Mind's Eye

by Håkan Nesser

  “I see…. And that man, the one you suspect your wife had an affair with, did he ever turn up again?”

  “No…. No, he didn’t.”

  “Did you ever speak about him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of any other men who played a part in Eva’s life?”

  “Before we divorced, or after?”

  “Why not both?”

  “Afterward, nothing. Before…Well, when we first met she was only twenty-two and almost virginal…. No, I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Chief Inspector. Let’s say, I don’t think there were many.”

  Van Veeteren shrugged.

  “Anyway, very many thanks,” he said. “If you should happen to think of anything, anything at all, no matter how small, that you think might be of significance, please get in touch.”

  He handed over his card. Berger put it in his wallet. He stood up, and Van Veeteren noted that he was slightly intoxicated. He was no longer the prototype of success. In Van Veeteren’s eyes, that was without a shadow of a doubt a distinct improvement.

  Out in the hall they shook hands and Berger held on while he tried to control his emotions.

  “I hope you get him, Chief Inspector,” he said. “I hope you nail the bastard who did this, and put him behind bars.”

  I hope so as well, Van Veeteren thought as he raised his collar in an attempt to protect himself from the damp night air.

  29

  It was a few minutes past nine when Münster and Reinhart parked in the street outside Bunge High School. Blue-gray dawn light had begun to trickle down the majestic old castle; the schoolyard was deserted, apart from a janitor pulling a cart laden with broken chairs. Münster suddenly felt distinctly uneasy. It was hard to imagine there being more than seven hundred people inside that building. Lights were on in every room, as far as one could see, but the tall, rectangular, pale yellow windows seemed devoid of any sign of life. Around the high tower and the chimneys on the steeply sloping roof swirled croaking cascades of jackdaws.

  “Ugh,” said Reinhart. “Did you go to this school?”

  Münster shook his head.

  “Me neither. Thank God—it must be like being buried under a quarry. Day in, day out. Poor devils!”

  They stayed in the car for a few minutes, while Reinhart cleaned out his pipe and they put the finishing touches to their strategy. It was always an advantage if the left hand knew what the right hand was doing.

  Then they braced themselves to face the wind, and hurried across the schoolyard.

  “Have you thought about the fact that there might be a murderer in one of those classrooms just now?” said Reinhart.

  “Do you know what we ought to do?”

  Münster said nothing.

  “We ought to grab a megaphone and shout out that we have the whole place surrounded, and that the murderer should give himself up and come out. Just think how much time that would save.”

  Münster nodded.

  “Do you have a megaphone with you?”

  “No.”

  “A pity. We’ll have to talk to Suurna instead.”

  The headmaster was wearing a dark suit, and it was obvious that he had been expecting them. The tray of coffee and cookies was already on the table, and every paper clip was in its appointed place on the red oak desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Suurna,” said Münster. “We’ve met already. This is my colleague, Inspector Reinhart.”

  “A terrible business,” said Suurna. “I must say that I’m deeply shocked. And worried.”

  He gestured toward the armchairs, but remained standing himself.

  “I thought I would gather all the pupils together in the assembly hall later today, and say a few words. I haven’t fixed a time yet, I thought you might want to have a say in that. But it’s awful, no matter how you look at it. Extraordinarily horrendous!”

  Extraordinarily horrendous? Münster thought. The guy must have difficulty in expressing himself.

  “Mr. Suurna,” said Reinhart. “We don’t want you to do anything at all in connection with the murders until we have given our approval. You must be clear about the fact that in all probability, the murderer is somewhere in this building.”

  Suurna turned pale.

  “We shall ask you to help us to lay down the guidelines now. It will take about half an hour, more or less. We assume you are still willing to cooperate with us…”

  “Of course—but are you really sure that—”

  “The discussions we are about to have,” said Münster, interrupting the headmaster, “are strictly confidential. You must not divulge a single word of what we are about to agree on. Not to anybody. Have you any objection to that?”

  “No…no, of course not, but…”

  “This investigation depends upon your silence,” said Reinhart.

  “We have to be able to rely on you one hundred percent,” said Münster.

  “And to be certain that you will follow our instructions in every detail,” said Reinhart.

  Suurna sat down and picked nervously at the crease of his trousers. Münster considered for a moment asking Suurna where he had been last Thursday evening; but that had already been checked, and the headmaster seemed to be sufficiently convinced for that not to be necessary.

  “Of course…of course I shall do whatever you want me to,” he said. “But surely you don’t think that…that it must be one of our…I simply can’t believe that…”

  “Okay,” said Münster, “we’re grateful for your cooperation. Can you make sure that we are undisturbed for at least thirty minutes—completely undisturbed?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  Suurna stood up again, went to his desk, and pressed a button. Münster took off his jacket, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “Is there any coffee?” Reinhart wondered.

  It was not a bad start.

  “How many teachers do you have on your staff, Mr. Suurna?” Münster asked.

  “You mean altogether?”

  “Every man jack of them,” said Reinhart.

  “It depends on how you count them…. I suppose we have fifty or more on permanent contracts…full time, more or less…and fifteen or twenty temporary staff…a few part-timers, mainly for minor languages…Swahili, Hindi…Finnish…”

  “We want to interrogate all of them tomorrow,” said Reinhart. “We’ll start at nine, and keep going until…”

  “Impossible!” exclaimed Suurna. “How can that be done? I can’t…”

  “You’ll have to,” said Münster. “We need a list of all members of the staff, and we want to meet them one at a time tomorrow. What other people are there?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Other people who work here,” said Reinhart. “Not teachers, but other categories.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, the senior management team, of course: myself and Eger, the deputy head…office staff and archivists…the school doctor and the school nurse…school janitors and caretakers…the guidance counselor, psychologist, career adviser…”

  “How many altogether?”

  “Oh, twenty or so.”

  “So somewhere in the region of eighty-five persons in all,” said Münster. “There’ll be four of us, so it won’t be a problem. Please reserve four separate rooms for us to use, preferably next to one another.”

  “But the lessons…?”

  “Four lists of names and times. Twenty minutes each, one hour for lunch. If you can arrange lunch here in the school, so much the better.”

  “But the pupils…?”

  “I suggest you give them the day off,” said Reinhart. “Working at home, or whatever you call it. I’d have thought it would be difficult to run a teaching timetable, but that’s up to you. In any case, I suggest that you call a meeting of all staff as soon as possible…”

  “And most certainly not a meeting for all the pupils in the assembly hall!” said Münster. “Any questions?”

  “I have to say…”

&nb
sp; “Okay, then,” said Reinhart. “We’ll start at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Was there anything else, Münster?”

  “The mail.”

  “Ah, yes. Would you please describe to us the mail routines you have here, Mr. Suurna?”

  “Mail routines?”

  “Yes. What time does the mail delivery arrive? Who takes charge of it? Who distributes it? And so on…”

  Suurna closed his eyes, and Münster had the impression he was about to pass out. Small beads of sweat could be seen on his forehead, and he was holding on tight to the arms of his chair, as if he were in a dentist’s chair or on a roller coaster.

  “Mail routines?” said Reinhart again after a while.

  “Excuse me,” said Suurna, looking up. “I sometimes get dizzy spells.”

  Dizzy spells while sitting down? Münster wondered. Suurna wiped his brow and cleared his throat.

  “We have two mail deliveries,” he said. “In the morning and immediately after lunch—one o’clock, half past, or thereabouts. Why do you want to know that?”

  “We can’t tell you that for reasons connected with the investigation,” said Münster.

  “And we’d like you not to breathe a word about any of this,” said Reinhart. “Can we rely on you? It’s absolutely vital!”

  “Yes…. Of course…”

  “Who’s in charge of the mail?”

  “Er…Miss Bellevue or the janitors. It varies. We try to be as flexible as possible with regard to specific duties on the administration side….”

  “Do you have several janitors?”

  “Two.”

  “Could you please find out who was in charge of the mail on Tuesday last week…? Who received it, and who distributed it.”

  “The morning or the lunch delivery?”

  “Both. We’d like to talk to whoever it was as soon as possible.”

  Suurna looked confused.

  “You mean…right now?”

  “Yes,” said Reinhart. “If we could summon the janitors and Miss…er…”

  “Bellevue.”

  “Bellevue, yes. If you could ask them to come here right away, we’ll be able to sort this matter out on the spot.”

  “I don’t understand why…” Suurna didn’t finish the sentence. Stood up and went to the intercom on his desk.

  “Miss Bellevue, would you mind finding Mattisen and Ferger and bringing them to my office as soon as possible? We want to speak to you as well. As soon as possible, please!”

  He stood up and looked at Münster and Reinhart, apparently at a loss. Reinhart took out his pipe and started to fill it.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving us alone for a short while,” he said, brushing a few flakes of tobacco onto the carpet.

  “If you’ll allow us to use your office as our headquarters…”

  “Of course…”

  Suurna fastened the buttons of his jacket and disappeared through the door.

  Münster smiled. Reinhart lit his pipe.

  30

  Rooth met Bendiksen in the Roman section of the Central Bathhouse. It was Bendiksen’s suggestion: he always spent a few hours of Monday evening in the bathhouse, and after yet another day spent at Majorna, Rooth had nothing against it.

  It transpired that Bendiksen lived a life governed by strictly observed regular activities. Being a bachelor of many years’ standing, he adhered to a disciplined regimen as befitted a gentleman of good character. He bathed on Mondays, played bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and attended meetings of the local history society on Wednesdays. He went jogging on the weekend, and socialized with friends; the movies on Fridays, the pub on Saturdays. On Sunday he generally made an excursion, did the cleaning, and finished reading the historical novel he’d taken home the previous Monday from the library, where he’d been working for sixteen years.

  He explained all this to Rooth during their first five minutes in the sauna.

  When do you manage to fit in a shit? wondered Rooth, who was also a bachelor.

  “What did you think of Eva Ringmar?” Rooth asked when they’d progressed as far as the cold bath.

  “I know nothing about women,” said Bendiksen, “but I know quite a lot about Greek and Hellenic culture; and I also know my Culbertson, and I can play a decent hand of bridge.”

  “Good for you,” said Rooth. “How often did you meet her?”

  “Hard to say,” said Bendiksen. “Three or four times, maybe; but only in passing.”

  “In passing?”

  “Yes, amidst the madding crowd, as you might say. We bumped into each other in town, at the library once. That was about it, really.”

  “I thought you were a close friend of Mitter’s?”

  “Yes, you could say that. We met at high school, and we’ve been meeting occasionally ever since. Only now and then, I should say.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean by ‘how,’ Inspector?”

  “What did you do when you met?”

  “We sometimes had a glass or two together, and a chat, occasionally something else—I think it’s time to start beating each other with birch twigs now, Inspector.”

  “What else did you do, Mr. Bendiksen?”

  “Call me Klaus.”

  No fear, Rooth thought.

  “We made a few trips together—after Janek’s divorce, of course. We did some fishing. What are you getting at?”

  The sauna was empty. Empty and scalding hot. Rooth sighed and slumped down on the lowest bench.

  “Nothing special,” he said. “It’s just that we’re looking for a murderer. Who do you think it was that stabbed Mitter to death?”

  “The same person as drowned his wife.”

  Rooth nodded.

  “That’s what we think as well. So you don’t have anything to say that could help to put us on the right track?”

  Bendiksen scratched away at his armpits.

  “You have to understand that I hardly met the man after he started going with Miss Ringmar. We were both at a meeting of old friends down at Freddy’s one night in June. Seven or eight of us, but I didn’t speak much with Janek. And then we were both at a meeting of the local history club around the beginning of August….”

  “What was he like then?”

  “As ever. But we didn’t have much to say. We exchanged a few ideas about megalithic cultures, if I remember rightly. That was the theme for the evening.”

  “So you didn’t meet very much after Eva Ringmar entered the stage. Why was that?”

  “Why? Well, I suppose that’s the way it goes.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “With women. You should have friends, or a woman, according to Pliny. If you don’t have any friends, you might as well get married. Don’t you think, Inspector?”

  “Maybe,” said Rooth. “But let’s get down to some details…. Am I right in thinking that you’d arranged to go fishing the Sunday after Eva Ringmar’s murder?”

  “You’re right, yes. We always used to drive out to Verhoven’s cottage—he’s another good friend of ours—one Sunday in October. It’s on the banks of Lake Sojmen, on the eastern side. There’s lots of perch and grayling, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can catch the odd arctic char and whitefish. Anyway, Verhoven and I and Langemaar—the fire-brigade boss, I don’t know if you’re familiar with him—the three of us went there, but Janek had a few problems that prevented him from joining us, of course. I must say, it’s a shithouse of a setup, Inspector. Do you think you’re going to catch him? The murderer, I mean, of course.”

  “Definitely,” said Rooth. “Incidentally, what were you doing last Thursday evening?”

  “Me? Thursday? Bridge club, of course. Surely you don’t imagine for one second that I…”

  “I don’t imagine anything at all,” said Rooth. “Can’t we go and have a beer now?”

  “Now?” said Bendiksen. “Of course not. We have to take a swim now, and then we need to go back into the sauna for a few mi
nutes before having a good sweat. That’s when we can indulge ourselves in a beer. Have you never had a sauna before, Inspector?”

  Rooth sighed. He had spent two whole days trying to squeeze information out of God knows how many maniacs, catatonics, and schizophrenics, and now he had ended up in this sauna with the librarian, Bendiksen.

  Why the hell did I become a cop? he asked himself. Why didn’t I become a concert pianist, like my mom wanted me to be? Or a priest? Or a fighter pilot?

  I shall report in sick tomorrow, he decided. It’s my day off, but I shall report in sick even so.

  To be on the safe side.

  31

  “Sankta Katarina is a school for girls, Chief Inspector. Our teachers are women, our house matrons are women, our school janitors, our gardener, our kitchen staff—all of them are women. I’m the headmistress and I’m a woman. That’s the way it’s been since the very start, in 1882: exclusively women. We think it is a strength, Chief Inspector. It’s not good for girls if men come into their lives too early. But I assume I’m talking to deaf ears.”

  Van Veeteren nodded and tried to sit upright. He had a pain in the small of his back, and what he would really like to do was to lie on the floor with his legs on the seat of the chair—that usually helped. But something told him that Miss Barbara di Barboza didn’t like men lying on the floor of her study. It was bad enough having to be visited by a man in the first place. And a police officer at that.

  But his back was giving him hell. It was that damned hotel bed, of course. He had felt stiff when he got up that morning, and a two-hour drive hadn’t improved matters. Perhaps he would have to call on Hernandez, the chiropractor, when he got back home. It was six months since he’d last been, so it was about time for another visit. The worst thing was the badminton, of course. Chasing down Münster’s short, angled returns could spell disaster for a bad back, he knew that, but he certainly didn’t want to postpone the match planned for Tuesday evening. So he’d have to grin and bear it.

  He shifted his weight from right to left. It hurt. He groaned.

  “Are you unwell, Chief Inspector?”

  “I’m all right, thank you; just a bit of pain in my back.”