by Håkan Nesser
But there were Venetian blinds. And corridors where the sun was certain not to be shining. She stood there with her hand on the door handle, struggling with an impulse (that in itself was sluggish as a bluebottle high on Coca-Cola, so that the outcome could go either way) not to turn it. To retreat discreetly.
Instead of entering and finding out why he wanted to talk to her. There were good reasons for not going in. Or one, at least: in less than two hours’ time she would be going on leave.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty suffocating minutes. If nothing unexpected happened, that is.
Moreno’s intuition told her that he probably hadn’t asked her to come in order to wish her all the best for her holiday. It hadn’t sounded like that, and in any case, to do so wouldn’t be Reinhart’s style.
If nothing unexpected happened . . . ?
In a strange way, the unexpected didn’t seem to be all that unexpected. If she’d been offered decent odds, she might well have bet on it. That’s the way it was when you were in the lacklustre police business, and it wouldn’t be the first time . . .
So, to beat a retreat, or not to beat a retreat: that was the question. She could always explain that something had turned up. That she hadn’t had time to call in, as he’d put it.
Call in? That sounded a bit dodgy, surely?
Call in at my office some time after lunch. It won’t take long . . .
Bugger bugger, she thought. It sounded as potentially deadly as a hungry cobra.
After a brief internal struggle, the drugged-up bluebottle drowned, and her Lutheran-Calvinistic copper’s conscience won the day. She sighed, turned the handle and went in. Flopped down on the visitor’s chair with her misgivings dancing around in her head like butterflies greeting the arrival of summer. And in her stomach.
‘You wanted to see me,’ she said.
Reinhart was standing by the window, smoking, and looking ominous. She noticed that he was wearing flip-flops. Light blue.
‘Salve,’ he said. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘What do you have to offer?’ Moreno asked, and that cold beer floated into her mind’s eye again.
‘Water. With or without bubbles.’
‘I think I’ll pass,’ said Moreno. ‘If you don’t mind. Well?’
Reinhart scratched at his stubble and put his pipe down on the window ledge beside the flowerpot.
‘We’ve found Lampe-Leermann,’ he said.
‘Lampe-Leermann?’ said Moreno.
‘Yes,’ said Reinhart.
‘We?’ said Moreno.
‘Some colleagues of ours. Out at Lejnice. In Behrensee, to be precise, but they took him to Lejnice. That was the nearest station.’
‘Excellent. And about time, too. Any problems?’
‘Just the one,’ said Reinhart.
‘Really?’ said Moreno.
He flopped down on his desk chair, opposite her, and gave her a look that was presumably meant to express innocence. Moreno had seen it before, and sent a prayer flying out through the window. ‘Not again, please!’ was its essence.
‘Just the one problem,’ said Reinhart again.
‘Shoot,’ said Moreno.
‘He’s not really prepared to cooperate.’
Moreno said nothing. Reinhart fiddled with the papers on his desk and seemed uncertain of how to continue.
‘Or rather, he is prepared to cooperate – but only if he can talk to you.’
‘What?’ said Moreno.
‘Only if he can talk to—’
‘I heard what you said,’ interrupted Moreno ‘But why on earth does he want to talk to me?’
‘God knows,’ said Reinhart. ‘But that’s the way it seems to be – don’t blame me. Lampe-Leermann is prepared to make a full confession, but only if he can lay it at your feet. Nobody else’s. He doesn’t like policemen, he says. Odd, don’t you think?’
Moreno contemplated the picture hanging above Reinhart’s head. It depicted a pig in a suit standing in a pulpit and throwing television sets to a congregation of ecstatic sheep. Or possibly judges wearing wigs, it was difficult to say which. She knew the chief of police had asked him several times to take it down, but it was still there. Rooth had suggested that it was symbolic of the freedom of thought and level of understanding within the police force, and Moreno had a vague suspicion that it could well be an accurate interpretation. Although she had never asked Reinhart himself. Nor the chief of police, come to that.
‘My leave begins two hours from now,’ she said, trying to give him a friendly smile.
‘They’re holding him out at Lejnice,’ said Reinhart, unmoved. ‘A nice spot. It would take just one day. Two at most. Hmm.’
Moreno stood up and walked over to the window.
‘Mind you, if you would prefer to have him brought here, that wouldn’t be a problem,’ said Reinhart from behind her back.
She gazed out over the town and the ridge of high pressure. It was a few days old, but it seemed to be here to stay. That’s what fru Bachman on the ground floor had said, and the meteorologists on the television as well. She decided not to respond. Not without a solicitor present, or a more detailed instruction. Ten seconds passed, and the only sound was from the bustle of the town down below, and the soft tip-tap from Reinhart’s flip-fops as he shuffled about.
Flip-flops? she thought. Surely he could get himself a pair of sandals at least. A chief inspector in light-blue flip-flops?
Perhaps he’d been to the swimming baths at lunchtime and forgotten to change? Or maybe he’d been to see the chief of police and put them on as a sort of irreverent protest? It was hard to say as far as Reinhart was concerned: he liked to make a point.
He gave up in the end.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Get a grip, Inspector. We’ve been after this bloody prat for several months now, and at last Vrommel has caught up with him . . .’
‘Vrommel? Who’s Vrommel?’
‘The chief of police in Lejnice.’
Reluctantly, Moreno began to consider the possibility. Remained standing with her back turned to Reinhart as the image of Lampe-Leermann appeared in her mind’s eye . . . Not much of a name in the underworld, quite small fry in fact: but it was true that they had been on his tail for quite a while. He was strongly suspected of being involved in a few armed robberies in March and April, but that wasn’t the point. Or at least, not the main point.
The big thing is that he mixed with certain other gentlemen who were much bigger heavyweights than he was. Leading lights in so-called Organized Crime, to use a term that was heard all too often nowadays. There was no doubt about his links, and Lampe-Leermann had a reputation for grassing. A reputation for being more concerned – in certain difficult circumstances at least – about his own skin than that of others, and willing to inform the police authorities of what he knew. If doing so would serve his own ends, and could be treated with appropriate discretion.
And it could be in this case. At least, there was good reason for thinking so. Reinhart was inclined to think so, and Moreno tended to agree with him. In principle, at least. That was why they had made a bigger effort than usual when it came to tracking down Lampe-Leermann. That was why they had found him. Today of all days.
But the news that he was only prepared to unburden his mind to Inspector Moreno had come as a bit of a surprise, no question. That was something they hadn’t reckoned with. Neither her nor anybody else. Just some malevolent little gremlin, no doubt . . . Damn and blast, you can never . . .
‘He likes you,’ said Reinhart, interrupting her train of thought. ‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think he remembers when we were playing a game of good-cop bad-cop with him a few years ago. Anyway, that’s the way it is. He wants to talk to you, and nobody else. But there’s the minor matter of your leave, of course . . .’
‘Exactly,’ said Moreno, returning to her chair.
‘It’s not so far up to Lejnice,’ said Reinhart. ‘A hundred and twen
ty kilometres or thereabouts, I should think . . .’
Moreno said nothing. Closed her eyes instead and fanned herself with yesterday’s Gazett that she had picked up from the pile of newspapers on the desk.
‘Then I came to think of that house you’re going to – didn’t you say it was in Port Hagen?’
Oh my God! Moreno thought. He remembers. He’s been doing his homework.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Port Hagen, that’s right.’
Reinhart tried to look innocent again. He’d be good as the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, Moreno thought.
‘If I’m not much mistaken it’s quite close by,’ he said. ‘It must be only ten kilometres or so north of Lejnice. I used to go there when I was a kid. You’d be able to . . .’
Moreno threw away the newspaper with a resigned gesture.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Don’t go on. I’ll sort it out. Damn it all, you know as well as I do that Lampe-Leermann is the nastiest, creepiest piece of work that ever wore a pair of hand-sewn shoes . . . or a signet ring. Apart from anything else he always stinks of old garlic. Note that I said old garlic – I’ve nothing against the fresh stuff. But I’ll sort it out, you don’t need to strain yourself any more. Damn it all once again! When?’
Reinhart walked over to the flowerpot in order to empty his pipe.
‘I told Vrommel you’d probably turn up tomorrow.’
Moreno stared at him.
‘Have you fixed a time without consulting me?’
‘Probably,’ said Reinhart. ‘I said you’d probably turn up tomorrow. What the hell’s the matter with you? Aren’t we playing for the same team any more, or what’s going on?’
Moreno sighed.
‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’d planned to set off tomorrow morning anyway, so it won’t involve a lot of disruption. In fact.’
‘Good,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll ring Vrommel and confirm that you’re coming. What time?’
She thought for a moment.
‘About one. Tell him that I’ll be there at around one, and that Lampe-Leermann shouldn’t be given any garlic with his lunch.’
‘Not even fresh?’ wondered Reinhart.
She didn’t answer. As she was on her way out through the door, he reminded her of how serious the situation was.
‘Make sure you squeeze out of that bastard every bloody name he can give us. Both you and he will get a bonus for every arsehole we can put behind lock and key.’
‘Of course,’ said Moreno. ‘But there’s no need to swear so much. I like the colour of your shoes, though – it makes you look really young again . . .’
Before Reinhart could respond she was out in the corridor.
4
It wasn’t until she was at home and in the shower that she realized it was an omen.
What else could it be? How else could one interpret it? Franz Lampe-Leermann simply turning up out of the blue and attacking her holiday two hours before it started? Surely that was highly unlikely? Or highly significant, depending on how you looked at it. He had managed to keep out of the way of the police since about the middle of April – that was when they started searching for him seriously, after a particularly clumsy bank raid in Linzhuisen on Maundy Thursday – and then the stupid idiot goes and gets himself arrested just now! In Lejnice, of all places.
Lejnice. A small, unremarkable coastal town with about twenty to twenty-five thousand inhabitants. Plus a few extra thousands in the summer. And situated, just as Reinhart had said, a mere ten kilometres away from the place she’d planned to spend the first two weeks of her holiday.
Port Hagen. An even smaller place in the sticks – but little places in the sticks were sometimes attractive places to be, and that’s where Mikael Bau happened to have his holiday home.
Mikael Bau? she thought. My neighbour and occasional partner.
Occasional? she then thought. Partner? It sounded daft. But any other way of describing it sounded even dafter. Or wrong, at least.
Fiancé? Lover? Boyfriend?
Could you have boyfriends when you were thirty-two?
Perhaps just my bloke, she thought in the end. Closed her eyes and started to rub the jojoba shampoo into her hair. She had lived for over two years without a bloke since getting rid of Claus Badher, and they hadn’t exactly been brilliant years – neither for herself nor for those she associated with, she was the first to admit that.
They were not years she would wish to go through again, although she supposed she had learned quite a bit. Perhaps that was how one should look at it. And she didn’t want the years she’d spent with Claus back either. Good Lord no, that would have been even less desirable.
All in all, seven wasted years, she decided. Five with Claus, two on her own. Was she on the way to building up a totally wasted life? she asked herself. Was that what was really happening?
Who knows? she thought. Life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans. She massaged her hair a little longer with the shampoo, then started rinsing all the suds away.
In any case, it was too soon to predict what would become of her relationship with Mikael Bau. At least, she had no desire to predict, not at the moment. It was last winter when she’d begun to see him: he’d invited her to share his evening meal the same day that his former girlfriend had dumped him – the middle of December it was, during those awful weeks when they’d been searching for Erich Van Veeteren’s murderer – but it was another month before she’d invited him back. And another six weeks before she’d committed herself and gone to bed with him. Or they had committed themselves. The beginning of March, to be precise. The fourth – she remembered the date because it was her sister’s birthday.
And they had carried on meeting, of course. Even if she was a detective inspector and he was a welfare officer, they were only human.
That’s how he used to put it. Bollocks to all that, Ewa! Whatever else we are, we’re only human.
She liked that. It was unassuming and sensible. Nothing like what Claus Badher would have said, and the less Mikael Bau reminded her of Claus Badher, the better. That was a simple but intuitively infallible way of judging things. Sometimes it was best to take an easy way out when it came to your emotional life, she was old enough to see that. Perhaps one ought to do that all the time, she sometimes thought. Cut out the psychology and live according to instinct instead. And it was nice to be desired, she had to admit. Carpe diem, perhaps?
Easily said, harder to do, she thought as she emerged from the shower. Rather like stopping thinking about something on demand. Whatever, Mikael Bau happened to own this old house in Port Hagen. Or rather, owned it together with four siblings, if she understood it rightly. It was a sort of family jewel, and this year it was his turn to have access to it in July.
Big and dilapidated, he had warned her. But charming, and very private. With running water – sometimes, at least. A hundred metres to the beach.
It sounded like everything a lousily paid police inspector could ask for, and without much pause for thought she had said yes please to the offer of a couple of weeks. Well, no pause at all, to be honest: it was a Sunday morning in May, they had made love and had breakfast in bed. In that order. Some days were easier to organize than others – hardly an earth-shattering insight.
So, two weeks in the middle of July. With her bloke, by the seaside.
And now Franz Lampe-Leermann!
A five-star bastard of an omen, and incredibly poor timing.
She wondered again what it could mean. But then, perhaps there was no point in trying to find a meaning in everything?
As the Chief Inspector used to point out now and again.
After the shower she packed her things, then rang Mikael Bau. Without going into too much detail she explained that she would be arriving at some point in the afternoon rather than in time for lunch, because something had turned up.
Work? he’d wondered.
Yes, work, she’d admitted.
He laug
hed, and said that he loved her. He’d started saying that recently, and it was remarkable how ambivalent it made her feel.
I love you.
She hadn’t said that to him. It would never occur to her to say that until she felt sure of it. They’d talked about it. He’d agreed with her, of course – what else could he have done, for God’s sake? Said that it didn’t matter as far as he was concerned. The difference was that he was sure. Already.
How could he be? she’d wanted to know.
He explained that he hadn’t had his fingers burnt as badly as she had, and so felt able to stick his neck out and venture into the unknown rather sooner than she could.
A likely story, Moreno thought. We all have our private relationship with language and words, especially the language of love. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with bad experiences.
But she wondered – had often wondered – what the facts really were with regard to his former girlfriend, Leila. They’d been together for over three years, he’d told her, and yet the same evening that she’d dumped him he had marched up the stairs to her flat on the next floor, and rung her doorbell. Invited her to dinner – the dinner he’d prepared for Leila. Just like that. Surely that was a bit odd?
When she asked him about it, he’d blamed the food. He’d prepared a meal for two. You didn’t slave away in the kitchen for an hour and a half, he claimed, and then gobble it all up yourself within ten minutes. No way.
That brought them round to the question of food.
‘If you can bring a bottle of decent white wine with you, I’ll see if I can find a bit of edible fish for you. There’s an old bloke with a stall in the market square who has his own little boat and sells his own catch every morning. He has a wooden leg, believe it or not – the tourists take two thousand pictures of him every summer . . . I’ll see what he’s got to offer.’
‘Okay, let’s do that,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ll assume that you get something tasty. I’ve given you an extra three hours, after all. Incidentally . . .’
‘Well?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Come off it!’
