by Håkan Nesser
Keller thought a moment.
‘One thing I was sure of,’ he said. ‘If it was the case that she simply ran away, then she must have planned it. It can’t have been a moment’s impulse . . . although the only thing that speaks for that alternative is those damned Aaron’s Brethren. I talked for hours with that Bible-thumping father of hers, and this I will say, if I’d grown up under such a numbskull I would have run away on my first tricycle.’
Urban and I nodded. ‘Are they still around?’ Urban asked.
Keller shook his head. ‘Dissolved a few years later. There were never more than thirty or forty members. The high priest’s nerves got a bit delicate after this thing with his daughter, and, well, it fell apart in any event. Nothing bad that doesn’t bring something good with it.’
We sat silently for a few moments again.
‘And this . . . new development?’ said Urban. ‘What do you think about that, inspector? Who is this Vera Kall who wants to make contact with Henry after three decades?’
Keller undid the top button on his green nylon shirt and observed us in turn. First Urban, then me.
‘I believe what I believe,’ he said. ‘One thing I know, and that is that someone is lying. Either her or the two of you.
‘Or all three,’ he added after a short pause to think. He finished his beer and stood up. ‘Be in touch after the visit on Saturday,’ he said. ‘Regardless of how it goes. If you don’t do that, I’m submitting a report to the police.’
Then he turned on his heels, crawled into his gigantic car and rumbled off.
I looked at Urban Kleerwot. He suddenly seemed to have a problem with the suspension of his lower jaw.
We did not leave Urbanhall for two days. Urban had stocked up provisions properly; we ate, drank, discussed, talked nonsense, fished and sat in the sauna. The weather was a little worse those days, but it was quite nice. I finished reading The Fly and Eternity and congratulated my friend for the particularly surprising – and yet completely credible – resolution. We decided that I should go through the whole thing one more time the following week. With an eagle eye and a sharpened pencil.
The night between Friday and Saturday I almost didn’t sleep a wink. I lay there, twisting and turning in the narrow bed while I listened to the thunderstorm that shuttled back and forth overhead. On Saturday we had breakfast inside for the first time, but by late morning blue patches started showing up in the sky. I hoped that would be a good sign.
It was almost two full days to the minute after Inspector Keller left us in his Buick that the next car came crawling along the bumpy road.
It was a white Renault with a few years under its belt. It parked next to the woodpile, the engine was turned off and in the brief second before the door was opened and the driver got out, my life passed before my inner eye ten thousand times.
10
The man who got out of the car and stretched was in his mid-thirties. He was at least 190 centimetres tall and looked physically fit. Wore jeans, running shoes, T-shirt and a thin windbreaker with rolled-up sleeves.
Suntanned face, blond hair cut short. A handball player who is just coming home after becoming a world champion, approximately. I cast a glance at Urban. He was standing five metres from me with an unlit Pfitzerboom in his hand and a question mark on his face.
The man observed us a moment without changing expression. Then he walked around the car and opened the door on the passenger side.
A woman of about forty-nine got out.
She was dark. Dark and beautiful. Slender, with clean features, dressed in a simple, dark-green cotton dress and a cardigan the same colour over her shoulders.
It could be her, it could be someone else.
I don’t know how much time passed before we came out of this frozen second, but I managed to decide numerous times both that it was Vera Kall and that it was not Vera Kall. And I had time to think that God – on his side – must have decided to photograph just this moment and put it in his big album, but that he had problems setting the focus and that was why it was taking so long.
And that it was damned strange that such thoughts could pop up.
At last Urban broke the silence. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘My name is Urban Kleerwot. This is Henry Maartens. I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘Adam Czernik,’ the man said, shaking hands.
‘Pieters,’ said the woman. ‘Ewa Pieters.’ Something let go of something else inside my chest. Suddenly it was easier to breathe, but at the same time more boring.
Infinitely more boring.
‘It was you who called?’ Urban asked. She nodded.
‘Yes. I gave the name Vera Kall.’
‘What reason did you have to do that?’
‘I had very good reasons.’
She looked resolute and serious the whole time. The man too. Urban gestured us down around the table. ‘We seem to have a few things to talk about,’ he said. ‘Beer or coffee?’
The woman shook her head.
‘Neither,’ said the man.
There was silence for a few seconds and I sensed that this was some kind of tactic. A game of bridge. To start conversing was to give away the first trick. I had a little difficulty understanding why.
‘May I suggest that you explain what the hell your intentions are,’ Urban said when he was unable to wait any longer. ‘You’ve subjected us – especially my good friend here – to a little discomfort the past few days.’
‘Your good friend Henry Maartens?’ said the woman.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Who are you, ma’am, and why do you maintain that your name is Vera Kall?’
An unconscious smile limped across her face, and I started to suspect that the attitude she tried to stick to was not particularly natural for her. She coughed twice into the crook of her arm.
‘May I first explain that Adam has nothing at all to do with this,’ she said, signalling towards the handball giant. ‘He is only here with regard to my safety. I have also notified a number of other persons where I am. Just so you know.’
‘What the hell?’ said Urban.
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
She took a cigarette out of her handbag and lit it. I looked at Mr Czernik. Bodyguard, I thought. Good Lord.
‘I’m her cousin,’ said Ewa Pieters. ‘Vera Kall’s cousin. Do you understand?’
Urban shook his head. I shook my head.
‘I’ve found out certain things.’
‘Certain things?’
‘Yes. That the police never figured out.’
I felt myself starting to get angry. Or else it was fear.
‘Will you please say what it is you know,’ I requested. ‘What happened to Vera, for example? Is that what you know about?’
She hesitated. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because why else would you carry on with these silly mystifications?’ Urban interjected, looking increasingly irritated.
She held back the answer for two seconds. ‘Because I know that your friend had something to do with my cousin’s death,’ she then said.
‘What the hell are you babbling about?’ Urban roared. Adam Czernik adjusted his glasses and leant forward.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, to soften things. ‘But I can assure you that those are pure fantasies. We don’t have the slightest idea what happened to Vera, neither Urban nor I. I think it’s best if you explain yourself now.’
She sat quietly a moment and smoked while she appeared to be debating with herself. Never sought eye contact with Adam Czernik; it was evident that he was not particularly initiated in the whole thing. That he was only there as some kind of security measure, just as she’d said. I observed his upper arms and understood that he was presumably a rather effective one. Especially if you contemplated resistance. Urban went over to the barrel and fished out four beers.
‘All right,’ Ewa Pieters said at last. ‘I’ll tell you what I know and I hope you can provide a satisfactory explanation. May I hav
e a glass, too? I’m not used to drinking from the bottle.’
Urban got up again. ‘You’ll get an explanation if you just say what it is I’m supposed to explain,’ I promised.
Finally she started.
‘I liked Vera very much,’ she started, and now her tone was considerably softer. It suited her better, much better. ‘Even if we were only cousins, we were almost like siblings . . . even though we lived a long way from each other. Both of us were only children and there is no more than two months difference in age between us. I think that what happened affected me just as hard as it affected her parents . . .’
‘Where did you live?’ I asked.
‘Linden. Sixty, seventy kilometres from here. But we saw each other every summer holiday and at weekends. Our mothers were sisters . . . the fathers who married into the family didn’t have that much in common. Well, that was how it was.’
I nodded. Urban poured beer.
‘It was a shock when she disappeared. I’ve brooded about what happened just as much as everyone else . . . for thirty years. Then gradually I started to understand that we would never get the answer. I guess I thought, like most, that she must have encountered a rapist that night. A lunatic who attacked her and killed her and hid the body when he was done. But then last spring . . .’
She paused. Took a gulp of beer and lit another cigarette.
‘Then last spring Aunt Ruth was on her deathbed. Vera’s mother, that is. The dad, Adolphus, passed away more than ten years ago.’
‘We know,’ it slipped out of me.
She observed me with surprise for a moment before she continued.
‘She had many illnesses, Ruth, but a strong heart, which kept her alive even though she was bedridden – more or less bedridden anyway – the last three years. That day in April, it’s only a few months ago, I got word from the nursing home where she was that she wanted to talk with me. I went there . . . Ulmenthal, out by the sea, I don’t know if you’re familiar with it . . . I saw a doctor first and he explained that she probably didn’t have many hours left. If I understood him correctly, it was the case that she had simply decided not to struggle any longer, but that she had to exchange a few words with me before it was time. I was her only living relative, both of my parents passed away several years ago, and, well, there was something she wanted to say—’
‘Was this unexpected for you?’ Urban interrupted. ‘That she wanted to talk with you, that is . . . did you used to visit her?’
‘Not that often,’ Ewa Pieters admitted. ‘It’s a really long way out to Ulmenthal and it wasn’t easy to talk with her. She had difficulty speaking after a stroke a couple years ago . . .’
‘What did she want?’ I asked, a little irritated at Urban’s interruption. ‘Why did she have to talk with you?’
Ewa Pieters suddenly looked self-conscious. Smoothed her dress across her knees a couple of times and looked down at the table.
‘I don’t actually know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know for certain what it was she wanted. If I’d understood that, naturally I would have gone to the police . . . maybe I would have done that anyway in time, if you hadn’t shown up here in town.’
‘What the dickens are you trying to—’ Urban started, but I raised a hand and silenced him.
‘Tell us,’ I said.
Ewa nodded. ‘She was very weak when I came into the room,’ she explained. ‘The only life that was left in her was in her eyes, they were full of . . . well, what should I say? Eagerness? Eagerness and gratitude, I think . . . gratitude that I’d come and eagerness at getting to say what she wanted to say before it was too late. I wish she hadn’t waited so long. That she’d had a little more energy left, but then she didn’t. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand as usual. She looked at me with a burning gaze and her lips started moving . . . but no sound came out. I leant closer and listened, right next to her mouth, but nothing other than a weak hissing was heard. I called a nurse and asked if it was possible to do something, but she just shrugged and looked apologetic. When we were alone again, Aunt Ruth made a final exertion. I leant close to her again and now I heard.’
‘Then you heard?’ I said. Saw that Urban’s jaw had dropped again and that Czernik too had actually pricked up his ears.
‘Yes,’ said Ewa Pieters. ‘Then I heard. Rather clearly, actually, and she repeated the name two times: “Vera . . . ” she said . . . “wrote . . . Henry Maartens, Henry Maartens’ fault.” That was all. Then she closed her eyes and fifteen minutes later she was dead.’
There was silence around the table. The sun broke through a cloud and cast a sudden, wandering pattern of light and leaf shadows across Ewa Pieters’ dress. I swallowed. Adam Czernik crossed his arms over his chest.
‘Can you say that one more time,’ Urban asked.
‘“Vera . . . wrote . . . Henry Maartens, Henry Maartens’ fault.” The name two times. And I promise that I heard right.’
I leant back in the chair. The sun changed its mind and went behind a cloud.
11
I made my decision in half a minute, but it took half an hour to tell my part of the story.
Or our part. There was of course no reason to hold back about Urban’s and my visit out in Samaria or the conversation with Inspector Keller. Ewa Pieters listened and smoked and asked questions, and it seemed ever so clear that she believed what she was hearing. Why shouldn’t she? She didn’t seem to have very much to reproach me for either. It felt a little awkward to have to relate Vera’s and my love encounter, but it was necessary and I think Ewa saw a little bright spot in that her cousin got to taste the fruits of love at least once before she died.
Or did she not die after all? Was Vera Kall really dead? The absurd thing was that we still didn’t know. New facts in the case had come to light for both parties, both for us and for Ewa Pieters, but while we were still sitting out there on Urban’s garden furniture having a discussion, we were far from coming to clarity about the crucial point.
What had happened the night of 28 May 1967? Or the morning, rather; those early hours that at the same time seemed so near and so unattainably far away?
Concerning Ewa’s behaviour after my arrival in K–, the mists soon dispersed. Ever since Mrs Kall’s death in April she had tried in a slightly amateurish way to straighten out the question marks around her aunt’s final words. She knew, thus, that a certain Henry Maartens had been in the same class as Vera during her last two years of high school. She had also cautiously inquired with a couple of other classmates if there could have been anything between Vera and me, but only got head shakes and negative answers in response. She didn’t know where I lived nowadays nor how to go about finding that out . . . yes, that was more or less how things stood, when I suddenly showed up at the Continental a week ago. Ewa Pieters had been working at the hotel as an accountant for the past four years. At least one point for Urban, I thought. She had seen my name on the room reservation, it was no stranger than that.
Because she didn’t know what was behind Mrs Kall’s intimations on her deathbed, she – after a couple of nights of brooding and rejection of various strategies – had decided on the bold move with Vera Kall’s name. To be able to observe my reaction, if nothing else. She had initiated a good friend, Adam Czernik, younger brother of her ex-husband, in the plans. At least semi-initiated. On Monday they had followed us from K– out to Urbanhall, and then it was just a matter of retrieving Urban’s mobile number by way of the vehicle registration. Simple and painless.
That she waited until Saturday for the visit was simply due to the fact that Adam wasn’t available earlier. She didn’t dare attack us on her own, that was obvious.
So that’s how that was. Suddenly all the cards were on the table and we soon realized that we were sitting in the same boat. It felt like a relief to start with, at least for me personally, but gradually frustration got the upper hand.
Frustration that we still weren’t there. Hadn’t found the answer to the
question of what happened to Vera. I had been incredibly tense before the meeting with Ewa, and naturally it had been like that for her too, but now, when I knew who she was and we had settled the supposed animosity, once again the basic problem itself reared its ugly head.
What had happened to Vera that night thirty years ago? Same old question as always.
‘Thundering typhoons,’ said Urban. ‘I made a bet with myself that we would have the solution today. I’m starting to think I’m going to lose. All the cards on the table and just as confounded . . .’
‘We have one more card to turn,’ I reminded him. ‘What the heck did she mean?’
‘Who?’
‘Ruth Kall, of course. If we understand what’s behind her final words, then we have the answer.’
‘You assume that she knew about it?’ said Urban.
‘Don’t you?’
Urban did not reply. Observed his cigar with a worried expression.
‘Go on,’ said Ewa Pieters.
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘What conclusions did you draw yourself? When you started thinking about those words, that is.’
‘Nothing certain,’ Ewa Pieters said after a brief pause. ‘At first I thought you must be the one who killed Vera and that her mother knew about it. But then I asked myself why in the world she kept quiet about it in that case, and I haven’t found an answer there.’
‘Because there isn’t any answer,’ I said. ‘I didn’t kill your cousin. I loved her.’
‘A certain distinction,’ Urban muttered.
It was at this point that Adam Czernik took off his glasses and started getting involved in the debate. ‘You all seem a bit confused, if you excuse me for saying so,’ he said, showing that he had brushed his teeth properly. ‘Do you or do you not think that Vera’s mother knew what happened that night?’
I thought. Urban scratched his beard.
‘She knew,’ said Ewa Pieters. ‘Let’s assume that she actually did.’
‘How?’ said Czernik. ‘How could she know that?’