Mind's Eye

by Håkan Nesser

  “Not much, apparently; but I don’t think Rüger pressed him very hard.”

  Van Veeteren scratched the back of his neck with a pencil and pondered.

  “Rüger? No, probably not. What did you write in the fax?”

  Münster fidgeted.

  He’s gone and done something silly again, Van Veeteren thought. I’ll have his guts for garters if he’s made a mess of things!

  “Er, I asked him to confirm the dates, and to be available for telephone contact—I said you would be speaking to him. If he answers the fax, you can call him tomorrow morning.”

  Van Veeteren took out his toothpick and considered it for a few moments.

  “Well done, Münster!” he said eventually.

  Münster blushed.

  A man who’s turned forty ought to have stopped blushing, Van Veeteren thought. Especially as he’s a police officer.

  But never mind. Van Veeteren stood up.

  “Let’s go and play badminton now!” He practiced a couple of smashes. “I have the feeling I’m going to wipe the floor with you today, Inspector!”

  “But…”

  “No buts! Stick your snout round Hiller’s door and tell him we’re working our butts off with the arson case. Oh yes, we’ll have to pay a quick visit to my place first. I have to sort out that damned dog…”

  Münster sighed discreetly. When the chief inspector was in the mood to make jokes, it could mean almost anything—but one thing was certain: he didn’t want to be contradicted.

  “What impression did you get of Andreas Berger?” Van Veeteren asked as Münster was trying to find his way out of the labyrinth that was the garage of police headquarters.

  “Innocent, no doubt about it.”

  “Why?”

  “He has an alibi for the whole night. He lives right up in Karpatz, with a new wife and a couple of kids, and a third on the way. Very pleasant, and his wife as well. He tried to help Eva get back on track after the tragedy, wanted them to try again to make a go of it. She was the one who asked for a divorce.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of all that. So there wasn’t anything rotten?”

  “Rotten?”

  “Yes, in the State of Denmark. He wasn’t trying to pull the wool over your eyes, I hope?”

  Münster paused for a few seconds.

  “Haven’t you listened to the recording?”

  “Yes…. Yes, of course I have. I just wanted to make sure I’d got the right end of the stick….”

  “So you can’t fill me in on why we’re still rooting around in this case? I thought you’d decided that Mitter had done it ages ago?”

  “It’s only cows who never change their opinions, Münster. It’s running on rails, the whole of this case; that’s the problem. I don’t like trials that run on rails. For Christ’s sake, even the defense’s own witnesses managed to cast a shadow over him. Weiss and…what’s his name?”

  “Sigurdsen.”

  “Yes, Sigurdsen. And that pale-faced deputy head. They’ve been colleagues of his for fifteen years, and the best they can come up with is that they haven’t noticed any violent tendencies! What? We haven’t seen anything! With friends like that, who needs enemies? I’ll be damned if the teachers aren’t just as bad as the drips we had when we were at the same school. Some of them are still there, of course.”

  “What about Bendiksen, though?”

  “A bit better, but even he doesn’t seem to exclude the possibility that Mitter did it. That’s the key, Münster. Every bastard, including Mitter himself, come to that, thinks that he did it. But there’s barely a blemish on his record. A couple of slaps for his former wife, that she no doubt deserved, and some shitty little scapegoat fabrication from a schoolkids’ party. I’ll put money on your own history of criminal activity being ten times as bad, Münster!”

  “Don’t say that, sir. At least I’ve never been arrested.”

  Van Veeteren snorted.

  “I should damn well think not! You’re a police officer, after all. Police officers don’t get arrested.”

  He sat quietly for a while, busy with his toothpick.

  “Anyway,” he said eventually, “there’s not a scrap of evidence to suggest that Mitter did it, and that means he’ll be found guilty. Then they can sit there and go on about the burden of proof here and the burden of proof there until mold comes creeping out of their mouths. It’s all irrelevant in this case. The prosecuting counsel hasn’t proved a thing. But Mitter will be found guilty even so.”

  “Of murder?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Yes, I reckon that’s what the verdict will be. But even if they send him to the loony bin, it makes no difference. The poor devil has probably lost the plot for good. A pity—he seems to be an amusing bastard, in fact—Stop! Why aren’t you driving straight ahead, Münster? We’re stopping off at my place first!”

  “One-way street, sir.”

  “Oh my God!” Van Veeteren groaned. “Your catalogue of sins isn’t much to boast about, I regret to say.”

  Münster sighed and increased speed. The chief inspector was lost in thought. When they came to Keymer Church he produced a slim cigarillo from an inside pocket and glanced sideways at Münster as he lit it. He wasn’t really a smoker, but he knew that the acrid fumes from this black beauty would have more of an adverse effect on his opponent’s fitness than it would on his own. Especially if he avoided inhaling. If nothing else it was an important tactical move in the psychological warfare prior to the coming match.

  Münster pulled up outside Klagenburg 4. Van Veeteren carefully balanced the smoldering cigarillo on the ashtray, and clambered out of the car.

  “You can wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  Münster switched off the engine and wound down the window. Watched the chief inspector jogging up the steps.

  He’ll retire in ten years, he thought. Ten years…. How long can anybody keep on summoning up enough strength to carry on playing badminton?

  He recalled seeing old men who must have been well over seventy strutting around in the sports hall. He preferred to think about other things instead.

  About Synn, for instance. His beautiful wife who wanted them to take the kids with them on a real winter vacation this year. Two weeks in December, when prices were at rock bottom—that’s what she had in mind, if he’d understood her correctly. To some island or other, far away in a blue sea, with rustling palm trees and a bar on the beach.

  And about the best way of pleading for leave with Hiller. He had plenty of overtime in the bank—but two weeks?

  “Two weeks?” Hiller would gasp, looking as if he’d been asked to pose naked in the police journal. “Two weeks?”

  And now he was going to play badminton in working hours yet again.

  19

  Somebody had sent him a priest.

  He didn’t know who. Rüger, or the chief of police, or that senile judge: hard to say. Perhaps he’d come of his own accord; as Mitter understood the situation, there didn’t need to be an intermediary. Just God the Father.

  The priest smiled a watery smile. Needed to keep wiping his eyes. Blamed the dry air and the ventilation system.

  “I spend a lot of time listening to the ventilation system,” said Mitter. “I think it might be the voice of God.”

  The priest nodded, and seemed interested.

  “Really?”

  “You are familiar with the voice of God, I take it?”

  “Yes…”

  “It’s quite monotonous, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose the voice of God sounds different in different people’s ears.”

  “What kind of bloody relativism do you call that?” wondered Mitter aloud.

  “Oh…I was only…”

  “Are you suggesting that the good Lord is nothing more than a phenomenological manifestation? I think I’d better take a look at your ID, if you don’t mind.”

  The priest smiled wanly. But a doubtful frown made an effort to establish
itself on his shiny brow.

  “If you are unable to present me with an ontological proof of the existence of God, I’ll have you thrown out without more ado!”

  The priest wiped his eyes.

  “Perhaps I’d better come back some other time. I see that my presence annoys you.”

  Mitter rang for the warder, and two minutes later he was alone again.

  He was also sent a social worker.

  It was a woman in her thirties, and the warder stood on guard outside the door the whole time.

  “Are you Danish?” Mitter asked.

  She had blond hair and a long neck, so it was a reasonable question. She shook her head.

  “My name’s Diotima,” she said. “Will you allow me to talk to you for a while?”

  “That’s a beautiful and unusual name,” said Mitter. “You may stay as long as you like.”

  “You are going to have to undergo a mental examination,” said Diotima. “Irrespective of the verdict.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Mitter. “Mind you, I hadn’t intended to start teaching again right away.”

  Diotima nodded. She had her hair in a ponytail, which swayed back and forth slightly whenever she moved her head. Mitter would have loved to step forward and put his hand on the back of her neck, but he didn’t feel clean enough. Diotima had an air of virginal purity that was unmistakable; he concealed his hands between his knees and tried to think about something else.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  He thought it over, but failed to come up with a good answer.

  “It’s been very trying…,” she said, lowering her voice at the end, and he couldn’t decide if it had been a question or a statement. If it referred to him, or to herself.

  “This isn’t exactly a place to be if you want to get healthy again,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “Do you know how long you’ve been in here?”

  He nodded.

  “What day is it today?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Yes. Your verdict will be announced this afternoon. Why have you chosen not to be present?”

  He shrugged.

  “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She produced a pack from her briefcase. Placed it on the table between them. He released his right hand. Took a cigarette and lit it. It was a weak menthol thing, typical woman’s tobacco, but he was grateful for the opportunity to smoke it right down to the filter.

  Somehow or other, smoking a cigarette like that required greater concentration than usual, and he wasn’t at all clear about what questions she asked him while he was busy with it. In any case, he made no replies.

  When he stubbed out the cigarette in the washbasin, she stood up and he realized she was about to leave. He had a lump in his throat; it blended most unpleasantly with the vapid taste of cold smoke. Perhaps she noticed his discomfort, for she took two steps toward him and put her hand on his arm for a moment.

  “I’ll be back, Mr. Mitter,” she said. “And no matter what happens, you won’t need to stay locked up in here.”

  “Janek,” he said. “My name’s Janek. I don’t want you to call me Mr. Mitter.”

  “Thank you. My name’s Diotima.”

  “I know. You’ve already told me.”

  She smiled. Her teeth were pure white, and immaculate. He sighed.

  “Are you sure you’re not Danish?”

  “My grandmother came from Copenhagen.”

  “There you are, you see! I could tell!”

  “Farewell, Janek.”

  “Farewell, Diotima.”

  Rüger turned up an hour after dinner to inform Mitter about the verdict. He seemed to be even more hunched than usual, and blew his nose twice before speaking.

  “We didn’t make it,” he said.

  “Really?” said Mitter. “We didn’t make it.”

  “No. But they settled for manslaughter. The jury was unanimous. Six years.”

  “Six years?”

  “Yes. With good conduct you could be out after five.”

  “I’d have nothing against that,” said Mitter.

  Rüger paused.

  Then he said: “You’ll have to undergo a little mental examination. Unfortunately, it’s all to do with your present state of mental health. Perhaps we should have taken another line, but nobody thinks you were not responsible for your actions at the time of the crime.”

  “I see,” said Mitter. He was beginning to feel really tired now. “Please say what you have to say as briefly as possible. I think I need to catch up on some sleep.”

  “If they find you competent, it will be the state prison. If not, it will be the secure institution in Greifen or Majorna.”

  “Majorna?”

  “Yes, in Willemsburg. Do you know the place? It’s an old lunatic asylum from the nineteenth century. Perhaps Greifen would be better.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think it makes any difference to me.”

  “If you recover your mental health while in the institution, you will be transferred immediately to a prison—but your time spent in the institution will count toward the length of your sentence. Anyway, that’s the way it looks. Are you tired?”

  Mitter nodded.

  “You’ll be moved from here tomorrow. I hope you get a good night’s sleep in any case.”

  He held out his hand. Mitter shook it.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t make it. Really sorry…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Mitter. “Please leave me alone now. No doubt we’ll have an opportunity to talk some other time.”

  “I’m sure we shall,” said Rüger, blowing his nose one final time. “Farewell, and good luck tomorrow, Mr. Mitter.”

  “Farewell.”

  The man has verbal diarrhea, he thought as the door closed behind his lawyer. I must make sure I can keep him brief and to the point another time.

  20

  “Well,” said Münster, “so that’s that, then.”

  “Really?” said Van Veeteren.

  “Where have they sent him?”

  Van Veeteren snorted.

  “Majorna. Hasn’t Caen answered yet?”

  “No, but we have lots of other things to see to.”

  “Oh yes? What, for example?”

  “This, to start with,” said Münster, passing him the newspaper.

  The case of the black street girl who was discovered nailed to a cross in the fashionable suburb of Dikken kept Van Veeteren and Münster busy for thirty-six hours without a break. Then a neo-Nazi organization claimed responsibility and the whole business was handed over to the national antiterrorist squad.

  Münster went home and slept for sixteen hours, and Van Veeteren would have done the same had it not been for Bismarck. The dog was now in such a bad way that the only option left was to have it put down. He phoned Jess and explained the situation, whereupon his daughter was suddenly afflicted by an attack of sentimentality and begged him to keep the dog alive for two more days, so that she could be present at the end.

  It was her dog, after all.

  Van Veeteren spent those two days half crazy with exhaustion, shoveling gruel into one end of the bitch, and wiping her clean at the other end with a wet towel. By the time Jess finally turned up, he was so purple with anger and fatigue that she felt obliged to remind him of the fifth Commandment.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Might it not be just as well to take you, too, while we’re at it?”

  This induced from Van Veeteren a bellow so loud that Mrs. Loewe, a widow who lived in the apartment below, felt it incumbent upon her to ring the police. The duty officer, a young and promising constable by the name of Widmar Krause, recognized the address and had a fair idea of the circumstances. On his own authority, he canceled the police response he had promised the complainant.

  Jess took over Bismarck, drove her to the vet’s, and a few hours later the dog breathed her last in Jess’s
lap.

  Van Veeteren took a shower, then chased down Münster on the telephone with unusual enthusiasm.

  “Has Caen replied?” he roared into the receiver.

  “No,” said Münster.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “How’s Bismarck?” enquired Münster, refreshed after his rest.

  “Hold your tongue!” yelled Van Veeteren. “Answer my question!”

  “I’ve no idea. What do you believe the reason might be?”

  “Belief is something you have in church, and God is dead! Give me his telephone number this instant, and shove the fax up Hiller’s ass!”

  Münster looked up the number, and half an hour later, Van Veeteren got through to Caen.

  “Caen.”

  “Eduard Caen?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. I’m phoning from Maardam, in the Old World.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’m sorry we’re so far apart.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Eva Ringmar. I assume you are familiar with that name.”

  There was silence for a few seconds.

  “Well?”

  “May I remind you of my oath of professional secrecy….”

  “The same here. May I remind you that I have the authority to summon you to Europe for interrogation, if I want to.”

  “I understand. Let’s hear it, then. What do you want to know?”

  “A few minor details. In the first place, did you have an affair with her?”

  “Of course not. I never had an affair with any of my clients.”

  “So that’s not the reason why you immigrated to Australia?”

  “Don’t be silly, Inspector! I really have no intention of answering that kind of…”

  At that point the connection was lost. Van Veeteren thumped the receiver on his desk a few times, and after a short intermezzo in Japanese, Caen was back on the line.

  “That kind of what?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Insinuation,” said Caen.

  “I’m looking for a murderer,” said Van Veeteren, unmoved.

  “A man. Can you give me any suggestions?”

  There was a pause.