by Håkan Nesser
‘Correct,’ said Moreno. ‘Although we didn’t discover the link with that priest until yesterday, so there hasn’t been anything about that in the newspapers. We don’t really know any more than I said on the phone. It might be a blind alley, of course, but to be honest that seems a bit unlikely. Or what do you think?’
Van Veeteren opened a cupboard and dug out a couple of cups.
‘Blind alley?’ he said. ‘Like hell. I take it you fancy some coffee?’
Moreno nodded; he put the kettle on and started rummaging in another cupboard.
‘Shall we take things in chronological order?’ he suggested, putting a tray of cinnamon biscuits on the table. ‘That might make sense. As far as I’m aware causes still usually come before effects in most circumstances. So, where do we begin? . . .’
‘Well,’ said Moreno, ‘if we look at the cards we have in our hands at present, it all starts when Pastor Gassel comes to see you . . .’
She looked around and made a hesitant gesture.
‘. . . in this very room, if I’ve understood it rightly.’
Van Veeteren nodded and scattered some coffee powder in the two mugs.
‘Some time around the middle of September?’
‘The fifteenth, I seem to recall.’
‘The fifteenth? In that case it was just over two weeks before he was found dead under a train in Maardam’s Central Station. At about the same time, or possibly slightly later, a certain Martina Kammerle was murdered in her flat in Moerckstraat. Her sixteen-year-old daughter Monica disappeared at the same time, and is still missing. Martina’s body was lying there for over a month before it was discovered, and in a notebook in her daughter’s room we found the name Tomas Gassel . . . Well, that’s about it in a nutshell, you could say.’
‘Nothing else?’ asked Van Veeteren after a few moments’ thought. ‘Was there nothing else apart from the name in that notebook? Telephone number or address, for instance?’
‘No. She’d written it at the very bottom of an empty page. There was nothing else at all.’
Van Veeteren nodded and poured hot water into the mugs.
‘It’s not exactly a common name.’
‘No.’
‘But not all that uncommon either.’
‘No.’
‘Can there be any doubt that he’s the one?’
‘No doubt at all. Krause has checked. There’s one other person in the area with the same name, but he’s only four years old. Lives in Linzhuisen and has no links with the Kammerles whatsoever.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘So it hangs together, does it?’
‘It certainly does,’ said Moreno. ‘Thus far, at least. It’s obviously possible that Monica Kammerle has some kind of normal link with Pastor Gassel, something that has nothing to do with his death or her disappearance, but, well . . . we’ll find that out in due course. At the moment we must assume that there is a more significant connection, of course . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘We can naturally speculate about how that contact came about.’
‘One can always speculate,’ said Van Veeteren, adding milk to the coffee. ‘How long is it since you caught onto this?’
Moreno took a sip and smiled innocently.
‘Can you tell by looking at me?’ she asked. ‘Can you really? Can you see that I haven’t slept a wink, lying in bed, thinking about nothing but this? Rooth caught on last night, and was kind enough to phone me right away.’
‘I can’t see a single trace,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I can assure you that you are the most delicate and fragrant violet in the whole bookshop. Anyway, where exactly are your thoughts leading you?’
Moreno coughed away a smile.
‘It’s pretty self-evident,’ she said. ‘Somebody has killed Martina Kammerle for some reason or other. The same person has removed Pastor Gassel from the stage . . . possibly because he knew the reason for the murder. Monica Kammerle might well have suffered the same fate. It’s just that we haven’t found her yet . . . To reduce matters to basics, that is.’
‘Why complicate matters?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It will get more complicated of its own accord, and second-degree equations have never been one of my strengths . . . But if a certain antiquarian bookseller hadn’t sent a certain priest packing because he had an urgent dental appointment, the Maardam CID wouldn’t be sitting in this hole. That’s what you’re getting at, of course.’
‘I’m not getting at anything,’ Moreno assured him, ‘but let’s face it: there is something in that. The fact is that I have a little request as well.’
‘A request?’ said Van Veeteren, raising an eyebrow.
‘Maybe I should call it a formal invitation. From Reinhart. He wants you to turn up and answer some questions.’
Van Veeteren spilled some coffee on the table.
‘Answer . . . ?’
‘Yes, it follows naturally if you think about it,’ said Moreno. ‘We clearly need to find out as much as possible about that meeting between you and the priest . . .’
‘So you’re going to interrogate me, are you?’
‘Have a chat,’ said Moreno. ‘Not interrogate. Shall we do it now, or leave it until later?’
‘Well, I’ll be damned. But now you mention it, I suppose . . .’
He glanced at his watch.
‘Now,’ he said.
‘Just one condition,’ said Van Veeteren as they clambered out of the car in the police station’s basement garage. ‘If we bump into Hiller I shall do an about-turn and disappear. You’ll have to fetch me by patrol car at Klagenburg instead.’
‘Of course,’ said Moreno, pressing the lift button.
No chief of police put in an appearance in fact, and two minutes later the Chief Inspector was sitting in Reinhart’s smoke-filled office with its owner and Intendent Münster.
‘Nice to see you here,’ said Reinhart with a wry smile. ‘I’ll be damned if you don’t look younger every time I see you.’
‘Natural beauty can’t be repressed in the long run,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘How are things?’
‘We get what we deserve, I suppose,’ said Reinhart. ‘Or what do you think, Münster?’
‘We get what Reinhart deserves, unfortunately,’ said Münster. ‘Hence all the misery. How are things in the book trade?’
‘There are still one or two citizens around who can read,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But there are fewer of them by the day, alas. Anyway, enough of this nonsense. This business with the priest is pretty damned awful . . . and the rest of it. Is the connection any more definite than Moreno indicated?’
Reinhart scratched the back of his neck and pulled a face.
‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘Krause and Jung are looking into it. Gassel’s furniture and belongings have already been put in storage, unfortunately, and his flat has been let. But as I see it, it’s only a matter of time before we’re a hundred per cent certain . . . Everything fits in, and I’m sure that’s how it will turn out. But what I’m most interested in just now is whether we can squeeze out of you any more details of that meeting you had with the priest.’
‘Yes, I can understand that,’ said Van Veeteren, taking out his cigarette machine. ‘But I think I’ve already remembered everything it’s possible to remember. I spoke to Moreno about it a month ago, after all. On my initiative, note that.’
‘Yes, I know about that,’ said Reinhart. ‘We don’t intend to arrest you just yet. Have you anything against my trying to reel off what you said, and you can squeal whenever I put a foot wrong?’
‘Fire away,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘As long as I can smoke in peace and quiet.’
Reinhart leaned back, took a deep breath, and started off.
‘Pastor Gassel comes in to see you at Krantze’s and wants to talk to you. Date: fifteenth of September. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You turn him down, but nevertheless you have the impression there’s som
ething he wants to get off his chest . . . Something he’s been told, that is covered by his vow of silence. He mentions the word “she”.’
Van Veeteren nodded and began rolling a cigarette.
‘A reasonable assumption to make, in the light of what happened later, is that he was referring to Monica Kammerle. Or possibly her mother, although that is significantly less likely as it was in the girl’s room that we found his name, and it was in her handwriting. In any case, “she” must have told this priest about some problem or other. Central to this problem is an unknown person, probably a man, who eventually makes sure all those involved are removed out of the way. Gassel. Martina Kammerle. Monica Kammerle. We haven’t yet found the last-named, but unfortunately that’s probably only a matter of time. Anyway, that’s more or less the scenario as we see it. One of the possibilities, at least.’
Van Veeteren lit his cigarette.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It fits together, just as you say. There’s only one question mark, as far as I can see.’
‘Really?’ said Reinhart.
‘I know what the chief . . . I know what you mean,’ said Münster. ‘You are referring to the minor detail of who did it. The perpetrator. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘There must be some bastard behind all this.’
Reinhart started working on his pipe and tobacco.
‘That thought had occurred to me as well,’ he muttered. ‘Believe it or not. It’s amazing how a former chief inspector can still hit the nail on the head in certain circumstances. Anyway, what indications did you get of a perpetrator of this nature during your conversation with the priest?’
Van Veeteren thought that over for about five seconds.
‘None at all,’ he said. ‘It was hardly a conversation, incidentally. He was with me for about two minutes at most.’
‘Are you sure? There’s nothing you’ve forgotten?’
Van Veeteren snorted.
‘Of course I’m damned well sure. What are you getting at? If there’s one place in this world where I feel at home, it’s inside my own head.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Reinhart. ‘Forgive my insistent style – it would be great fun to submit you to a proper interrogation one of these days, but I don’t suppose that’s likely to happen . . .’
‘I tread the straight and narrow,’ said Van Veeteren grumpily. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of that.’
Reinhart lit his pipe and transformed his mouth into something that might – just possibly – be interpreted as a smile.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘back to business. I spent four hours this morning studying old cases involving strangulation. I can tell you that it made inspiring reading. But I suppose I ought to devote myself now to cases involving victims being pushed under trains . . .’
‘Sounds interesting,’ said Münster. ‘And it would be even more interesting to hear if you found anything.’
‘Keep plodding away and eventually you’ll come across something,’ said Reinhart. ‘Yes, I think so. If we accept the ten-year time limit, as I suggested yesterday, there are only two unsolved cases in the whole country similar to this one – strangulation cases, that is. If I were pressed to be more rigorous, I’d say in fact just one.’
‘So you’re saying he’s been at it before?’ asked Van Veeteren.
‘Yes,’ said Reinhart, pulling a face again. ‘I think that’s what I’m saying. It’s all hypothetical, of course, but the more it rains, the more flourishing theories tend to look. There was a case up at Wallburg last summer which could well have involved a murderer like ours. A twenty-six-year-old woman strangled in her flat. From behind. I’m told it’s more difficult to do from behind. Bare hands. No clues and no suspects. I’m waiting for a call from Wallburg, but I intend to ask Meusse to take a look into it at any event, and come up with an informed guess.’
‘Meusse doesn’t know the meaning of the term uninformed guess,’ said Münster.
‘Exactly,’ said Reinhart.
Van Veeteren stood up and walked over to the window.
‘Stranglers are not among my favourite people,’ he said, gazing out over Wejmargraacht and the misty-grey Wollerimsparken. ‘There’s something extra unpleasant about a murderer who doesn’t even need a weapon.’
‘Perhaps he’s an Eco-murderer?’ suggested Münster. ‘No environmentally damaging aids needed. All natural and healthy.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Reinhart. ‘If I had thoughts like that I’d seek help.’
‘I’m not saying I’m guilty of anything,’ said Van Veeteren, swirling the wine around in his glass. ‘I’m just saying that if . . . if I’d made time to listen to him, maybe two people, and possibly even three, would still be alive, instead of . . . Ah well, that’s all I’m saying. Nothing more.’
‘So I gather,’ said Ulrike Fremdli. ‘You’ve explained that three times now.’
‘Have I?’ said Van Veeteren, staring at his glass in genuine surprise. ‘I suppose that must mean I’m going gaga . . . This is a very good wine, where did you get it from?’
‘The supermarket in Löhr,’ said Ulrike. ‘It’s Californian.’
‘Californian?’
‘Yes.’
‘The times are out of joint,’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘I’d have sworn it was Saint-Émilion at the very least.’
‘I don’t think it’s got anything at all to do with going gaga,’ said Ulrike after a while, contemplating him over the top of her reading glasses. ‘You have a policeman’s soul deep down inside you, and that’s what drives you when something like this crops up. And as you often say, if something keeps us awake at night, we have to come to grips with it. No matter what it is. And anything we dream of more than twice.’
‘Is that what I say?’ asked Van Veeteren. ‘I must be pretty brainy.’
Ulrike laughed and stroked his cheek.
‘I like you so very, very much – do you know that? My mature and serious lover.’
‘Huh. Reinhart maintained that I was looking much younger. But in any case, you’re right. And I’m right as well. There’s somebody at large in this town who in all probability has killed three people, and maybe more. With his bare hands. I don’t like it. I wish I could stop thinking about it, but I can’t . . . What did you say it was, a copper’s soul?’
‘A policeman’s soul,’ said Ulrike. ‘You could also call it your conscience if you wanted to be pedantic about it. Or your duty. Are you intending to devote all your efforts to this business?’
Van Veeteren emptied his glass and sighed.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I might do if they ask me to, but I don’t suppose they dare . . . We’ll see. Anyway, while we’re on the subject . . . I’ve told you all about this business, but there’s one aspect I’m starting to wonder more and more about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What’s behind it all. What exactly it was that the priest wanted to tell me, and what made the killer murder three people – assuming the girl is also dead.’
Ulrike took off her glasses and stared up at the ceiling.
‘I can see your problem,’ she said. ‘Something must have been badly wrong even when he came to see you, of course. No, I have no idea. Have you?’
Van Veeteren shook his head and sat in silence for a while.
‘Speaking of coincidences,’ he said eventually, ‘do you know what turned up at the bookshop today?’
He stood up and went to fetch some books from his briefcase in the study. He handed them over to Ulrike.
‘Deter . . . The Determinant?’ she said in surprise. That’s what you keep going on about and I can never understand. What’s it all about?’
Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
‘What you’ve just said might be the best way of describing it,’ he said. ‘The tiny driving force that governs everything that happens, although we don’t realize that it’s doing so. Something we don’t have a name for yet. I’m looking
for the question whose answer is “life”, as it were.’
‘Rappaport?’ said Ulrike, scrutinizing the covers, one mainly red and the other mainly white. ‘Have you read them?’
‘No,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I can’t read Swedish, unfortunately.’
21
‘Inspector Baasteuwel from Wallburg. Am I speaking to Chief Inspector Reinhart?’
‘You certainly are. What did you say your name was? Baas- . . . ?’
‘. . . -teuwel. I’m ringing in connection with that strangulation case last summer you were wondering about. I was in charge of it. We got nowhere, unfortunately – but that happens in the best of families.’
‘So they say,’ said Reinhart.
‘Incidentally, I know a pretty young cop in Maardam by the name of Moreno: I met her out at Lejnice last summer. Give her a kiss from me, assuming you haven’t cocked things up and let her slip through your fingers.’
Reinhart thought for a moment,
‘Baasteuwel?’ he said. ‘I do believe we’ve met. Are you small and ugly and smoke like a chimney?’
‘That’s me,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘An IQ of two hundred and ten, and the favourite of all the ladies as well. Where do you reckon we met?’
‘Wernerhaven, if I’m not much mistaken,’ said Reinhart. ‘Five or six years ago. A conference about the reorganization of the police force or some similar crap, I don’t remember exactly.’
‘Aha,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Yes, I forget the details as well. But I do remember this damned Kristine Kortsmaa case. A sad business. I spent an awful lot of time on it, in fact . . . last June, it was, but we didn’t get anywhere. Which annoyed me no end, to tell you the truth.’
‘I’ve read about it,’ said Reinhart. ‘You don’t even have a suspect, is that right?’
‘Not a trace of one. The lady was found dead in her flat. Naked, strangled. As clear as day. She’d been out eating and dancing, picked up a bloke and took him home. There wasn’t even anything to suggest they’d had sex . . . The bloody irritating thing is that there were loads of witnesses who saw them dancing at that restaurant. We even had a mock-up image of him to work with, but it didn’t help. Most irritating.’
