by Håkan Nesser
He was with another girl by then, Kristine Reger, a friend of mine. They got married eventually.”
“And who was the other one?”
“The other one?”
“Yes, you said you remembered two boys that Eva had a relationship with.”
“Paul Bejsen, of course. The one who died.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
She sighed deeply. Lit another cigarette and sat quite still for a while, her head resting on one hand.
She’s pausing in order to brace herself, he thought. To overcome her reluctance.
“It was the All Saints Day holiday in our last year,” she began. “One of the boys in our class, Erwin Lange his name was, had a holiday cottage-or rather, his parents had a holiday cottage-not far from Kerran. It’s lovely, dramatic countryside out there, with moors and crags and ravines; I don’t know if you’ve ever been there?”
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“Anyway, we had a party. I think there were about twenty of us, most of them from our class, but some others as well.
Eva had been with this Paul Bejsen for a few months. He was a bit older; he’d already passed his school-leaving exam. But they were having a real relationship, I know that.”
“Was he her first lover?”
Ulrike deMass hesitated.
“Well, I don’t know who else her first could have been. .
And yet. .”
“Go on.”
“And yet you couldn’t help feeling she’d been through it all before, that she was quite experienced, in fact.”
“Why did you have that feeling?”
“I don’t know. It’s just something you notice. We girls, we women if you like, notice it, anyway. You can tell if a girl’s been to bed with a boy before.”
Van Veeteren nodded. She might be right.
“What happened that evening?”
“There was quite a lot of strong drink on the go, a fair amount of hash and stuff, but nobody went off the rails, you might say. We had great fun, in fact. We were gathered around a big bonfire in the yard all night, we grilled a pig, we drank and we sang, and. . well, you get the picture. Couples would get together and wander off now and then, into the house or behind a bush. I know at least two girls who lost their virginity that night.”
She paused briefly.
“I was one of them.”
Van Veeteren exchanged his toothpick for a cigarette.
“I was eighteen years of age, for Christ’s sake! It was about time. Anyway, the next morning we found out what had happened, and it was one hell of a bloody awful morning, as you can no doubt imagine. We were all woken up by the police; I think it couldn’t have been any later than about half past seven.
Twenty young people with hangovers and only a couple of hours’ sleep in their bodies. The police came with a neighbor.
He’d found a dead body at the bottom of a precipice. I think. .
I think that was the morning quite a few of us grew up.”
She said nothing for a few seconds.
“I certainly did, at least. I lost my virginity and a good friend that same night.”
“Were you a very good friend of Paul Bejsen’s?”
“Well, perhaps not; but I knew him quite well. He was a nice lad, likable and gifted. Everybody liked him. I expect several girls were in love with him.”
“You as well?”
“No. Not then. Had been, perhaps.”
“What had happened?”
Ulrike deMaas raised her shoulders, as if she suddenly felt cold.
“They’d been out on the moor, he and Eva. She’d told him it was over between them, for some reason or other. Left him out there. I don’t know, he must have been pretty drunk, I suppose, but that was one of the things that were hushed up, of course. In any case, he’d done away with himself. Thrown himself over a precipice. Strangely enough, he’d picked the right place. Macabre, it was. According to local folklore, Vejme Klint used to be the suicide precipice-you know, the place where old people used to go many years ago when they began to feel that their life was coming to an end. So that they didn’t become a burden on their families. .”
She shook her head.
“It was a terrible business, Chief Inspector. And there’s never been a heavier lid placed over anything boiling as much as that. His parents were very religious, Reformerde Kirk, and m i n d ’ s e y e
he was an only child. . Well, I’m sure you understand the circumstances. Muhlboden is not a very big place.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“What about the police investigation? You must all have been interrogated?”
“Yes, we all had to turn up at the police station and tell our version of what happened. . Separately, at different times.
That took several days, and we were excused lessons. But there wasn’t much we could say, of course.”
“He didn’t leave a letter?”
“No.”
“How did Eva Ringmar take it?”
“Hard. Really hard, I think. If I remember rightly she stayed at home for the rest of the term. . Or most of it, at least. Yes, she was there for the end-of-term ceremonies, I remember now. We were in the choir, both of us; she hadn’t practiced anything, of course, but that didn’t matter. It was just the usual songs. . ”
She paused again.
“It’s the first Sunday in Advent today. It’s twenty years since it happened. I hadn’t thought about that. May I. . may I ask you a question, Chief Inspector?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you raking over this old business-surely you don’t think it has anything to do with, with. .”
“With what, Miss deMaas? Or is it Mrs.?”
“Somewhere in between, I suppose. . With what has happened now, of course. The murders of Eva and her husband. Surely you don’t think there’s a connection?”
“Miss deMaas,” Van Veeteren decided, “if there’s anything I’ve learned in this job, it’s that there are more connections in the world than there are particles in the universe.”
He paused and allowed her green eyes to observe him.
“The hard bit is finding the right ones,” he added eventually.
“Have you managed to do that?” she’d asked, just before they’d said their good-byes in the square. “Found the right connections, I mean?”
“I think so,” he’d said. “I just need to study the components a little more carefully in order to be sure.”
He had not been quite clear about what he meant when he said that. . Her eyes had been so big and serious, and it didn’t sound so silly. . Besides, why was it essential to think before speaking? Had he not learned over the years that it could just as well be vice versa?
Let the words come out, they always conceal something, as Reinhart kept saying.
She had given him a hug and thanked him for the meal, and it occurred to him that she was the second woman in this investigation that he could have fallen for.
If he had been at an appropriate age, that is. And the type to fall.
It took half an hour of driving to shake off these unbidden emotions, but that still left him with plenty of time to think over what he had been told, and to plan his next step.
There was not far to go now, he could feel it. One, possibly two more interviews. A few specific questions to the right person, and the whole background ought to be clear.
Then all that remained would be to pin down the key player in the drama. The person playing the leading role. .
The murderer.
He sighed, and felt his disgust rising.
The weariness and hopelessness.
How many were they, when it came to the crunch? How many people had lost their lives because of this compulsive, this perverted. .?
He wasn’t sure.
Two. . quite certainly.
Three. . most probably.
Four. . possibly.
Even more?
He considered tha
t to be not unlikely. After all the years he had spent on the shady side of society, there was not a lot that he considered to be unlikely.
But nevertheless. What if he didn’t confess?
What if he had become so hardened that he denied everything when confronted by Van Veeteren?
That was not very likely, but it was possible, of course. In that case they would have to dig out proof for the whole cart-load of shit!
He cursed out loud and increased his speed. . But then he remembered the circumstances.
Proof?
That wasn’t his problem. That was something the rest of them could sort out-Munster and Reinhart and Rooth-
while he sat back under the palm trees in Brisbane.
Were there palm trees in Brisbane?
He put Handel on, and increased his speed even more.
38
Munster contemplated his lists. Then he contemplated Jung, who was sitting half asleep under the portrait of the minister of justice.
Master and slave, Munster thought. The eagle-eyed minister was standing stiffly erect, portrayed full length against a pale-blue background, flanked by the flag and the lion on one side, and his desk with a statute book and a judge’s hammer on the other.
Jung, on the other hand, looked more like a professional criminal. Hunched, wearing grubby corduroy trousers and a coffee-stained shirt, unshaven and with several days’ work collected in black bags under his eyes.
“Well,” said Munster, clearing his throat, “as far as I can see, we’ve finished.”
“Hmm?” said Jung.
“There’s one left. So it must be him.”
“What the hell are you saying?” said Jung, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Is there any more coffee?”
Munster poured out two mugs.
“Sit down here and check what I’m doing while I run through them one more time.”
Jung left the minister and sat down by the desk.
“Here we have the names of those who don’t have an alibi for the Eva murder,” said Munster, handing over a sheet of paper. “There are quite a lot of them, of course.”
“Does this cover the whole population of the world, or just Europe?” Jung wondered.
“Bunge staff plus a few other acquaintances,” said Munster.
Jung nodded and took a sip of coffee.
“Here are the ones who have lived in Maardam for no more than two years,” said Munster, passing him another sheet of paper.
“And here are those who don’t have a cast-iron alibi for the Mitter murder.”
“The ones who might have been able to call in on him for a while,” said Jung.
“And then gone back in,” said Munster, “and battered him to death.”
“Then run for it,” said Jung.
“Run him through,” said Munster. “Incidentally, I’ve just received a report from deBries. It seems pretty likely-those were his words, ‘pretty likely’-that somebody climbed up or down the drainpipe more than once.”
“How can he have worked that out?”
Munster smiled.
“He and Moss have been out there, climbing. Or rather, Moss did the climbing and deBries made notes. They tried eight different drainpipes, between the ground and the third floor. All of them survived being climbed down with flying colors, but only three of them held for four attempts.”
“How much does Moss weigh?” asked Jung.
“About a hundred and fifty pounds, I should think,” said Munster. “He’s considering leaving the force, according to deBries; but both the patients and the doctors seem to have had a most enjoyable day. . Anyway, look closely at the names and compare the lists. How many can you find on all three?”
Jung examined the sheets of paper for a few moments.
“One,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Munster. “We’ve got him. There’s another thing that indicates him-can you see it?”
“The letter?” said Jung.
“Yes,” said Munster “If it is him, that confirms the letter theory as well. Shall we go?”
Jung looked at his watch.
“Go where?” he wondered.
“Home, of course,” said Munster. “I’ll phone Van Veeteren tomorrow morning.”
“I say, Munster,” said Jung as they were on the way down in the elevator. “What’s behind it all? The motive, I mean?”
“I haven’t a clue,” said Munster.
“Reinhart here,” said Reinhart.
“What the devil. .” said Van Veeteren. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Half past four,” said Reinhart. “Were you asleep?”
“Go to hell!” said Van Veeteren. “What do you want?”
“Did you hear about the woman in Leisner Park?”
“Yes, I heard a bit. What about it? Has she woken up?”
“I think there’s a link.”
“A link?”
“Yes. A connection.”
“With what?”
“With your murderer, of course. I thought I had the pleasure of talking to the astute Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. .?”
“No, this is the trustee of his estate,” said Van Veeteren.
“For Christ’s sake tell me what you want, Inspector, or there’ll be another case for us to solve.”
“I’ve interrogated several people. .”
“I should hope so.”
“Among others, a friend of the deceased, Johanna Goertz.
Apparently this Liz Hennan confided a few things in her.”
“Hennan? Is that the victim?”
“Yes, Liz Hennan. She told Johanna Goertz, last Tuesday, that she’d met a new man. She was going to meet him again on Saturday-last Saturday, that is-and that she felt a bit scared. She told Goertz a bit about him as well, not all that much because she didn’t know much. Not even his name. He called himself John, but she didn’t think that was his real name. Are you with me?”
“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “Get to the point, Reinhart.”
“Any moment now,” said Reinhart. “Anyway, he’d apparently told Liz Hennan something odd, just in passing, or however you might want to see it. . He’d told her that he came across the guidance counselor with a pupil one day.”
“Eh?”
“Yes. In flagrante. The guidance counselor with a pupil.
What do you think that suggests?”
Van Veeteren sat in silence for a few seconds.
“School,” he said.
“I agree,” said Reinhart. “But I’m a bit on the tired side now. . I think I’ll go to bed and disconnect the telephone.
You can ring me at nine.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Van Veeteren. But it was too late.
He wrote the sixth name down at the very end of the book.
He contemplated the list for a few moments. Three women and three men. There was a sort of balance, no matter what-even if one of the men had only been a child.
He noted down the date as well. Tried to find some kind of harmony there, but that was harder. The specific dates were spread out over years, and months: the only trend was that the gap between them grew shorter. Eight years. . six years. .
six years again. . seven weeks. . ten days. .
He closed the book and put it in the outside pocket of his bag. Checked his watch. A few minutes past five. It was still pitch-dark outside. His suitcases were all packed and lying ready on the bed. No point in waiting any longer. Best to get going right away.
Leave everything behind now, yet again.
Exhaustion was like needles sticking into him, and he resolved not to drive too far. Three or four hundred kilometers, perhaps. Then a motel and a bed.
The most important thing was to get away from here.
Vamoose.
As long as he got some sleep, he would be ready to face up to life again tomorrow morning. From the beginning, this time.
Without all the old stuff. That was in the past now. He understood that
it was all over and done with, at last.
Tomorrow. In a new place.
39
“What the hell are you doing here?” said Suurna.
“I’ve come to say hello to my old school,” said Van Veeteren. “When did you start swearing, Headmaster?”
“We’re here to pick up a murderer,” said Reinhart.
Suurna opened and shut his mouth a few times, but no words emerged. He grabbed hold of his desk, and once again Munster had the impression he was about to faint.
“Do sit down, Headmaster,” he said. “There, that’s it.”
“We’re looking for Carl Ferger,” said Van Veeteren. “Do you know where he is right now?”
“The school janitor?” said Suurna. “Are you really sure that. .?”
“Absolutely certain,” said Reinhart. “Can you find out where he is, please?”
“Er. . yes, of course,” said Suurna. “I can ask Miss Bellevue. .”
He pressed the intercom.
“Ask her to come here,” said Van Veeteren. “We don’t want to warn him.”
Half a minute later Miss Bellevue appeared, with wide eyes and dangling earrings.
“These gentlemen are looking for Ferger,” said Suurna.
“Do you know where he is?”
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” said Miss Bellevue, dangling her earrings.
“Hasn’t arrived?” said Suurna. “Why?”
“What time is he supposed to start work?” interrupted Van Veeteren.
“Half past seven,” said Miss Bellevue. “He hasn’t reported sick. I don’t know what’s happened. Mattisen has been asking for him several times-they were supposed to be moving the grand piano today.”
“Shit!” said Van Veeteren.
“Has anybody phoned him?” Reinhart asked.
“Mattisen has called, but there was no answer. Perhaps his car has broken down, or something of the sort.”
“And it’s taken two hours?” said Suurna. “He only lives a ten-minute walk from here, doesn’t he?”
“Shit!” said Van Veeteren again. “Hand over his address, Headmaster. You and I are going to pay a call, Munster! Reinhart, you take care of the guidance counselor!”
“With pleasure,” said Reinhart.
He knocked and walked in.
The guidance counselor was in his forties. Beard, sandals, and a ring in his ear.