by Håkan Nesser
Van Veeteren paused in the south-west corner of the long, narrow square. Ockfener Plejn. Shuddered, dug his hands down deeper into his overcoat pockets. Looked around. Until Saturday he hadn’t known that this was where Erich lived – or had he in fact known in some subconscious way? They had met twice during the autumn: once at the beginning of September, and then again just over three weeks ago. Despite everything, he thought as he groped around after his cigarette roller, despite everything he had socialized a little with his son. Recently. He had received Erich in his home, and they had talked to each other like civilized human beings. That was definitely the case. Something was on its way: it wasn’t clear exactly what, something confused and obscure of course, but something nevertheless . . . Erich had talked about Marlene Frey as well, but only in terms of a nameless young woman, as far as he could remember, and of course he might well have mentioned where they lived as well – why not? It was just that he couldn’t remember.
So he lives here . . . Or lived here. Almost in the centre of the old town, in this run-down nineteenth-century block of flats whose dirty façade Van Veeteren was now staring at. On the second floor, almost at the top of the building. There was a faint light in the window overlooking the tiny balcony with its rusty iron railings. He knew that she was at home, and that she was expecting him: his dead son’s fiancée whom he had never met, and he also knew – suddenly but with overwhelming certainty – that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. That he wouldn’t be able to summon up the strength to ring the bell on that shabby front door with the paint flaking off. Not today.
Instead he looked at his watch. It was almost six. The darkness that had begun to envelop the town seemed to him to be freezing cold and hostile. There was a strange smell of sulphur or phosphorus in the air. He didn’t recognize it, it somehow didn’t belong here. There was a temporary breathing space in the otherwise constant downpour, but of course rain was never far away at this time of year. He lit a cigarette. Lowered his gaze, preferring not to ask himself if it was due to shame or to something else . . . and having done so he noticed a cafe on the opposite corner of the square, and when he had finished his cigarette, that is where he headed. Sat down with a glass of dark beer at a table by one of the windows where it was impossible for anybody to see out or in. Rested his head on his hands and thought back over the day.
Today. The third day he had woken up in the knowledge that his son was dead.
First of all an hour at the antiquarian bookshop, where he explained the situation to Krantze and they rearranged their working hours. He didn’t dislike old Krantze, but they would never be more than business partners. Certainly not, but that’s just the way it was.
Then he paid another visit to the Forensic Laboratories, this time together with Renate and Jess. He had stayed outside the door when they went into the refrigerated room. You only need to look at a dead son once, he had told himself. And he still thought that, as he sat in the cafe and tasted the beer. Only once: there were images that time and forgetfulness would never retouch. Which never needed to be reawoken because they never slept. Jess had been in control of herself when they came out again – with a crumpled handkerchief in each hand, but controlled all the same.
Renate was just as numb and apathetic as she had been when she went in. He wondered what tablets she was on, and how many.
A few minutes’ conversation with Meusse as well. Neither of them had performed especially well. Meusse had looked as if he were about to burst into tears, and he didn’t usually behave like that.
Soon afterwards he had introduced Jess to Ulrike. It was a bright spot in all the darkness, a meeting that went exceptionally well. Only half an hour in the living room at Klagenburg with a glass of wine and a salad, but that was enough. What mattered was not the words themselves, as had been said before . . . But there was something between women that he would never understand. Between certain women. When they said their goodbyes out in the hall, he had felt almost like a stranger: he was able to smile in the midst of all the grief.
Then he had rung Marlene Frey and arranged a meeting. She had sounded pretty much in control of herself, and said he was welcome to call round any time after five o’clock. She would be at home, and was looking forward to speaking to him. There was something she wanted to say, she said.
Looking forward? Something she wanted to say?
And now he was sitting here with feet colder than his beer. Why?
He didn’t know. Knew only that it wouldn’t work today, and after he had finished his beer he asked if he could use the telephone. Stood there between the ladies and gents toilets surrounded by a faint smell of urine, and rang his dead son’s living fiancée to tell her that something had cropped up.
Would it be okay if he came tomorrow instead? Or the day after?
Yes, that was okay. But she had difficulty in hiding her disappointment.
So did he as he left Ockfener Plejn and started walking back home. Disappointment and shame.
I don’t understand myself any more, he thought. It’s not me that it’s all about. What am I scared of, what the hell is happening to me?
But he went straight home.
Reinhart was woken up by Winnifred whispering his name. And placing a cold hand on his stomach.
‘You’re supposed to be putting your daughter to bed, not yourself.’
He yawned, and tried to do some stretches for a couple of minutes. Then he eased himself cautiously out of Joanna’s narrow bed and out of the nursery. Flopped down on the sofa in the living room instead, where his wife was half-lying under a blanket at the other end.
‘Let’s hear it,’ she said.
He thought for a while.
‘Triple-headed and Satanic,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Would you like a glass of wine?’
‘I think so,’ said Winnifred. ‘As we know, the Devil is triple-headed in Dante already, so all is in order.’
‘In Dante’s time women who knew too much were burnt at the stake. Red or white?’
‘Red. No, it was later than Dante. Well?’
Reinhart got up and went into the kitchen. Poured out two glasses and came back. Lay down on the sofa again and started his narration. It took quite a while, and she didn’t interrupt him a single time.
‘And the three heads?’ she said when he’d finished.
Reinhart took a drink before answering.
‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘we haven’t the faintest idea who did it. That’s bad enough in routine cases.’
‘I’m familiar with that,’ said Winnifred.
‘In the second place it’s The Chief Inspector’s son who’s the victim.’
‘Nasty,’ said Winnifred. ‘And the third?’
Reinhart paused once more to think.
‘In the third place, he was presumably mixed up in something. If we find a killer, we shall presumably also find that Erich Van Veeteren was mixed up in something illegal. Yet again. Despite what his girlfriend says . . . That’s unlikely to be something to warm the cockles of his father’s heart, don’t you think?’
‘I understand,’ said Winnifred, swirling her wine round in its glass. ‘Yes, it’s three-headed all right. But how certain is it that he was involved in something illegal? That doesn’t necessarily have to be the case, surely?’
‘Certain and certain,’ said Reinhart, tapping his forehead with his middle finger. ‘There are signals in here that can’t be ignored. Besides . . . besides, he’s asked to be left alone face to face with the murderer when we eventually find him. The Chief Inspector, that is. Hell’s bells . . . But I think I understand him.’
Winnifred thought for a moment.
‘It’s not a nice story,’ she said. ‘Could it be much worse, in fact? It sounds almost as if it’s been stage-managed in some way.’
‘That’s what he always says,’ said Reinhart.
11
The police’s appeal for help in the Dikken case was plastered all o
ver the main newspapers in Maardam on Tuesday, exactly a week after the murder, and by five o’clock in the afternoon ten people had rung to say they had been at the Trattoria Commedia on the day in question. Jung and Rooth were delegated to look into the tip-offs, and eliminated six of them as ‘of secondary interest’ (Rooth’s term), as the timing didn’t fit in. The remaining four had evidently been in the restaurant during the period 17.00–18.30, and all four were kind enough to turn up at the police station during the evening to be interrogated.
The first was Rupert Pilzen, a fifty-eight-year-old bank manager who lived in Weimaar Allé in Dikken, and had slipped into the Commedia and sat in the bar for a while. A little whisky and a beer, that’s all. A quarter past five until a quarter to six, roughly speaking. While he waited for his wife to prepare the evening meal – he sometimes indulged in that pleasure after a hard day’s work, he explained. When he had time.
He lifted up his spectacles while he studied the photographs of Erich Van Veeteren carefully. Then stated that he had never seen the man before, neither at the Commedia nor anywhere else, and he looked ostentatiously at his glistening wristwatch. He had presumably planned to pay another well-deserved visit to the bar, which was now becoming less likely a possibility, Jung reckoned.
Was there anything else he had noticed that he thought could be of relevance to the case?
No.
Any faces he recalled?
No.
Had there been any other customers in the bar?
Pilzen furrowed his brow and retracted his double chins into deep folds. No, he had been alone there all the time. Oh, hang on, a woman had come in just before he left. Short hair, about forty, probably a feminist. She’d sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Quite a long way away from him. With a newspaper, he seemed to recall. That was all.
‘If there had been a second bar, she would no doubt have sat there instead,’ said Rooth when herr Pilzen had waddled out on his unsteady legs. ‘You fat slob.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘People get like that when they’ve too much money and no lofty interests. You’d become like that as well. If you had any money, that is.’
‘Go and fetch the next one,’ said Rooth.
The next one turned out to be a couple. Herr and fru Schwarz, who didn’t live in Dikken but had been visiting somebody they knew out there to discuss business. Exactly what was irrelevant. On the way back they had stopped off at the Commedia for a meal, a little luxury they granted themselves occasionally. Going out for a meal. Not just to Trattoria Commedia, but to restaurants in general. Especially now, when they had more or less retired. Yes indeed. Just once or twice a week.
They were both around sixty-five, and recognized Erich Van Veeteren immediately when Jung produced the photographs. He had been eating – a simple pasta dish, if fru Schwartz remembered rightly – at a table a few metres away from their own. They had ordered fish. Turbot, to be precise. Yes, the young man had been on his own. He had paid and left the restaurant at more or less the same time as they were being served their dessert. Shortly after six.
Were there any other guests while they were eating?
Just a young couple sitting further back in the restaurant section. They arrived shortly before six and probably ordered that same cheap pasta dish. Both of them. They were still there when herr and fru Schwartz had finished. Half past six or thereabouts.
Had they noticed anything else of interest?
No – such as?
Had they noticed any customers sitting in the bar?
No, they couldn’t see the bar from their table.
Was there anybody there when they passed through on the way out?
Maybe, they weren’t sure. Oh yes, a little man in a dark suit, that’s right. A bit dark-skinned, in fact. An Arab, perhaps. Or an Indian or something like that.
Rooth ground his teeth. Jung thanked them, and promised – in response to fru Schwartz’s pressing request – that they would make sure they had the murderer under lock and key in a trice.
Because it was terrible. In Dikken of all places. Did they recall that whore who was crucified there a few years ago?
Yes, they did – but thank you very much, they must now talk to the next representative of that great detective, the general public.
Her name was Lisen Berke. She was in her forties, and had been in the bar at the Trattoria Commedia between a quarter to six and half past, approximately. She declined to explain why she had gone there – she had the right to go for a drink wherever she liked if she felt like it, for God’s sake.
‘Of course you do,’ said Jung.
‘Or two,’ said Rooth. ‘Come to that.’
‘Do you recognize this person?’ Jung asked, showing her the photographs.
She studied them for three seconds then shook her head for four.
‘He was sitting at one of the tables in the restaurant, between—’
‘Is he the one who’s been killed?’ she interrupted.
‘Yes,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No. I was sitting reading my paper.’
‘I see,’ said Rooth.
‘You see?’ said Berke, eyeing Rooth over the top of her octagonal spectacles.
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘Were there any other customers in the bar?’
She dragged her eyes away from Rooth, and thought that one over.
‘Two, I think . . . Yes, first of all there was a fat managerial type hanging around, but he didn’t stay long. Then a very different type appeared. Long hair and beard. Dark glasses as well, I seem to remember . . . Looked like some kind of rock star. Macho, out and out. Depraved.’
‘Did you speak to him?’ Jung asked.
Lisen Berke snorted contemptuously.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘And he didn’t try to talk to you?’ said Rooth.
‘I was reading my newspaper.’
‘Quite right too,’ said Rooth. ‘You shouldn’t get involved with men you don’t know in bars.’
Jung gave him a withering look to shut him up. For Christ’s sake, he thought. Why don’t they send him on a diplomacy course?
Berke gritted her teeth and glared at Rooth as well, as if he were an unusually nasty piece of dog shit she had accidentally trodden on and which was difficult to scrape off the sole of her shoe. A male dog, needless to say. Rooth looked up at the ceiling.
‘How long did he stay?’ asked Jung. ‘This depraved rock musician.’
‘I don’t remember. Not all that long, I don’t think.’
‘What did he drink?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But he left the bar before you did, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
Jung pondered.
‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘No. He didn’t have any features. Just a mass of hair and glasses.’
‘I understand,’ said Jung. ‘Many thanks, fröken Berke: I’ll be getting back to you, if you don’t mind. You’ve been extremely helpful.’
‘What did you mean by that last remark?’ Rooth asked when they had closed the door after Lisen Berke. ‘“Extremely helpful”? What kind of crap is that?’
Jung sighed.
‘I was just trying to apply a bit of balsam after your charm offensive,’ he explained. ‘Besides, this character in the bar could well be of interest. We must ask if the barman remembers him as well.’
‘Once chance in ten,’ said Rooth. ‘But maybe those are the best odds we can hope for in this match.’
‘Have you anything else to suggest?’ asked Jung.
Rooth thought that one over.
‘If we drive out there, we can take the opportunity of having a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘So that we can work out a few new angles of approach and so on.’
‘Depraved?’ said Jung. ‘Is “depraved” the word she used?’
Ewa Moreno flopped down in the visitor’s chair in Reinhart’s office.
‘
So you’re still at work, are you?’
Reinhart looked at the clock. Half past six. He wished it had been a bit less.
‘I need to summarize a few things. I didn’t get hold of fröken Frey until quite late. How are things going for you?’
‘Not all that well,’ said Moreno with a sigh. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think the strategy we’re following is exactly top-notch.’
‘I know,’ said Reinhart. ‘But if you have a better one you should have come out with it before you crossed the threshold. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Yep,’ said Moreno. ‘No doubt I should have done. But whatever: it’s pretty hard going. We’ve chatted to sixteen friends of Erich Van Veeteren so far . . . In accordance with the list of priorities his fiancée gave us. All of them here in Maardam – we’ve sent Bollmert out into the sticks, and he’s due back on Friday. Nobody has come up with anything of interest yet, and nobody seems to be hiding anything. Nothing to do with the case, that is.’
‘Alibis?’ said Reinhart.
‘How nice of you to ask,’ said Moreno. ‘You don’t exactly make yourself popular when you ask people to provide alibis – but then, maybe it isn’t our job to make ourselves popular, as The Chief Inspector used to say. Anyway, everything seems above board so far. We haven’t had a chance to check anything yet, of course – but I suppose that’s not the point?’
‘Not so long as we don’t suspect there’s something nasty hiding in the woodwork,’ said Reinhart. ‘I take it there are a few dodgy characters among these names?’
‘There are all sorts,’ said Moreno. ‘No doubt some of them are not exactly pleased at the fact that Marlene Frey handed the address book over to the enemy without further ado. But we are ignoring everything that has nothing to do with the case. As instructed.’
‘As instructed,’ agreed Reinhart. He leaned back in his desk chair and thought for a while with his hands clasped behind the back of his neck. ‘If you’d like to have a session with Marlene Frey instead, that’s fine by me,’ he said. ‘There are two things that have wounded her in life: police officers and men. At least you’re only half of that.’