by Håkan Nesser
A cloud of silent thoughts flew across the table.
‘Because the murderer wrote to her and confessed,’ Urban suggested. ‘Thus the word “wrote”.’
‘And signed with the name Henry Maartens,’ I added.
‘There are other alternatives,’ said Czernik. ‘Say those words one more time, Ewa.’
‘Vera . . . wrote . . . Henry Maartens, Henry Maartens’ fault,’ said Ewa for the fourth or fifth time.
‘Wrote . . .’ Czernik repeated. ‘There’s something missing before that. What if it’s an “I” that’s missing? In that case, what would that mean?’
‘That she wrote down something she knew,’ Ewa replied. ‘I’ve thought about that, but I haven’t found anything . . . of course, words are missing in her message, I just don’t know which ones.’
‘Have you searched?’ Adam Czernik asked. ‘For something she may have written, that is. You took care of her estate, right?’
‘Just a little bit,’ Ewa admitted. ‘I haven’t had time, it’s half a basement storage room’s worth of stuff, but if you’re interested . . .’
Urban looked doubtful. ‘If she wrote down something that concerned Ewa and really wanted it to come to the eyes of the world, wouldn’t she have left it in a place where it could be found?’
‘She may have written it a long time ago,’ Ewa Pieters pointed out. ‘Her mind wasn’t completely clear at the end, we can’t demand just any amount of logic . . .’
They continued the discussion along these lines awhile, but I noticed that my thoughts were slipping away in a different direction; I was starting to see Vera in my inner eye again, recall her figure that night . . . her enchantingly beautiful body in the pale darkness of the summer night . . . how we caressed each other, how we made love, how she received me with her legs around my back . . . how later she must have sneaked out of our love bed so as not to waken me. Got dressed and wrote her final message to me, that she didn’t know how it would turn out, but that she loved me . . . how she tiptoed down the stairs, out into the June morning and up onto the bicycle in her white dress and her abundant dark hair . . . pedalling through the fair landscape in the virginal dawn; early summer of 1967, the summer that would be the great Flower Power summer, the summer of freedom she would never get to experience, I could no longer conceive that she got to, and I understood, no, didn’t understand . . . sensed, started to sense, that there had never been any attacker on her path, that she never encountered a lunatic . . . for if what had now finally come to light added up, then that could only mean one thing . . . Good Lord, I thought, it can’t have happened like that.
We spent three hours going through the property left behind by Ruth Kall in Ewa Pieters’ basement storage room on Langvej. What remained of it, that is; all the clothes and textiles had been given to fundraising and charitable purposes of various types, and much had been taken care of in the final years Mrs Kall was alive. Like many lonely old people, she had planned for her departure. Got rid of things and had not intended to leave too much behind.
But there was quite a bit. Mostly storage furniture and boxes filled with books, old magazines and papers. Pastor Adolphus’s handwritten sermons and theological reflections, for example. Vera’s exercise and arithmetic books all the way from first grade; it felt strange and almost awe-inspiring to stand with them in hand. Registers and attendance lists from the meetings of Aaron’s Brethren. Etcetera. It was no dream job squatting down there and rooting, and when Adam Czernik departed about halfway through, I for one had difficulty granting credence to the meeting at the sports association that had suddenly come up.
Whatever, it was not until we were basically done with the whole dust trap that Urban saw the light and added his two pennies’ worth.
‘Wasn’t there a will?’ he asked.
Ewa Pieters straightened up. ‘Will? No, I was the only one with the right to inherit, so I got it all, it was just this and a few hundred in a bank account. Although there was actually a lawyer . . .’
‘A lawyer?’ I said. ‘Why is that?’
Ewa wiped sweat and dust from her forehead with the back of her hand and looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Think he’d been around since Adolphus’s time. Attorney Hegel. He was in touch, in any event, and explained that there was no will.’
‘That there wasn’t a will?’ I asked. ‘He got in touch and told you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that all he wanted?’ Urban asked.
‘Yes,’ said Ewa. ‘That was all.’
Urban pushed aside the pedestal drawer he had just looked through. ‘Was it Hegel you said?’ he asked. ‘Let’s go up and call him, I’ve had enough of this.’
Attorney Hegel had his office on the south side of Grote Square among the well-to-do turn-of-the-century bourgeois houses. Even though it was Saturday and it was already six o’clock, he agreed to receive us there.
If I hadn’t already sensed the resolution, this was probably as good a sign as any. That he took the time. While we stood there and waited outside the richly ornamented Art Nouveau facade, I suddenly felt that I no longer had any desire to be part of this.
No desire at all.
12
‘Unusual terms?’ Urban Kleerwot says, raising his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean by that?’
We are sitting submerged in leather furniture in Attorney Hegel’s spacious office. Urban and I on the couch. Ewa Pieters and Hegel himself in the armchairs. Hegel has just accepted one of Urban’s Pfitzerbooms and leans back during the first puff. I look at him furtively: he is somewhat reminiscent of a Good Guy from an American courtroom movie, which is no doubt his intention. Presumably a few years over sixty, but with a trim figure and distinguished grey temples. Dark suit, light-blue shirt and subtle tie. I feel dirty and sticky after the rooting around in Ewa’s basement storeroom, and hope the cigar smoke is sufficient to overpower the odour of sweat.
‘Terms,’ Hegel repeats. ‘Unusual, as stated. Can’t recall anything similar right off hand, but one naturally has to accommodate the client’s wishes. Rules of the game.’
He thumbs the brown envelope and observes us in order, as if he can’t refrain from keeping us on tenterhooks a few more seconds.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Urban exclaims. ‘What kind of wishes?’
‘Uh-hm,’ the attorney clears his throat. ‘I have had this in my safekeeping for almost thirty years; twenty-eight, if you want to be precise. Mrs Kall handed this over two years to the day after her daughter disappeared . . . turned over both the letter and the instructions, that is.’
He pauses yet another time, but no one breaks the silence.
‘Which are as follows,’ Hegel continues. ‘Under no circumstances could the letter be passed on or opened as long as either Mr or Mrs Kall was alive. After the death of both I had to safeguard it in a satisfactory manner, until the day when someone – whoever that might be – came and asked about it. However, for ten years at most, then it shall be destroyed. Unread.’
‘Huh?’ says Ewa Pieters. ‘“Someone, whoever that might be”? You didn’t have orders to hand it over after her death?’
Hegel shakes his head. ‘That was what the condition was. The client’s wishes are law. Unusual, isn’t it? I think she wanted to leave it in God’s hands somehow, but one may have differing opinions about that . . .’
‘But . . .’ says Ewa. ‘But now we’ve come and asked about it?’
‘Exactly,’ Hegel agrees, taking a puff on the cigar. ‘Now you’ve come and now I will do my duty. Be my guest. It’s fine to read the contents.’
He hands the envelope over to Ewa. She takes it, weighs it in her hand and inspects it.
‘No addressee?’ she says.
‘No addressee,’ Hegel confirms. ‘Just the date and her own name.’
There is silence for several seconds.
‘Open it!’ says Urban. ‘Read it!’
Attorney Hegel contributes a thin letter opener. E
wa slits it open and takes out the contents – two double-folded sheets, filled with handwritten text. She sets them in front of her on the table, smooths them out and looks at the first page.
‘Out loud!’ says Urban. ‘Read out loud for God’s sake, otherwise I’ll explode.’
Ewa Pieters takes a deep breath and starts to read:
‘Lord God in heaven, You who rule over everything. I don’t know what to do, but this is my confession . . .’
It was not until Monday morning that we set off. Urban and I spent all of Sunday out at the cabin, but we were kept informed about the preparations by way of Urban’s mobile.
It was a strangely quiet day, that Sunday; no wind, a pale sky and a temperature that meant you don’t feel the air against your skin. We went out on the lake and fished for a couple of hours without getting so much as a nibble. Ate ready-made food that we brought with us from K– on Saturday evening. In the evening we sat in the sauna and discussed the plot in Urban’s mystery. We talked very little about the Snake Flower.
It was certainly not standard protocol that we were allowed to go along during Monday’s police call; I think Inspector Keller obtained some kind of special permission. It had more to do with patterns and style than with the usual police procedures; besides, he had been retired from all regulations for several years. We all drove together in his big Buick, Ewa Pieters as well as Urban and me; we had a police car in front of and behind us in the caravan, and I could see on Keller’s face that it was his last major operation that was ahead of him. He seemed more shrivelled than ever, sitting there behind the wheel and chewing on a match; even more resolute and concentrated. No wonder, I thought, and again regretted that I hadn’t asked to stay at home.
Ewa Pieters sat with me in the back seat and felt self-reproach. ‘I should have figured this out sooner,’ she complained. ‘Should have understood what it meant that she knew.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I consoled her. ‘It wasn’t easy to grasp.’
‘Yes, it was easy,’ said Ewa. ‘If Ruth knew something – regardless of what – that must mean that Vera came home that night.’
‘Yes, she did come home, always,’ Urban muttered from the front seat. ‘But it’s really awful that someone takes the law into their own hands and keeps quiet like this.’
‘Some people have more than one law,’ Keller noted acidly. ‘It’s popular to have a little private ethics sometimes. Especially among the Bible-thumpers, believe me.’
Ewa squirmed. ‘I don’t think, anyway, what Aunt Ruth did was so indefensible. They probably got their punishment, nothing would have actually been gained if she had come forward, would it?’
Keller grunted in irritation. ‘There were a few too many who never stepped forward in this story,’ he said, catching my gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘What do you think the investigation work cost the taxpayer, for example?’
That was, of course, one way to look at it. I had no comment and no one else did either.
We got to Samaria just after eleven o’clock. Mr Clausen was standing out on the grassy field and greeted us guardedly as we got out of the cars. I noted that the red Volvo was not there and understood that Mrs Clausen had taken the kids somewhere. Unnecessary to subject them to traumatic experiences in the rural idyll, naturally. Completely unnecessary, it was bad enough as it was.
Six policemen in overalls quickly took shovels out of car boots and took off under the leadership of the commander and Inspector Keller to the indicated place. The rest of us kept our distance and, once the digging had started, Mr Clausen went inside and put on coffee. We sat down in the same plastic furniture as the last time, and after a while I noticed that Ewa had started crying. I stroked her arm a little awkwardly, she took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘It’s too much,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a lot.’
‘And so unreal,’ she continued. ‘I can’t believe that it’s true . . . yet I know that was exactly how it happened. He could be so hot-tempered.’
Urban cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ he said. ‘If she hadn’t been so confoundedly honest, this never would have happened.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘Just that she should have lied instead,’ Urban said with a sigh. ‘She comes home at five o’clock in the morning and confesses that she both got drunk and that she went to bed with a boy, what the hell was she expecting?’
‘He didn’t need to hit her,’ said Ewa. ‘If she’d known that he would do that, maybe she would have kept quiet. Although Vera was always honest . . . and don’t forget that it was an accident. If it hadn’t been that she fell so unfortunately . . .’
She fell silent. Urban nodded and then no one seemed to have anything to say. The only thing to do was wait. I closed my eyes and started playing out that scene inside my head. I don’t know how many times I’d done that since Saturday evening.
Father and mother sitting at the kitchen table and waiting. Worried and tired from lack of sleep.
Vera, who comes in and stops in the middle of the room. Strengthened – I imagine in any case – by her love for me, she starts to tell them. Everything she’s experienced. Straight-backed and frankly.
The father, the uncompromising preacher, who stands up and without a word doles out his punishment.
Vera, who falls against the sharp corner of the stove.
Vera, who dies within a minute. So her mother has written. Within a minute.
Man and wife, who then stand there, the man, the man of God, who through his anger killed his daughter . . . it is a beautiful summer morning, the sparrows are fluttering out in the blossoming lilac thicket, her red blood darkens slowly on the cold kitchen floor, and they stand there . . . they have desperately tried to get life in her, but her heart has stopped and now they stand there . . .
Quem di diligunt adolescens moritur.
They must have prayed. Hundreds of prayers they must have sent up that morning to their incomprehensible god, who in his great mercy let their only daughter die.
Die by her father’s hand.
And perhaps, perhaps the unfathomable god of Aaron’s Brethren answered them and said that he forgave them and that they shall bury what they have done in the earth and sweep away the traces.
Whom the gods love . . .
And that the guilt, the enormous guilt, is raised from their shoulders and placed on . . . Henry Maartens’. Henry Maartens’ fault . . .
I am startled when Ewa places her hand on my shoulder. Suddenly notice that I am sitting there shivering in the summer heat.
‘They’ve found it now,’ says Ewa, almost whispering. ‘They’ve hit rotten wood, it must be the casket.’
Yes, they gave her a casket, she also wrote that in the letter.
And now she is being dug up. I’m not the one who is digging up the Snake Flower, but I go over and watch.
Ewa Pieters too. I am crying and I hold her hand in mine. It feels as if it belongs there.
ALL THE INFORMATION IN THE CASE
Translated from the Swedish by Paul Norlen
Adapted into the film Samaria
It came to pass in those days that a young man by the name of S was living in the university town.
His parents died early, his only sister moved to Australia a year or so before the story begins – but despite his obvious lack of living, present relatives, outwardly S is a well-mannered and capable person. After several years of mixed but successful academic studies he has decided to possibly become a teacher. Because he is a conscientious individual, and does not want to risk ending up on the wrong path in life, he applies for – and gets – a temporary job for a spring term at a high school in the community of H–. If it turns out that he likes the profession, after this trial semester he is prepared to complete the teaching programme where, considering his good academic record, he should have no problem being accepted. This is his plan.
He finds a
room to rent in the vicinity of the school in H– where he got his position, he leaves his girlfriend and his two-room apartment in the university town, and in early January he gets started on his educational activity. The rest of the faculty consists of forty-odd teachers of varying age and character, the school is beautifully located with a view towards a lake, and almost immediately S finds that he is adjusting very well.
H– is an old mill town with just one major industry, a steel plant, where practically all the able-bodied inhabitants make their livelihood. The school is strictly a secondary school with about 400 pupils, two-thirds from the town itself, one-third from the surrounding countryside, in round numbers. On the school grounds is a bronze statue of the school’s most prominent student over the years, a successful cross-country skier with a dozen national medals to his credit.
S teaches Swedish and English in three different grades: one class in seventh, one in eighth, one in ninth. He soon discovers that he enjoys the teaching job, in all its aspects. He likes the students, he appreciates the interaction with his colleagues, he finds the instructional process itself – teaching and practising skills – inspiring. Especially where the ninth graders are concerned, who are of course only eight or nine years younger than himself, the situation feels very satisfying, and he also gets the idea that the young people appreciate him as a teacher. He is also the form teacher for this class; he has taken over the role from a crabby old woman with failing kidneys, and realizes that it is rewarding to follow just such a run-down, worn-out educator.
The semester goes by and in the month of May it is time to assign grades to the students. Only three weeks before the end of school, however, a very sad accident occurs. A girl in the ninth grade class in question, Sofia, perishes in a traffic accident. She is run over by a motorist as she is on her way to school early one Wednesday morning. The incident is observed by a couple of independent witnesses, but the driver flees from the scene of the accident, and despite an extensive investigation the police are unable to capture him.