Mind's Eye

by Håkan Nesser

  “Probably due to the wrong diet. You’d be surprised if I were to tell you the effect various foods have on one’s muscles and muscular tension.”

  Not surprised, Van Veeteren thought. I’d be bloody furious. I might even be tempted to do things that would make it necessary for me to arrest myself.

  “Sounds interesting,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m a bit short of time, so we’d better concentrate on what I’ve come here for.”

  “Miss Ringmar?”

  “Yes.”

  The headmistress took a folder from the shelf behind her and opened it on the desk in front of her.

  “Eva Ringmar. Appointed by us on September 1, 1987. Taught French and English. Resigned at her own request on May 31, 1990.”

  She closed the folder and returned it to its place.

  “What was your impression of her?”

  “My impression? Good, of course. I interviewed her personally. There was nothing about her to object to. She lived up to my expectations of her, and carried out her teaching and other duties impeccably.”

  “Other duties…What do you mean by that?”

  “She had certain duties as a class teacher and house matron. We are a boarding school, as you may have noticed. We don’t only look after the girls in the classroom, but we take care of the whole of their upbringing. Fostering the whole person is one of our principles. Always has been from the very beginning. That’s what has created the good reputation we enjoy.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you know how many applications we receive at the beginning of each academic year? Over two thousand. For two hundred and forty places.”

  Van Veeteren lowered his shoulders and tried to curve his back inward.

  “Did you know Miss Ringmar’s background when you appointed her?”

  “Of course. She’d had a hard time. We believe in people, Chief Inspector.”

  “And are you aware of what has happened, that both she and her husband have been murdered?”

  “We are not isolated in this school, don’t think that. We read the newspapers and keep abreast of what’s happening in the world. More so than many others, I would suggest.”

  Van Veeteren wondered if she was well up on the reading habits of police officers, but had no desire to ask her to comment on that. He took out a toothpick instead. Put it into his mouth and made it move slowly from one side to the other. Di Barboza slid her spectacles to the tip of her nose and observed him critically.

  Before long she’ll be demanding to see my identity card again, he thought. It’s preposterous, the extent to which a bit of a pain in the back restricts your abilities.

  “Well, what else do you want to know, Chief Inspector? I don’t have all day to spare either.”

  He stood up and walked over to the window. Stretched his back and gazed out at the mist-filled grounds. Several other buildings could be glimpsed through the trees, all of them in the same dark red brick as the “refectory,” which was where di Barboza held sway, and the head-high wall that surrounded the whole establishment. In Anglo-Saxon style, this barrier was topped by broken glass. It had made him smile as he drove in through the gates—smile and wonder if the symbolic broken glass was meant to deter outsiders from breaking in, or inmates from breaking out.

  He certainly did have prejudices against this place. He was full to the brim with prejudices, and he was slightly irritated to find that they had not been reinforced by what he had seen and heard that morning, despite di Barboza’s willingness to show him around. He had taken lunch in the large dining room in the company of a hundred or so women of various ages, mainly young women, of course; but nowhere had he been able to discern the oppressed sexuality or sexual frustration or whatever it was that he thought he would sense. Perhaps it was just a matter of the good old fear of women, the realization that despite everything, it was the opposite sex that had the best prospects of coming to grips with life.

  At least, that is how his wife would have diagnosed the situation; he didn’t doubt that for one second.

  If I’d been born a woman, he thought, I’m damned if I wouldn’t have turned out more or less like di Barboza!

  “Well?” said di Barboza.

  “Well what?”

  “What else do you want to know? I’m starting to run out of time, Chief Inspector.”

  “Two things,” he said. “First of all, do you know if Miss Ringmar had a relationship with a man while she worked here…. She lived in, I believe, is that the case?”

  “She had a room in the Curie Annex, yes. No, I don’t know if she had a relationship. Was that one question or two, Chief Inspector?”

  He ignored the correction.

  “Can you give me the name of a colleague, somebody who was friendly with her, who might be able to answer some more detailed questions?”

  The headmistress slid back her spectacles and thought that one over.

  “Kempf,” she said. “Miss Kempf has the room next to the one Miss Ringmar used to live in. I believe they were good friends as well. In any case, I saw them together occasionally.”

  “You don’t mix with the other teachers yourself, Miss di Barboza?”

  “No, I try to keep a certain distance. We respect one another, but we cannot ignore the fact that we have different responsibilities. Our statutes define the role of the headmistress as the person in overall charge of the school, and the responsibilities that entails. It’s not up to me to question those statutes.”

  She checked the watch that was hanging on a chain around her neck. Van Veeteren remembered something Reinhart had said not so long ago: “I normally steer well clear of women who wear a watch around their neck.”

  Van Veeteren wondered what it meant. Perhaps it contained a kernel of great wisdom, like quite a few things that Reinhart came out with.

  In any case, he was relieved to get out into the fresh air. He crossed over the large lawn, despite di Barboza’s express instructions to stick to the paved paths. He could feel her eyes boring into his back.

  Two girls aged about twelve, wearing overalls over their school uniform, were busy painting the trunk of a fruit tree white. He approached them cautiously, and attracted their attention by coughing.

  “Excuse me, but does this happen to be the Curie Annex?”

  “Yes. The entrance is over there.”

  They both pointed with their paintbrushes, and giggled modestly.

  “Why are you painting the tree white?”

  They looked at him in surprise.

  “Dunno…. It’s what we were told to do.”

  Presumably to discourage the male dogs in the neighborhood from peeing on it, he thought as he opened the door.

  It was some time before he was able to talk to Miss Kempf. She had three more tests to mark, and it was impossible to break off until the whole damned lot was finished, if he didn’t mind.

  He didn’t. He sat in an armchair behind her back and watched her as she completed her task. A well-built woman in late middle age, more or less as old as he was, in fact. He wondered if di Barboza had been right to pair her off with Eva Ringmar—there must have been at least fifteen years between them?

  But it was correct. Eva Kempf put the kettle on for tea, and explained. “Friends” was probably a bit too strong a word: Miss Ringmar was not the type to open her heart up, but it had seemed that she felt the need for…an elder sister? Yes, more or less. Eva and Eva. A big one and a small one. And they lived next door to each other, after all. What did he want to know?

  For the hundredth time he asked the same question and received the same answer.

  No, she hadn’t seen a man around. Miss Kempf was lesbian herself, there was no point in pretending otherwise…. Or rather, had been: she had now withdrawn for good from the battlefields of love.

  And it was a damned good feeling, she could assure the chief inspector.

  No, Eva Ringmar hadn’t had the slightest lesbian tendencies, you could see that kind of thing right away.
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  But men?

  No. Not that she knew of. But she didn’t know everything, of course. Why was he sitting like that? Something wrong with his back? If he lay down on the bed she could massage his muscles for a while.

  Presumably he had other things to ask about while she was doing that?

  Van Veeteren hesitated. But not for long.

  She couldn’t make it any worse, surely?

  “So there! Fold the waistband of your trousers down a bit so that I can get at you. That’s better!”

  “Ouch! For Christ’s sake! Fire away, Miss Kempf!”

  “What about, Chief Inspector?”

  “Anything at all. Did she go away sometimes? Did she receive any letters? Mysterious telephone calls in the night…?”

  She pressed her thumbs into his spine.

  “She received letters.”

  “From a man?”

  “That’s possible.”

  “How often?”

  “Not all that often. She didn’t get much mail at all.”

  “Where were they posted?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Domestic or from abroad?”

  “I don’t know. From abroad, perhaps.”

  “But she received a number of letters from the same person?”

  “Yes. I think it was a man.”

  “Why do you think that? Ouch!”

  “You can tell.”

  “Travels?”

  “Yes. She did a fair bit of traveling. Several times to her mother. Or so she said, at least.”

  “But?”

  “She might have been lying.”

  “So it’s possible that she received letters from a man, and it’s possible that she occasionally went off to meet this man?”

  “Yes.”

  “How strong is the possibility?”

  “I don’t know, Chief Inspector. She was a bit…reserved. Secretive. I never pressed her. People have a right to a life of their own—believe you me! I’ve been lesbian since I was seventeen!”

  “Aaagh! Christ Almighty! Be careful…that’s where it’s worst.”

  “I can feel that, Chief Inspector. What kind of a litter did you spend last night on? Go on.”

  “How often?”

  “How often did she go away, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two or three times a term, perhaps. Just for the weekend, a few days.”

  “Vacations?”

  “I don’t know. I’m always away during the holidays. But I don’t think she stayed here. She went on a package holiday once. Greece, I think. But she liked traveling, that’s for sure.”

  “Her husband…Andreas Berger?”

  “No, it wasn’t him, she never mentioned him.”

  “Could he have been the letter writer?”

  “I suppose so, but I doubt it…”

  “What about her son? The son who died. Did she tell you about him?”

  “Yes, but only once…. I’ll have to stop now, Chief Inspector. My fingers are going to sleep. How does it feel?”

  Van Veeteren sat up. Not bad. He moved tentatively…bent forward…to the right, to the left. It was actually feeling better.

  “Excellent! A pity I have to sit behind the wheel again. Many thanks, Miss Kempf. If you ever find yourself in jail, just give me a call and I’ll come and get you out.”

  She smiled and rubbed her fingers.

  “Not necessary, Chief Inspector. I’ll find my own way of breaking out. But I have a lesson in ten minutes, so I think we’ll have to stop now.”

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  “I’d like to ask you just one more question. I can see that you are a lady of good sense, Miss Kempf. I’d like you to use that, and refrain from answering if you are doubtful.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay. Do you think it’s possible that all the time you knew her, there was a man in Eva Ringmar’s life…a man who, for whatever reason, she kept secret?”

  Miss Kempf removed her oval glasses. Held them up to the light and examined them. Breathed heavily on the lenses and rubbed them with a corner of her red tunic.

  He realized that it was a ritual. A ceremony performed while she formed her conclusions. What a waste, this lesbian love business, he thought.

  She replaced her spectacles and met his gaze. Then she answered.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think that’s possible.”

  “Thank you,” said Van Veeteren.

  He left Gimsen at about three, and ran into rain as soon as he reached the A64 trunk road. Darkness was also closing in rapidly, but he didn’t put any music on. Devoted his mind to thoughts and guesses instead, and lapped up the monotonous sound of rubber tires on a wet road.

  He tried to conjure up a picture of Eva Ringmar, but he was unable to pin her down—just as nobody else seemed to have managed to do. He regretted not having tried to get more information out of Mitter, but that was water under the bridge now. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been possible anyway. Mitter had only really known her for six months. He’d married her on some inexplicable impulse, and probably knew no more about her background than Van Veeteren had managed to piece together by this time.

  It was in the background, somewhere in the past, that the murderer was hiding. There could be no doubt about that anymore. He had been there for a number of years, at the very least since the Thursday before Easter, 1986; but there was nothing to exclude the possibility that it had all started much earlier than that.

  Or? Surely that must be the case?

  But what did he actually know? How much were all these guesses worth, when it came to the crunch?

  If Eva Ringmar was a shadowy figure, the murderer’s outline was even more blurred. The shadow of a shadow.

  Van Veeteren cursed and bit the end off a toothpick. Was there anything at all to suggest that he was on the right track? Wasn’t the fact of the matter that he was groping his way through the dark, in far more than one sense?

  And what the hell was the motive?

  He spat out the splinters of wood and wondered what he should do next. There were several possibilities, each one vaguer than the one before. The safest bet, of course, would be to place all his hopes on Münster and Reinhart. With a little bit of luck they ought to be able to tighten the net around Bunge High School to such an extent that one or two ugly customers would be trapped inside it, worth studying in more detail.

  Always assuming that they were fishing in the right place…

  Ah well, he would find out soon enough. In any case, there were a few questions they must not overlook. He assumed the interrogations would begin the following day. They could hardly have done any more today than putting headmaster Suurna under the cosh, and drawing up procedures. He checked his watch and guessed that Münster would be back home by now. He also recognized that he himself had no great desire to drive another four hundred kilometers that evening. Another hour, perhaps, then a motel, a chat on the phone with Münster and a decent dinner. A large lump of meat and something creamy with garlic in it, he thought, would fit the bill.

  And a full-bodied wine.

  He sorted through the cassettes on the seat beside him. Found Vaughan Williams and inserted him into the player.

  32

  Liz Hennan was scared.

  It was only after she had taken a long and thorough shower and lain awake in the darkness for half an hour that she realized what the problem was.

  For it was not something that used to afflict her very often. As she lay there, staring at the digital clock spitting forth the red minutes of the night, she tried to recall the feeling.

  When had she last been scared? As scared as this?

  It must have been a long time ago, that was certain.

  Perhaps even when she was a teenager. She had reached the age of thirty-six now, and there had doubtless been many opportunities to be scared. Lots of them. But was it not the very fact of there being so many that had taught her to cope? Chastened and taught
her.

  That life wasn’t all that dangerous. It was no dance on roses, that was for sure—but what the hell? She’d never expected it to be that. Her mother had been able to make her understand that, and good for her.

  There were men and there were men. And sometimes you made a mistake. But there was always a way out, that was the point. If you’d demeaned yourself, or landed up with a real shit, all you needed to do was to get out of the mess. Tell him to go to hell, and start all over again.

  That’s the way things were, and had been all her life. There were good times and there were bad times. That’s life, as Ron used to say.

  The clock showed 12:24. She had difficulty in settling down tonight, she could feel it…. Feel it in her stomach and in her breasts. And in her pussy. She ran her fingers over her labia: dry. As dry as rusks. That’s not how things usually were when she’d been so close to a man….

  Scared.

  It wasn’t Ron she was scared of, even if she wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him if he found out about this new man. But why should he find out? She’d been more careful than ever, not breathed a word to anybody, not even to Johanna. No—in fact, it was Ron she was longing to be with just now. Wished that he was lying behind her, snuggled up close, with his strong, protective arm around her….

  That’s how things ought to have been. She’d married Ron three years ago, and they had not been bad years. But now he wasn’t at home. This wouldn’t be his home for another eighteen months yet, and that was an awfully long time to wait. His next leave wasn’t for another three weeks, and he was insisting on spending it to visit that bastard Heinz in Hamburg. Instead of coming home to her, the shit. What right had he to complain about her, if she took another man occasionally?

  Yes, she was in fact scared of what Ron would do if he found out about it; but that level of fear was nothing like this other one. He would no doubt give her a beating, throw her out for a while, perhaps; but this other fear was something different. She could feel it.

  To tell the truth, she wasn’t sure what she felt; it must be something new. She had been convinced that there was nothing new anymore, as far as she was concerned, thought she had already experienced every kind of nastiness in existence. But this felt…horrendous?