by Håkan Nesser
“What was she doing there?” wondered Mooser.
“Running,” said Van Veeteren. “Westward.”
Silence again.
“Expected to be back home by eight,” said Munster.
“Was she alone?” asked Kropke.
Van Veeteren shrugged and looked at Munster.
“Yes,” he said. “All by herself-I think it might be a good idea for Munster and me to go and take a look. Maybe we could take Mooser with us?”
Bausen nodded.
“Back in two hours?” he suggested. “I think Kropke and I will take a little trip out to Podworsky’s place in the mean time-to see how the land lies, if nothing else.”
“Is that it?” asked Van Veeteren.
Mooser nodded.
“Sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Mooser. “It’s hers. Mazda 323 I’ve even helped her change the fan belt.”
“It’s hers,” muttered Munster.
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “It was more or less down there that I saw her-two or three hundred yards from here, I should think.”
He pointed toward the beach. It was no longer the deserted stretch of sand it had been the evening before. It was Saturday, and masses of men, women and children were sauntering about down below. A group of long-haired youths were play ing football, dogs were romping around, and several kites were bobbing about in the wind-yellow trembling lumps of butter against the practically clear blue sky. The clouds, the mist and showers of the last few days seemed to have blown away dur ing the night; the gulls were soaring high again and the air felt pure. Salty and invigorating.
Munster bit his lip. Van Veeteren was swaying back and forth, looking for once at a loss. Unless it’s just a pose, thought
Munster. Wouldn’t surprise me.
It was Mooser who broke the spell.
“Do you think-?” he said.
“We don’t think anything,” interrupted Van Veeteren.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“But-?”
“Shut up!” said Van Veeteren. “This is no time to be playing guessing games. Do you know what track she used to follow?”
“Well,” said Mooser, “Track and track-back and forth along the beach, perhaps. Or maybe she would take the path through the woods on the way back.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “Did she always go jogging on her own?”
“No,” said Mooser. “I think she and Gertrude Dunckel used to run together sometimes.”
“Who’s she?” asked Munster.
“A friend of hers. Works at the library-”
“Did she have a boyfriend?” asked Van Veeteren.
Mooser thought.
“She used to… but not at the moment. She was with a guy for a few years, then he left her, I think. And then there was
Janos Havel, but I think that’s all over as well.”
“Yes, it’s all over,” said Munster. “Do we have to go through her whole life story before we do something?”
Mooser cleared his throat.
“The beach out and the woods back?”
“Just the woods,” said Van Veeteren. “They’d have already found her if she was on the beach-he doesn’t usually bother too much about hiding them.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Munster.
“I assume the car was her starting and finishing point,” said
Van Veeteren, ignoring Munster. “Do you know if there’s more than one path? Through the woods, I mean?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mooser. “It’s only a narrow stretch of trees, in fact. There’s a path that most people use-quite hilly. Shall we try that?”
“Let’s get going, then!” said Van Veeteren. “We haven’t got all day.”
“Don’t drive so damn fast,” said Bausen. “We must be clear about what we’re going to do when we get there.”
Kropke slowed down.
“Have you got your weapon with you?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Bausen. “I had the feeling something funny was going on. I take it you have yours as well?”
Kropke slapped under his arm.
“Thank God, it isn’t dangling against your thigh, at least,” muttered Bausen. “Stop! This is where we turn off.”
Kropke braked and turned onto the narrow ribbon of asphalt running over the heath. A flock of big black rooks busy with the dead body of some small animal or other took off from the road and landed again the moment they’d passed.
Cawing loudly, and self-assured.
Bausen turned to gaze over the desolate wilderness. In the far distance he could make out the skeletons of a row of low buildings, more or less dilapidated-a few walls, roofs destroyed by the rain; once upon a time, half a century or more ago, they had served a purpose. When peat was still being cut from these marshy wastes, he recalled. Odd that the drying sheds were still standing; he recalled how they had ful filled a different function when he was a kid-love nests for the young people of the district with no homes to go to. It had been quite an undertaking to get out here, of course, but once that detail had been fixed, these isolated buildings provided excellent opportunities for all kinds of intimacies-almost like the urga s of the Mongols, it struck him. Holy sites dedicated to love. He had no difficulty in remembering two, no, three occasions when it really did happen…
“That’s it just ahead of us, isn’t it?” said Kropke.
Bausen turned to look ahead and agreed. There it was.
Eugen Podworsky’s house, scantily protected by a rectangle of spruce firs. He was familiar with its history. Built toward the end of the previous century, it had served for a few decades as the home of the more senior peat-cutter families, before the bottom fell out of the industry and it became uneconomical early in the twentieth century; and eventually, like so much else in Kaalbringen and vicinity, it fell into the hands of Ernst
Simmel. And eventually into the none-too-tender care of
Eugen Podworsky.
“It looks like hell,” said Kropke as he parked in the shelter of a comparatively bushy double spruce.
“I know,” said Bausen. “Can you see the truck anywhere?”
Kropke shook his head.
“No point in trying to creep up on him,” said Bausen. “If he’s at home, he’ll have been watching us for the last five minutes-plenty of time to load his shotgun and take position in the kitchen window.”
“Ugh,” said Kropke. “No wonder Simmel didn’t succeed in evicting him.”
“Hmm,” said Bausen. “I don’t understand why he even bothered to try. Who do you think would want to buy a place like this?”
Kropke considered that one.
“No idea,” he said. “Some naive newcomer, perhaps. What shall we do, then?”
“We’d better get inside and check the place out,” said
Bausen. “Now that we’re here. I’ll go first. Keep some way behind me, and have your pistol at the ready in case anything happens. You never know-”
“OK,” said Kropke.
“But I don’t think he’s in.”
Bausen got out of the car and followed the row of straggly fir trees, passing through the gateway, where a rusty, peeling mailbox bore witness to the fact that the post office still made the effort to drive the extra miles over the heath-presumably because Podworsky had threatened to kill the manager if he withdrew the service, Bausen thought. He took the newspaper out of the mailbox.
“Today’s,” he confirmed. “You can put your revolver back in your armpit. He’s not at home.”
They walked along the path to the veranda. On either side of the door was a worn-out leather armchair and a hammock.
Evidently Eugen Podworsky was in the habit of making the most of warm summer and fall evenings. About ten crates of empty bottles were stacked up against the wall; piles of news papers were all over the place, and on a rickety metal table were a transistor radio, a large can full of sand with cigarette butts sticking out of it, and a bad
ly washed beer glass. A yel lowish gray cat rubbed itself against the table leg; another one, slightly darker, lay outstretched in front of the door.
“Well,” said Kropke, “now what?”
“God only knows,” said Bausen. “Who interrogated Pod worsky after the Simmel murder? I take it we’ve interviewed him?”
Kropke scratched his unoccupied armpit.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “Moerk… yes, it was Moerk, I’m sure of it.”
Bausen lit a cigarette. He walked up the veranda steps and over to the door. The cat hissed and shifted a couple of feet to one side.
“It’s open,” said Bausen. “Shall we go in?”
Kropke nodded.
“Do you think the inside will be any better than the out — side?”
“I was here once about twelve or fifteen years ago,” said
Bausen, entering the dingy entrance hall. He looked around. “I don’t think he’s done much in the way of decorating…”
Twenty minutes later they were back in the car.
“A pointless visit,” said Kropke.
“Maybe,” said Bausen. “He has a hell of a lot of books.”
“What do you think, Chief Inspector?”
“What do you think, as new chief of police?”
“I don’t know,” said Kropke, trying to avoid sounding embarrassed. “Difficult to say. Coming here wasn’t much help, though. We need to get hold of the man himself. Give him an aggressive interrogation. I think it would help if we were a bit rougher with him than we usually are.”
“You think so?” said Bausen.
Kropke started the car.
“Where do you think he is?”
“In Fisherman’s Square, presumably,” said Bausen. “I seem to remember he has a stall there on Saturdays-I take it you noticed the greenhouses around the back?”
“Yes… of course,” said Kropke. “Shall we go pick him up?
Or do we have to leave him alone because we didn’t find any bloodstained clothing under the bed?”
Bausen said nothing for some time.
“I think we’d better ask the advice of our guests first,” he said. “We have the little problem of Inspector Moerk as well, or had you forgotten that?”
Kropke drummed at the steering wheel.
“Do you think… do you think they’ve found her?”
“I sincerely hope not,” said Bausen. “Not in the state that you’re hinting at, in any case.”
Kropke swallowed and stepped on the gas. He suddenly saw the previous victims with their almost severed heads in his mind’s eye. He glanced down and saw that his knuckles had turned white.
God, he thought, surely she can’t be…
“Nothing?” asked Bausen.
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “Thank God, I suppose you could say. But I’m afraid it’s not much to celebrate-she hasn’t come back from jogging.”
“How do you know?”
“Her car. It’s still parked next to the smokehouse,” said
Mooser.
Bausen nodded.
“What about you?” asked Munster.
“Left the nest,” said Bausen with a shrug.
“The market?” suggested Mooser. “He usually sells vege tables in the square.”
Kropke shook his head.
“No. We’ve just come from there. He hasn’t shown up today.”
“Ah, well,” said Van Veeteren with a sigh, draping his jacket over the back of his chair. “We need to get a grip now. This business is becoming as clear as porridge.”
“Bang,” said Bausen. “Go to Sylvie’s and tell her we need something really special today.”
Bang saluted and left the room. The others sat down around the table, apart from Van Veeteren, who opened the window and stood gazing out over the rooftops. The chief of police leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. He sighed deeply and stared at the portraits of three of his prede cessors on the wall opposite.
“OK,” he said after a while. “What the hell do we do now?
Please be kind to somebody who’s about to become an old aged pensioner! What the hell do we do now?”
“Hmm,” said Munster. “That’s a good question.”
“I have one more week before I retire,” said Bausen, blow ing his nose. “Fate seems to want me to spend it trying to find one of my inspectors. Find her in some damn ditch with her head cut off-that’s what I call a great way to end a career.”
“Oh, shit,” said Munster.
Nobody spoke. Bausen had clasped his hands in front of him now and closed his eyes. For a brief moment it seemed to
Munster that he was praying, but then he opened both his eyes and his mouth again.
“Yes, a big heap of shit is what I’m surrounded by,” he said.
“Ah, well,” said Van Veeteren, sitting down. “That could well be. But perhaps we ought to spend a little less time swear ing and a little more trying to get somewhere-that’s just a modest suggestion, of course.”
“Excuse me,” said Bausen, sighing deeply. “You’re right, of course, but we might as well wait for the coffee, don’t you think? Kropke, you can tell us the Podworsky story, as we intended in the first place.”
Kropke nodded and started sorting out his papers.
“Shall we make this public knowledge?” asked Mooser.
“That she’s… disappeared, I mean.”
“Let’s take that later,” said Van Veeteren. “It can wait for a second or two, I think.”
“Podworsky,” said Kropke. “Eugen Pavel. Born 1935. Came to Kaalbringen as an immigrant at the end of the fifties. Got a job at the canning factory, like so many others. To start with, he lived in the workers’ hostel down there; but when they pulled it down, he moved out to the house on the heath. It had been empty for a few years, and the reason he was allowed to move in was that he was engaged to Maria Massau, whom he was liv ing with. She’s the sister of Grete Simmel-”
“Aha,” said Munster. “Ernst Simmel’s brother-in-law.”
“More or less, yes,” said Bausen. “Carry on!”
“Podworsky has always been an odd type, you could say.
Difficult to deal with, as many people have found to their cost.
On the booze from time to time-the very thought of allow ing that poor woman to live out there on the heath-well, it can’t have been a great time for her…”
“Go on,” said Bausen.
“Then there was that killing in 1968. For some unknown reason-and entirely out of character-Podworsky had in vited some fellow workers out to his house-men only, if I’ve understood it correctly?”
Bausen nodded.
“There was some hard drinking, one assumes, and eventu ally one of them made a pass at Maria-a bit of flirting, proba bly no more than that, but Podworsky was furious. He started an enormous row that ended with him kicking the whole lot of them out of the house, apart from the one who had made the pass. He kept him inside, and beat him to death with a poker later that night-Klaus Molder, his name was.”
“Found guilty of manslaughter,” said Bausen, taking up the tale. “Was inside at Klejmershuus for six years. In the mean time, Maria Massau fell ill with leukemia. She’d had it since she was a child, it seems, but it had been dormant. She got worse and worse, and died the same month that Podworsky was released.”
“Did they let him out on parole to see her?” asked Van
Veeteren.
“Yes, but she didn’t want to see him,” said Kropke, taking over once again. “I don’t think she needed to, in fact. She was living with the Simmels for most of the time-more often in the hospital toward the end, of course. When Podworsky got out, he moved straight back into the house, even though it was
Simmel who owned it and had only allowed him to live there because of the family connection, as it were. Anyway, Simmel tried to kick him out several times, but he eventually gave up.”
“Why?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Dunno,” said Kro
pke.
“No,” said Bausen. “It’s unclear if he simply got tired of try ing, or if there was some other reason, as rumor had it. Has had it for years.”
“What kind of rumor?” wondered Munster.
“All kinds,” said Bausen. “That Podworsky had scared the shit out of Simmel, for instance-to put it bluntly-or that he had some kind of hold over him.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“OK,” he said. “They weren’t especially well liked in Kaal bringen, either of them, if I’ve understood the situation cor rectly?”
“Right,” said Kropke.
“Why was Podworsky given early retirement?” asked Van
Veeteren. “Was that immediately after he was released from jail?”
“More or less,” said Bausen. “He’d managed to pick up a back injury or something of the sort while in prison-didn’t have much chance of getting another job anyway, I suppose.”
“And so he’s been living out there on his own ever since,” said Kropke. “Since 1974… a real prairie wolf, you could say.”
“No more brushes with the law since then?” asked Munster.
“Well…” said Bausen. “It was rumored that he was distill ing and selling moonshine, or buying it from the Eastern bloc duty-free. I was out there at the end of the seventies, but I didn’t find anything. Maybe he’d been tipped off.”
Van Veeteren scratched his head with a pencil.
“Yep,” he said. “And then there’s this Aarlach business…”
“I must say it’s a damn peculiar coincidence,” said the chief of police. “Don’t you think? What the hell was he doing there? It’s a hundred and fifty miles from here, and Eugen Podworsky has never been renowned as a great traveler, quite the contrary.
What was the date, by the way?”
“March 15, 1983,” said Kropke. “For some reason or other he gets involved in a violent barroom brawl with two young med ical students, one of whom is Maurice Ruhme. They smash up furniture and fittings to the tune of thousands of guilders, and both Podworsky and Ruhme’s pal are hospitalized for several weeks. There’s talk of prosecution, but eventually a settlement is reached-”
“Jean-Claude Ruhme?” said Van Veeteren.
“Presumably,” said Bausen. “We have to dig deeper into this, I guess. Get more flesh on the bones from Melnik; and track down this other student, Christian Bleuwe, wasn’t that his name?”
