West as well.
Miss Wandermeijk – young Mr Grimm’s fiancee, if he’d understood the situation rightly – brought him his beer, and also a message from Kluuge. It had arrived only ten minutes ago, and suggested that a little breakthrough had taken place.
It wasn’t possible to be more specific than that. Kluuge had evidently learned to be a bit more reticent in his correspondence, which of course – like several other things – had to be seen as a step in the right direction. The chief inspector tucked the fax into his back pocket, but chose to enjoy both his beer and a cigarette before calling the police station.