by Håkan Nesser
“Let me see,” said Münster, leafing through his notebook.
“Come on now, get a grip!” said the chief of police, checking his rolled-gold wristwatch. “I have a meeting in twenty-five minutes from now, an outline report will suffice.”
Münster cleared his throat again.
“Well, we’re dealing with the body of a man,” he began. “Found at about one yesterday afternoon in some woods on the outskirts of Behren, about twenty miles from here. Found by a six-year-old girl…she was on an outing organized by the day nursery she attends. The body was wrapped up inside a carpet in a ditch about forty yards from the nearest passable road, and it had been lying there for a long time.”
“How long?”
“A good question,” said Reinhart. “A year, perhaps. Maybe more, maybe less.”
“Can’t that be established accurately?” Hiller asked.
“Not yet,” Van Veeteren said. “Meusse is working flat out on it. But at least six months in any case.”
“Hmm,” said Hiller. “Go on.”
“Well,” said Münster, “it hasn’t been possible to identify the body as the murderer cut off his head, his hands and his feet….”
“Can we be certain that it was a murder?” asked the chief of police. Reinhart sighed.
“No,” he said. “Obviously, it could be a straightforward natural death. Somebody who couldn’t afford a proper funeral, though. It’s an expensive business nowadays…. The widow no doubt donated his head and the rest to medical research, in accordance with the wishes of the deceased.”
Van Veeteren coughed.
“It’ll presumably take a while to pin down the cause of death,” he said, inserting a toothpick into his lower teeth. “It seems there are no signs of fatal injuries on what’s left of the body—although people generally do die if you cut their head off, of course.”
“Meusse isn’t exactly thrilled by this corpse,” said Reinhart. “You can see his point. It’s been lying in that rotting carpet all winter, maybe longer. Freezing, then thawing out, freezing again, thawing again. The odd animal has had a nibble here and there, but they evidently didn’t think much of him either. I suppose he was a bit hard to get at as well. He’s been lying half submerged, and that’s helped to preserve him or there wouldn’t have been much left apart from the skeleton. He looks a bit of a mess, to be honest.”
Hiller hesitated.
“Why are…Why are these parts of the body missing, do we know that?”
We? Münster thought. Do we know that? What is this damn place, a police station or a hospital? Or a madhouse, like Reinhart usually suggests? Sometimes it was hard to say.
“Hard to say,” said Van Veeteren, reading his thoughts. “We do occasionally come across a bit of butchery in this line of business, but the point must surely be to make identification difficult.”
“You have no idea who it is?”
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“Obviously, we’re going over the area with a fine-tooth comb,” Münster said. “But then, you ordered that yourself. Twenty officers have been searching the woods since yesterday afternoon—not during the night, though, of course.”
“Waste of time,” said Reinhart, taking his pipe from his jacket pocket.
“You can smoke when we’ve finished,” said the police chief, checking his watch again. “Why is it a waste of time?”
Reinhart put his pipe away and clasped his hands behind his head.
“Because they won’t find anything,” he explained. “If I kill somebody and take time to cut off his head and hands and feet, I’m not going to be damned stupid enough to leave them lying around where the rest of the body is. The fact is that there’s only one place in the whole wide world where we can be absolutely certain of not finding them, and that’s where we’re looking. Clever stuff, you have to admit.”
“All right,” said Hiller. “Van Veeteren wasn’t here yesterday, and I thought…”
“OK,” said Van Veeteren. “I suppose there’s no harm in taking a close look at the place where the body was found, but I think we’ll put a stop to that this evening. Not many clues are going to survive a whole winter, no matter what, and I think we can be pretty sure he wasn’t killed there anyway.”
Hiller hesitated again.
“How are we going to set up the investigation, then?” he asked. “I’m a bit short of time….”
Van Veeteren made no attempt to hurry.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose we’d better think that over. How many officers do you want to give us?”
“There’s those damned robberies,” said Hiller, rising to his feet. “And that blackmailer…”
“And those racists,” said Reinhart.
“This blackmailer…,” said Hiller.
“Racist bastards,” said Reinhart.
“Oh, what the hell,” said Hiller. “Stop by tomorrow, VV, and let’s see where we’ve got to. Is Heinemann still off sick?”
“Back on Monday,” said Münster.
He didn’t mention that he was intending to take a few days off when Heinemann came back. Something told him that now wasn’t the right moment to apply for leave.
“OK, you’d better get on with it,” said Hiller, starting to usher everybody toward the door. “The quicker we sort this one out, the better. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who the poor sod is, in any case. Don’t you think?”
“Nothing is impossible,” said Reinhart.
“Well, what do you reckon, Münster?” said Van Veeteren, handing over the photographs.
Münster examined the pictures of the mutilated body, covered in brown stains, and of the spot where it was found: quite a good hiding place by the look of it, with thick undergrowth and an overgrown ditch. Hardly surprising that the body had been undetected for so long. On the contrary, its unexpected discovery by the poor little six-year-old girl surely had to be classified as pure coincidence.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Seems to have been pretty carefully planned, in any case.”
Van Veeteren muttered something.
“Carefully planned, you can say that again. We can take that for granted. What do you say to the mutilation?”
Münster thought for a moment.
“Identification, obviously.”
“Do you usually recognize people by their feet?”
Münster shook his head.
“Not unless there’s something special about them. Tattoos or something of that sort. How old was he?”
“Between fifty and sixty, Meusse thought, but we’ll have to wait until tonight. It’s not a very nice body, as we’ve already established. It’ll probably be you and Rooth who have to look after it.”
Münster looked up.
“Why? What are you…?”
Van Veeteren raised a warning finger.
“I’m up to the neck in it with this damned robber. And no doubt Reinhart will want to wrap up his terrorists as quickly as possible. And then, well, I’ll be going in soon to have my stomach cut up. First week in May. You might as well take charge of everything from the start.”
Münster could feel himself blushing.
“Obviously, I’ll be at your service when you find yourself in a corner,” Van Veeteren said.
When, Münster thought. Not if.
“I’d better find a corner where I can get stuck first,” he said. “Has Rooth checked missing persons yet?”
Van Veeteren switched on the intercom and five minutes later Detective Inspector Rooth appeared with a sheaf of computer printouts in his hand. He flopped down onto the empty chair and scratched his beard. It was straggly and recent and made him look like a homeless dosser, it seemed to Münster. But so what? It could be an advantage to have colleagues who couldn’t be picked out as the filth from a hundred yards away.
“Thirty-two missing persons reported in our area over the last couple of years,” he announced. “Who haven’t been found, that is. Sixteen locals. I’ve been weed
ing them out a bit. If we assume that he’s been lying out there for at least six months and at most a year, he ought to have been reported as missing between April and December last year. We’ll have to see if that’s right when we get Meusse’s report, of course….”
“How can as many people as that go missing?” wondered Münster. “Can that really be right?”
Rooth shrugged.
“Most of them go abroad. Mainly young people. I doubt if there’s any kind of crime involved in more than fifteen or twenty percent of the cases. That’s what Stauff claims, anyway, and he knows what he’s talking about. I assume he’s not including minor misdemeanors. Quite a lot of druggies go missing. Clear off to Thailand and India and places like that.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“How many candidates does that leave you with?”
Rooth thumbed through the lists. Münster could see that he had circled round some names, put a question mark against others, crossed some out, but there didn’t seem to be many hot tips.
“Not a lot,” said Rooth. “If we’re looking for a man in his fifties, about five feet ten, including his head and his feet—well, I reckon there are only a couple to choose from. Maybe three.”
Van Veeteren studied his toothpick.
“One will be enough,” he said. “As long as it’s the right one.”
“He doesn’t need to be a local either,” said Münster. “There’s nothing to suggest that he was killed in the Behren area. It could have been anywhere, as far as I can see.”
Rooth nodded.
“If we consider the list from the country as a whole, we’ve got seven or eight to choose from. In any case, I suppose we’d better wait for the postmortem report before we start looking for possible widows?”
“Yes indeed,” said Van Veeteren. “The fewer that need to look at him, the better.”
“OK,” said Münster after a pause, “what do we do in the meantime, then?”
Van Veeteren leaned back, making his desk chair creak.
“I suggest you two clear off somewhere and draw up an outline plan. I’ll tell Hiller you’re sorting everything out. But as I say, I’m at your disposal.”
“Well then,” said Rooth when they had settled down in the canteen with their mugs of coffee. “Do you reckon we can sort this out within a week?”
“I hope so,” said Münster. “When does Meusse expect to be ready?”
Rooth checked his watch.
“In about an hour, I think. We’d better go and see him together, don’t you think?”
Münster agreed.
“What about a response from the general public?” he asked. “There’s been quite a bit in the papers.”
Rooth shook his head as he washed down half a Danish pastry.
“Nothing that makes sense so far. Krause is keeping an eye on that side of things. There’ll be an appeal on the news tonight, both on the telly and on radio. But I’ll be damned if it isn’t one of these.”
He tapped the computer printouts with his spoon. Münster picked up the lists and considered Rooth’s notes. He’d drawn a double circle round three of the names: They seemed to be the hottest candidates.
Candidates for having been murdered, mutilated and dumped in an overgrown ditch just outside Behren, that is. He ran through them:
Claus Menhevern
Drouhtens vej 4, Blochberg
born 1937
reported missing 6/1/1993
Pierre Kohler
Armastenstraat 42, Maardam
born 1936
reported missing 8/27/1993
Piit Choulenz
Hagmerlaan 11, Maardam
born 1945 reported missing 10/16/1993
“Yep,” he said, sliding the lists back over the table. “It’s got to be one of them.”
“Sure,” said Rooth. “In that case, we’ll crack it within a week. I can feel it in my bones….”
4
He left the police station an hour earlier than usual and drove straight home. The letter was still where he’d left it, on the bookshelf in the hall. He opened it and read it once more. The text was still the same:
We are pleased to inform you herewith that a time has been reserved for the operation on your Cancer Adenocarcinoma Coli on Tuesday, May 5.
You are requested to confirm this date by mail or telephone by April 25 at the latest, and to present yourself at Ward 46B no later than 9 p.m. on Wednesday, May 4.
After the operation a further two to three weeks in the hospital will probably be necessary; we mention this in order to assist you in planning your domestic and working life accordingly.
Yours faithfully,
Marike Fischer, Appointments Secretary,
Gemejnte Hospitaal, Maardam
Oh, hell! he thought. Then he checked the data at the bottom of the page, dialed the number and waited.
A young girl’s voice answered. Twenty-five at most, he decided. Like his own daughter, more or less.
“I suppose I’d better turn up then,” he said.
“Excuse me? Who’s that speaking?” she asked.
“Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, of course. I have cancer of the large intestine, and I’m going to let this Dr. Moewenroedhe cut it out, and…”
“One moment.”
He waited. She picked the phone up again.
“May fifth, that’s right. I’ll make a note. We look forward to seeing you the day before. I’ll reserve a bed for you in Ward forty-six B. Have you got any questions?”
Will it hurt? he thought. Will I survive? What percentage never come around from the anesthetic?
“No,” he said. “I’ll get back to you if I change my mind.”
He could hear the surprise in her silence.
“Why should you change your mind?”
“I might be busy with something else. You never know.”
She hesitated.
“Are you worried about the operation, Mr. Van Veeteren?”
“Worried? Me?”
He tried to laugh, but even he could hear that it sounded more like a dying dog. He had some experience of dying dogs.
“That’s all right, then,” she said cheerfully. “I can assure you that Dr. Moewenroedhe is one of our most skillful surgeons, and it’s not all that complicated an operation after all.”
No, but it’s my stomach, Van Veeteren thought. And my intestine. I’ve had it for a long time and I’ve grown quite fond of it.
“You’re welcome to call and ask questions if you like,” she added. “We’re here to help.”
“Thank you very much,” he said with a sigh. “OK, I’ll probably call you beforehand, in any case. Good-bye very much.”
“We look forward to seeing you, Mr. Van Veeteren.”
He stood for a few seconds with the letter in his hand. Then he tore it into four pieces and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
Less than an hour later he had eaten two bratwurst sausages with potato salad on his balcony. Drunk a glass of dark beer with it and started to wonder if he ought to go to the corner shop and buy a pack of cigarettes. He had run out of toothpicks and it was a pleasant evening.
I’m going to die, in any case, he thought.
He heard the clock striking six in Keymer. In his bedside cupboard he had two half-read novels tucked away, but he accepted that they would have to remain half read for some time yet. He wasn’t sufficiently at peace with himself. On the contrary, restlessness was lurking inside him, sharpening its claws, and of course there was no mystery about why.
No secret at all. The air was mild; he could feel that. A gentle, warm breeze wafted over the balcony rail, the sun was a red disc over the brewery roof on the other side of Kloisterlaan. Small birds were twittering away in the lilac bushes behind the cycle shed.
Here I am, he thought. The notorious chief inspector Van Veeteren. A fifty-seven-year-old, 195-pound cop with cancer of the large intestine. Two weeks from now I shall lie down on the operating table of my ow
n free will and allow some totally inexperienced butcher’s apprentice to cut out four inches of my body. Hell.
He could feel a vague turmoil in the lower part of his stomach, but that was always the same after eating nowadays. No pain as such. Just this little irritation. Something to be grateful for, of course. It was true that bratwurst was not on the diet sheet he’d been presented with when they did the tests in February, but what the hell? The main thing was to last until the day of the operation with his mind still working. If all turned out well, then it might be time to consider a new lifestyle. Healthy living and all that.
There’s a time for everything.
He cleared the table. Went to the kitchen and piled the dirty dishes in the sink. Continued into the living room and sorted absentmindedly through his collection of CDs and tapes.
Four inches of my body, he thought, and then was struck by the photographs he’d seen that morning.
The headless man out at Behren.
Missing a head, two hands and two feet.
Could have been worse, he thought.
Between fifty and sixty, Meusse had judged.
That matched. Perhaps the two of them were the same age, in fact? Fifty-seven. Why not?
It could have been much worse.
Ten minutes later he was in his car with a Monteverdi choral piece rattling the loudspeakers. Another hour and a half before it got dark. He had plenty of time.
He only wanted to take a look, that’s all. He didn’t have anything else to do…
There’s a time for everything, as he’d already established.
5
“How’s the love life going?” asked Münster as he eased himself into Rooth’s old Citroën. They ought to talk about something that had nothing to do with work, after all.
“Not very well,” said Rooth. “I sometimes wish they could give you an injection that would cure you of any urges once and for all.”
“Oh dear,” said Münster, wishing he’d never broached the subject.
“There’s something odd about women,” said Rooth. “The ones I meet, at least. I took a lady out last week—a red-headed broad from Oosterbrügge who was attending some nursing course or other here in Maardam. We went to the movies and saw Kraus, and then when I invited her up to my place for a glass of port wine and a bite of cheese, do you know what she said?”
