by Håkan Nesser
And eventually also about Erich.
‘I remember something you said,’ Ulrike told him. ‘Then, when you’d found the woman who murdered Karel.’
Karel Innings was Ulrike’s former husband, but not the father of her children. They had been the product of her first marriage to an estate agent, who had been a good and reliable paterfamilias until his inherited alcoholism got the better of him.
‘We never found her,’ Van Veeteren pointed out.
‘But you found her motives,’ said Ulrike. ‘In any case, you maintained that from her point of view – in one sense at least – killing my husband had been justified. Do you remember that?’
‘Of course,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But it was only true in a way. From a very individual, limited point of view. It’s a distortion if you put it like you did.’
‘Isn’t that always the case?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Isn’t it always the case that the murderer – or any other criminal, come to that – thinks that his crime is justified? Doesn’t he have to think that to himself anyway?’
‘That’s an old chestnut,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But you are right in principle, of course. A murderer always justifies his motives – acknowledges them also, naturally. Mind you, it’s a different matter if somebody else points them out. There are reasons for everything we do, but the dogma of original sin never seems to convince members of the jury nowadays. They are much more thick-skinned than that.’
‘But you believe in it?’
He paused for a moment and gazed out over the sea.
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘I don’t defend evil deeds, but if you can’t understand the nature of crime . . . the motives of a criminal . . . well, you won’t get very far as a detective. There is a sort of twisted logic which is often easier to discover than the logic that governs our everyday actions. As we all know, chaos is the neighbour of God: but everything’s usually neat and tidy in hell . . .’
She laughed, and took a bite of her carrot cake.
‘Go on.’
‘All right, since you ask me so nicely,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Anyway, this malicious logic can affect us all when we are trapped in a corner. It’s not a problem to understand why an Islamic brother murders his sister because she’s been going to discotheques and wants to be a Westerner. No problem at all if you are familiar with the background. But the fact that the deed itself is so disgusting that the very thought of it makes you want to throw up, and that your spontaneous reaction is to take the killer and demolish a skyscraper on top of him – well, that’s something else. Something completely different.’
He fell silent. She eyed him gravely, then took hold of his hand over the table.
‘A crime is born in the gap between the morality of society and that of the individual,’ said Van Veeteren, and immediately wondered if that really was generally true.
‘And if they find Erich’s murderer,’ said Ulrike. ‘Will you understand him as well?’
He hesitated before answering. Gazed out over the beach again. The sun had gone away, and the weather was as it presumably was before some god or other hit on the idea of creating it. Plus eight degrees, slight breeze, white cloud.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want to meet him face to face.’
She let go of his hand, and frowned.
‘I can’t understand why you want to expose yourself to something like that,’ she said. ‘Sitting opposite your son’s murderer. Sometimes I just don’t understand you.’
‘I’ve never claimed that I do either,’ said Van Veeteren.
And I’ve never said that I wouldn’t want to put a bullet between those eyes either, he thought; but he didn’t say so.
On the way home Ulrike came up with a suggestion.
‘I’d like us to invite his fiancée to dinner.’
‘Who?’ said Van Veeteren.
‘Marlene Frey. Let’s invite her to dinner tomorrow evening. At your place. I’ll ring and talk to her.’
Such a thought had never struck him. He wondered why. Then he felt ashamed for two seconds before saying yes.
‘On condition that you stay the night with me as well,’ he said.
Ulrike laughed and gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder.
‘I’ve already promised that,’ she said. ‘Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Jürg’s away at a school camp.’
‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I sleep so damned badly when you’re not there.’
‘I don’t come to you in order to sleep,’ said Ulrike.
‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren again, unable to think of anything better to say.
Chief of Police Hiller clasped his hands on the pigskin desk pad and tried to establish eye contact with Reinhart. Reinhart yawned and looked at a green, palm-like thing that he seemed to recall he knew the name of, once upon a time.
‘Hmm, well,’ said Hiller. ‘I happened to bump into the chief inspector this morning . . . I mean The Chief Inspector.’
Reinhart shifted his gaze to a benjamin fig.
‘It’s taken its toll on him, this business with his son. I think you should be aware of that. Not so strange. After all these years and all the rest of it . . . Anyway, I think it’s a point of honour, this business. We really must solve this case. It mustn’t slip though our fingers. How far have you got?’
‘Quite a way,’ said Reinhart. ‘We’re doing all we can.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Hiller. ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment, of course. Everybody – and I mean everybody – must feel the same way about it as I do. That it’s a point of honour. If we have to allow a few murderers to go free, one of them must on no account be this one. Not in any circumstances. Do you need more resources? I’m prepared to lean over backwards, a long way backwards. Just say the word.’
Reinhart said nothing.
‘As you know I never interfere in your operational work, but if you want to discuss the way things are going with me, just say the word. And resources, as I said. No limits. Point of honour. Is that clear?’
Reinhart got up from the spongy visitor chair.
‘Crystal clear,’ he said. ‘But you don’t solve equations by using tanks.’
‘Eh?’ said the chief of police. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
‘I’ll explain some other time,’ said Reinhart, opening the door. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, if you’ll excuse me.’
Jung and Moreno were sitting in his office, waiting for him.
‘Greetings from the Fourth Floor,’ said Reinhart. ‘The master gardener has a new suit again.’
‘Has he been on the telly?’ Jung wondered.
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Moreno. ‘But perhaps he’s going to?’
Reinhart flopped down on his chair and lit his pipe.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s the situation?’
‘I still haven’t got hold of her,’ said Jung. ‘She’s with her boyfriend somewhere. She won’t be back at work until tomorrow afternoon. I’m sorry.’
‘Damn and blast,’ said Reinhart.
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Moreno.
‘Edita Fischer, of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘That nurse who implied to the other nurse that Vera Miller had implied something . . . Huh, what a wishy-washy set-up, for Christ’s sake! Any luck with the list of doctors?’
‘Tip-top,’ said Moreno, handing him the file she’d had on her knee. ‘You have there the names and photographs of all the hundred-and-twenty-six doctors who work at the Gemejnte. Plus a handful who left during the last year – they are all marked. Date of birth, date of appointment, medical qualifications, specialist training and everything else you could possibly want to know. Even civil status and family members. They are well organized at Gemejnte Hospital.’
‘Not bad,’ said Reinhart, leafing through the files. ‘Not bad at all. Are they split up according to clinic and ward as well?’
‘Of course,’ sai
d Moreno. ‘I’ve already put a cross by those who worked on Ward Forty-six, Vera Miller’s ward. There are six doctors permanently linked, and another seven or eight who work there from time to time. There’s quite a lot of movement from ward to ward, not least among the specialists – anaesthetists for instance.’
Reinhart nodded as he continued thumbing through the documents, studying the series of smiling faces of men and women in white coats. It was evidently part of the routine to be photographed in this way. The background was the same in most of the pictures, and everybody – the vast majority in any case – were sitting with their heads at the same angle and their mouths fixed in a broad smile. Apparently the same photographer: he wondered what awful joke he must have told them to make them all roar with laughter the way they seemed to be doing.
‘Not bad,’ he said for the third time. ‘So here we have the murderer complete with photograph and personal details down to shoe size. It’s just a pity we don’t know which of them it is. Which one of the hundred-and-twenty-six . . .’
‘If we’re still sticking to Rooth’s hypothesis,’ said Moreno, ‘we can eliminate forty of them.’
‘Really?’ said Reinhart. ‘Why?’
‘Because they are women. But I don’t know how we should proceed with this – it seems a bit much to interrogate the whole lot of them, rather than thinning them down a little. Even if they look friendly enough in the photos, they might well be rather more difficult to deal with in reality. Especially when they catch on to what we suspect them of . . . Not to mention esprit de corps and goodness knows what else.’
Reinhart nodded.
‘Let’s start with those most closely connected,’ he said. ‘Only them for the time being. What was it you said? Six attached to the clinic and a few more who keep dropping in. We ought to be able to deal with them before Jung’s witness turns up again. Who should we send to deal with this?’
‘Not Rooth,’ said Jung.
‘Okay, not Rooth,’ said Reinhart. ‘But I can see two reliable police officers before my very eyes just now. Get on with it – good hunting.’
He closed the file and handed it back. As Jung left the room first, he was able to put a question to Inspector Moreno.
‘Have you been sleeping well lately?’
‘Better and better,’ said Moreno, and she actually smiled. ‘What about you?’
‘I get my deserts,’ said Reinhart, cryptically.
26
Tuesday’s post comprised a few bills and a couple of letters.
One was from the Spaarkasse, informing him that his loan had been granted. The sum of 220,000 had already been credited to his account.
The other letter was from his opponent.
A different kind of envelope this time. Simpler, cheaper. The letter paper itself was a folded page, apparently torn out of a spiral pad. Before he began reading he wondered if this in itself was a sign of something, if it had some sort of significance, this reduction in quality.
He failed to find a satisfactory answer; and the instructions were just as simple and clear as before.
Your last chance. My patience is soon at an end. The same procedure as last time.
Place: the rubbish bin behind the grill bar at the junction of Armastenstraat and Bremers Steeg.
Time: the early hours of Friday, 03.00.
Stand by your telephone in your home at 04.00. Don’t try transferring calls to your mobile – I have taken measures to protect myself from that. If I don’t have my money by Friday morning, you are a goner.
A friend
This business concerning his mobile phone had already occurred to him. He’d rung and investigated the possibility of doing that, but it gradually became clear to him that the caller could always establish whether the call had been diverted from one number to another. Otherwise, of course, he would have been very tempted to hide himself some twenty metres into Bremers Steeg, which he knew was a dark, narrow alley . . . To stand there and wait for his opponent, with the pipe hidden inside his overcoat. Very tempted.
Another thing that struck him when he read the instructions again was the sheer damned self-confidence of the blackmailer. How could he be certain, for instance, that his victim wouldn’t use an assistant, just as he had done out at Dikken? How could he be so sure of that? It was even possible that he could arrange for the assistance of a good friend without needing to reveal what it was all about. He could get somebody else to answer the telephone, for instance. Or did his opponent know his voice so well that he would recognize such a move immediately? Was he so well acquainted with him?
Or had he refined his tactics this time? Polished them in some way? It looked like it. Perhaps the telephone call would involve further instructions to guarantee that the money could be collected behind the grill bar in peace and quiet.
But how, in that case? What instructions might they be, for Christ’s sake? Would he be armed?
That last point cropped up without his having thought about it, but it soon became clear that it was the most significant of them all. Would his opponent have a weapon, and – in the worst-case scenario – would he be prepared to use it in order to collect his money?
A pistol in his jacket pocket in a dark corner in Bremers Steeg?
He put the letter back into its envelope and checked the clock.
Eleven thirty-five. Less than sixteen hours left.
Time was short. Very short, and this was the last round now. No further delays were conceivable.
Time to run away? he thought.
27
Moreno and Jung spoke to a dozen doctors on the Thursday morning. Including three women – if for no other reason than to avoid raising suspicions.
Suspicions that the police had suspicions about their male colleagues. Or one of them, at least.
Instead, the ostensible starting point of the conversations was that they needed information about the murdered nurse, Vera Miller. General impressions of her. Her relations with patients and colleagues – everything that might, in some way or other, contribute to a more complete all-round picture of her. Especially with regard to her work.
As far as Moreno and Jung could judge, all the doctors told them without reservation all they knew about Nurse Miller. Some had quite a lot to say, others naturally enough rather less, due to the fact that they hadn’t had so much to do with her. But impressions and judgements were remarkably unanimous: Vera Miller had been an outstanding nurse. Knowledgeable, positive, willing to work hard – and with that little bit extra feeling for patients that was so very important: if only everybody who worked in health care had that little bit extra!
De mortuis . . . Moreno thought; but it was only an automatic thought that seemed hardly appropriate in this case. Nurse Miller had been well liked and much appreciated, it was as simple as that. Nobody had any idea as to who might have wanted to kill her in the way that she was killed – nor in any other way, come to that. Not the slightest idea.
Nor did Moreno and Jung after they had finished their questioning, and sat down for lunch in the restaurant in Block A. Not the slightest idea.
They had finished their unusually substantial pasta meal by a few minutes past one, and decided that they might as well wait for Edita Fischer up in Ward 46. She was due to come on duty at two o’clock – after two-and-a-half days’ leave. Time off she had spent with her boyfriend at some unknown location. His name was Arnold, but that was all they knew about him. When Jung had finally succeeded in contacting fröken Fischer that morning, after no end of trials and tribulations, she had declined to disclose where they had been, and what they had been doing.
Not that he was especially interested, but even so . . .
‘Presumably they were robbing a bank,’ he explained to Moreno, ‘but so what? The important thing is that we can talk to her. In any case, it had nothing to do with Vera Miller.’
Moreno thought for a moment, then agreed.
The important thing was that they could talk to her.
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Edita Fischer was young and blonde, and looked more or less how a nurse in an American television series was supposed to look. With the possible exception of the fact that she was slightly cross-eyed: but Jung at least thought that made her even more charming.
She was obviously embarrassed by what she had set in motion. Blushed and apologized several times, even before they had settled down in the pale-green reception room that had been placed at their disposal thanks to the ward sister’s determined efforts. It was usually reserved exclusively for discussions with the next of kin after a patient had died, she explained: green was said to have a calming effect.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ exclaimed Fischer, ‘it was nothing! Nothing at all. I gather it was Liljana who told you about this?’
Jung admitted that the matter had cropped up during one of his conversations with Liljana Milovic.
‘Why couldn’t she hold her tongue?’ said Fischer. ‘It was just a throwaway remark I made as we sat talking.’
‘If everybody held their tongues, we wouldn’t find many criminals,’ said Jung.
‘What sort of a throwaway remark was it?’ asked Moreno. ‘Now that we’re sitting here.’
Fischer hesitated a little longer, but it was obvious that she was going to come clean. Jung exchanged glances with Moreno, and they both refrained from asking questions. All they needed to do was wait. Wait, and gaze at the comforting green walls.
‘It was over a month ago . . . Nearly one-and-a-half, in fact.’
‘The beginning of November?’ said Moreno.
‘About then. I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much as I did when I heard that Vera had been killed. It’s so awful – she was such a happy, lively person . . . You don’t think anything like that could happen to a person you know so well. Who did it? – It must be a madman.’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Jung. ‘But that’s what we’re going to find out.’
‘Did you socialize outside working hours as well?’ asked Moreno.