The Return

by Håkan Nesser

  “I get the feeling you’re a little bit disillusioned this evening,” said Moreno with a benign smile.

  “Not in the least,” said deBries. “You totally misjudge my motives. I would be more than happy to go to Spetsbergen and interview every damned penguin about their views on the greenhouse effect…. As long as I could do it alongside you. Cheers!”

  “Cheers,” said Moreno. “But I don’t think there are any penguins at Spetsbergen. Anyway, I suppose we’ll be given new assignments tomorrow no matter what?”

  DeBries nodded.

  “I assume so,” he said. “Münster and Van Veeteren will be able to steer this ship home without our help. But they won’t find it all that easy, I suspect.”

  “Probably not. What do you really think? Will they be able to solve this case, period?”

  DeBries crunched away at the last cracker and thought for a while.

  “I’ve no idea,” he said. “Strangely enough, I get the feeling that they will crack it eventually. VV will be in a hell of a bloodhound humor when they eventually let him out. He’s not easy to put up with now, according to Münster.”

  “Is he ever?”

  “No,” sighed deBries. “You’re right there, of course. I wouldn’t like to be married to him, I know that much.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” said deBries.

  Moreno looked at her watch.

  “Speaking of that, I suppose it’s time to call it a day.”

  “You’re right,” said deBries. “Thank you for a very pleasant day. The bottle’s empty, I’m afraid…. Otherwise I’d propose a toast to you.”

  “You’ve already done that twice,” Moreno pointed out. “That’s quite enough. There’s a limit to the amount of flattery I can take.”

  “Same here,” said deBries. “Time to go home.”

  31

  At first sight, for the first tenth of a second after opening the door, he had no idea where he was. The thought that he might have got the wrong room after twelve long days of absence did occur to him, but then he realized that it was the same old office as usual. Perhaps it was the strong afternoon sun slanting in through the dirty windows that confused him. The whole of the far wall, behind the desk, was bathed in generous but blinding sunlight. Dust was dancing. It was as hot as in an oven.

  He opened the window. Lowered the blinds and succeeded in protecting himself to some extent from the early summer. When he looked round, he found that the changes were not in fact as great as he had at first thought.

  There were three of them, to be precise.

  First of all, somebody had tidied up his desk. All his papers were in neat piles instead of being splayed out like a fan. Not a bad idea, he could see that immediately. Odd that it had never occurred to him before.

  In the second place, a vase with yellow and mauve flowers had been placed next to his telephone. I am obviously an outstandingly popular and well-liked person, Van Veeteren thought. Hard but fair under the rough surface.

  In the third and last place, he had received a new desk chair. It was turquoise in color; he thought he could recall the shade from a coat Renate had once bought while on a catastrophic holiday in France. Provence blue, if he remembered rightly, but that was irrelevant. It had soft armrests in any case—the chair, that is—a curved back and headrest, and was vaguely reminiscent of seats in the first-class compartments of trains in one of the neighboring countries, he couldn’t remember which.

  He sat down tentatively. The seat was just as soft as the armrests. He sank back into the backrest and noticed that under the seat was a selection of wheels and levers that evidently enabled him to adjust every possible feature—height, angle, headrest angle, elasticity coefficient, you name it. On the desk in front of him was a brochure in full color with precise instructions in eight languages.

  Wow! Van Veeteren thought and began fiddling with the controls in accordance with the instructions. I can snooze the time away in this chair until they start paying my pension.

  Twenty minutes later he had finished, and just as he had started wondering how he could most easily and smartly procure a beer, the duty operator rang to inform him that a lady was in reception, asking for Van Veeteren.

  “Send her up,” he said. “I’ll meet her by the elevator.”

  It was Saturday, and the building was practically empty. He would prefer to avoid the blunder made by Reinhart a year or so ago when his instructions resulted in a prospective narc with a bad sense of direction ending up fast asleep on the sofa in the chief of police’s office. Hiller himself had discovered the intruder early on Monday morning, and not even Reinhart’s tactful reminder that it was possible to lock doors with the aid of something known as a key had persuaded the authorities that there were extenuating circumstances.

  “Your name is Elena Klimenska, is that right?” he began when she had settled down on the visitor’s chair.

  “Yes.”

  She was a rather elegant woman, he had to admit. Somewhere between forty and fifty, he would guess, with dark, dyed hair and strong features, discreetly brought out by carefully applied makeup and sophisticated perfume. As far as he could judge, that is.

  “I am Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren,” he said. “As I explained, it’s to do with your testimony in connection with the trial of Leopold Verhaven here in Maardam in November 1981.”

  “So I gather,” she said, folding her hands over her black patent-leather purse.

  “Can you tell me what your testimony comprised?”

  “Er…I don’t understand what you mean.”

  She hesitated. Van Veeteren took a toothpick from his breast pocket and studied it carefully before making a cautious attempt to adjust the angle of his chair backward. Hmm, not bad, he thought. This must be the perfect chair for interrogations.

  Although the victim should ideally be sitting on a three-legged stool. Or a wooden packing case.

  “Well?” he said.

  “My testimony? Er, the thing is, I happened to be walking past and I saw them, behind the Covered Market.”

  “Saw who?”

  “Him and her, of course. Verhaven and that woman he murdered…Marlene Nietsch.”

  “Where did you pass?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you happened to be walking past. I would like to know where you were when you saw them.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “I was walking on the sidewalk along Zwille. I saw them a short way up Kreugerlaan….”

  “How did you know it was them?”

  “I recognized them, of course.”

  “Before or after?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you know it was Leopold Verhaven and Marlene Nietsch when you saw them, or did it dawn on you afterward?”

  “Afterward, of course.”

  “You weren’t acquainted with either of them?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “How far away were you?”

  “Twenty yards.”

  “Twenty?”

  “Yes, twenty.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The police measured the distance.”

  “What were they wearing?”

  “He was in a blue shirt and jeans. She had on a brown jacket and a black skirt.”

  “Not particularly conspicuous clothes.”

  “No. Why should they be conspicuous?”

  “Because it’s easier to recognize people if there’s something special about their appearance. Were there any special details?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How did you come into contact with the legal authorities?”

  “There was an appeal for witnesses in the newspapers.”

  “I see. And so you responded to that appeal?”

  “I thought it was my duty to do so.”

  “How much time had passed by then? Roughly.”

  “A month. Six weeks, perhaps.”
/>
  Van Veeteren snapped the toothpick.

  “You’re saying that you could remember two people standing talking beside a van after…six weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “People you didn’t know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Had you any special reason for noticing them and remembering them?”

  “Er, no.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What time was it when you were walking along Zwille and happened to see them?”

  “Seven or eight minutes to ten.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Er, that’s the time it was. What’s so remarkable about that?”

  “Did you check the time?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you going? Did you have an appointment to keep or something of that sort?”

  “I was out shopping.”

  “I see.”

  He paused and leaned back so far that his feet left the floor. For a brief moment he felt almost weightless.

  Is there a lever to pull that will bring me back into the atmosphere? he wondered, but he soon regained control of his module.

  “Mrs. Klimenska,” he said when he had made contact with both his desk and the floor once more. “I would like you to explain this to me, as slowly and clearly as you can. I sometimes find it a bit hard to understand things. A man has been found guilty of first-degree murder on the basis of your evidence. He has been in prison for twelve years. Twelve years! If you hadn’t come forward, it is very likely that he would have been cleared. Will you please tell me how the hell you can be certain that you saw Leopold Verhaven and Marlene Nietsch standing talking in Kreugerlaan at seven and a half minutes to ten on Friday, September the eleventh, 1981! How?”

  Elena Klimenska sat up straight and met his gaze without the slightest hesitation.

  “Because I saw them,” she said. “As far as the time is concerned, that’s the only possibility. He drove away from there at ten o’clock, and they were together at the corner at twelve minutes to.”

  “So they weren’t actually at the corner when you saw them?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Bravo, Mrs. Klimenska. You know your stuff very well, I must say. But then, it’s only thirteen years ago, after all.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Was it the police or the prosecutor who helped you with the timing?”

  “Both of them, of course. Why…”

  “Thank you,” Van Veeteren interrupted. “That’s enough. Just one more question. Was there any other witness who could confirm your evidence?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Somebody you had just left, for instance. Or bumped into five minutes later, perhaps?”

  “No. How would that have helped?”

  Van Veeteren didn’t answer. He drummed quietly on the edge of his desk instead, gazing out through a gap in the blinds at the sunshine bathing the warm streets. Elena Klimenska adjusted a pleat in her grayish blue dress, but didn’t change her expression.

  “Do you usually sleep soundly at night, Mrs. Klimenska?”

  Her mouth narrowed to form a thin line. He could see that she’d had enough. That she presumably had no intention of answering any more questions or insinuations.

  “I ask because I’m curious,” he said. “It’s part of my job to play the psychologist now and again. If it had been me, for instance, who had been responsible for getting another human being locked up for twelve years on the basis of totally unfounded and invented evidence, I would probably not feel too good about it. You know, the conscience thing, and all that…”

  She stood up.

  “I’ve had enough of your…”

  “But maybe you had some special reason?”

  “What the…”

  “For getting him locked up, I mean. That would explain it.”

  “Good-bye, Chief Inspector. You can be sure the chief of police is going to hear of this!”

  She turned on her heel and managed three paces toward the door.

  “You lying bitch,” he hissed.

  She stopped dead.

  “What did you say?”

  “I merely wished you a pleasant afternoon. Can you find your own way out, or would you like me to escort you?”

  Two seconds later he was alone again, but he could hear her heels tapping in irritation all the way to the elevator.

  Ah well, he thought, pulling the weightlessness lever. That’s the way to treat ’em.

  32

  “I know,” said Synn. “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “He’s been in the hospital and read every single word about these damned cases,” Münster said. “He feels he simply has to go and take a look for himself, and he’s not allowed to drive yet.”

  “I know,” said Synn again. She turned the pages of her newspaper and blew at her coffee. It was barely half past seven, but the children had been awake since long before seven, totally oblivious to that fact that it was a summer Sunday…. A morning with a warm breeze and cherry blossom and a deafening chorus of birdsong that floated in through the half-open balcony door and mixed with Marieke’s giggles from the nursery and Bart’s endless monologue about dragons and monsters and soccer players.

  He stood up and positioned himself behind his wife. Caressed the back of her head. Placed his hand inside her robe and gently squeezed her breast—and he suddenly felt pain creeping up upon him: a chilling fear, but also a realization, that this moment must pass. This second of absolute and perfect happiness—one of the ten to twelve that comprised a whole life, and was possibly even the meaning of it…

  Or so he understood it. If you have twelve treasured memories, his Uncle Arndt had once said as Münster sat on his knee, you will have led a happy life. But twelve is a high number. You’ll have to wait for quite a while yet before you can start collecting them.

  Perhaps Synn could sense his unrest, for she placed her hand over his and pressed it harder against her breast.

  “I like it,” she said. “I like your hands. Maybe we’ll manage an afternoon outing? Lauerndamm or somewhere like that. It would be good to make love in the open air; it’s been a long time…. Or what do you say, darling?”

  He swallowed the lump of ecstasy that welled up inside him.

  “Of course, my darling,” he said. “I’ll be back before one. Just get yourself ready.”

  “Ready?” she smiled. “I’m ready now, if you want to.”

  “Oh, hell!” said Münster. “If it weren’t for the kids and Van Veeteren, then…”

  She let go of his hand.

  “Maybe we should ask him to babysit?”

  “Huh,” said Münster. “I’m not convinced that is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

  “All right,” said Synn. “We’ll stick to this afternoon, then.”

  Van Veeteren was waiting on the sidewalk when Münster pulled up outside 4 Klagenburg. There was no concealing his suppressed eagerness, and when he had settled into the passenger seat, he immediately fished out two toothpicks that he proceeded to roll from one side of his mouth to the other. It was clear to Münster that this was one of those frequent occasions when any kind of conversation was, if not prohibited, at the very least pointless.

  Instead he switched on the radio, and as they drove through the deserted streets that Sunday morning, they were able to listen to the eight o’clock news, which was mainly about developments in the Balkans and yet more neo-Nazi disturbances in eastern Germany.

  Then came the weather forecast, promising glorious weather with cloudless skies and temperatures approaching sixty degrees.

  He sighed discreetly, and it struck him that if it had been his wife in the passenger seat beside him, instead of a newly operated on fifty-seven-year-old detective chief inspector, he would probably have placed his hand on her sun-warmed thigh at about this point.

  Ah well, one o’clock would arrive sooner or
later, even today.

  They parked outside the overgrown opening in the lilac hedge. Münster switched off the engine and unfastened his safety belt.

  “No, you stay here,” insisted Van Veeteren, shaking his head. “I don’t want you breathing down my neck. This calls for solitary reflection. Leave me in peace and wait for an hour down by the church.”

  He started to wriggle his way out of the car. He was obviously hampered by his surgical wound; he was forced to cling on to the roof of the car and pull himself up by the strength of his arms, rather than straining his stomach muscles. Münster rushed round to assist him, but the chief inspector was adamant in rejecting any attempt to help.

  “One hour,” he repeated, checking his watch. “I’ll walk down to the church under my own steam. The slope is in the right direction, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Wouldn’t it be best if…,” began Münster, but Van Veeteren interrupted him.

  “Stop nannying me, damn you! I’ve had enough of that. If I haven’t turned up at the church by half past ten, you can drive up and see where I’ve got to!”

  “All right,” said Münster. “But be careful.”

  “Clear off,” said Van Veeteren. “Is the door open, by the way?”

  “The key’s hanging from a nail under the gutter,” said Münster. “On the right.”

  “Thanks,” said Van Veeteren.

  Münster got back into the car, managed to turn around in the narrow road and set off through the trees toward the village.

  It’s amazing, he thought. We must have spent a hundred hours sniffing around this place. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he found something we’d missed.

  Not surprised in the least.

  Van Veeteren stayed by the roadside until Münster’s white Audi had vanished among the trees. Then he forced his way though the hedge and took possession of The Big Shadow.