Woman with Birthmark

by Håkan Nesser

  At least, that's the way she told herself she had been thinking. Later.

  Afterward. When she was trying to relive what had happened, and when everything was in chaos and one big black hole.

  She inserted her key into the lock. Turned it and found to her surprise that the door wasn't in fact locked. Opened it. Reached out her hand and switched on the light in the hall.

  He was lying just inside the door. On his back with his feet almost on the doormat. His white shirt was dark red, as was the normally light-colored pine floor. His mouth was wide open, and his eyes were staring intently at a point somewhere on the ceiling. His left arm was propped against the little mahogany chest of drawers used to store gloves and scarves, looking as if he had put his hand up in school to answer a question. One of the legs, the right one, of his gray gabardine trousers had slid up almost as far as his knee and exposed that ugly birthmark that looked like a little crocodile—she had been so fascinated by it when they were engaged. By the side of his right hand, half-clenched, next to the shoe rack, was the Telegraaf, folded to reveal a half-solved crossword puzzle. A fly was buzzing around his head, evidently unaware that it was January and that instead of being there, it ought to have been hidden away in some dark crack, asleep for at least three more months.

  She registered all this while standing with her keys dangling between her thumb and index finger. Then she closed the door behind her. She suddenly felt dizzy and automatically opened her mouth to gasp for more air, but it wasn't enough. It was too late. Without a sound she fell headfirst, diagonally over her husband, hitting her eyebrow against the sharp edge of the shoe rack. Her own warm, light-colored blood started trickling down to mingle with his, cold and congealed.

  Sometime later she came around. Tried in vain to shake some life into her husband, and eventually managed to crawl five more meters into the house, staining the floor, carpets, and walls with blood, and phoned for an ambulance.

  It was only after it had arrived and the crew established what had happened that the police were called. By then it was six minutes past one, and it was half an hour after that before the real police work got under way, when Detective Inspector Reinhart and his assistant Jung arrived at the crime scene with forensic technicians and a police doctor. By then Ilse Malik had lost consciousness again, this time as the result of an injection administered by the older and more experienced of the two ambulance men, with a modicum of necessary force.

  By this time Ryszard Malik had been dead for more than five hours, and when Inspector Reinhart announced in some irritation that “we're not going to solve this shitty mess before dawn, gentlemen,” nobody even raised an eyebrow in protest.

  III

  January 20–29

  7

  He could have sworn that he'd disconnected the phone before going to bed, but what was the point of swearing? The telephone—the devil's own invention—was ensconced on his bedside table and was intent on etching its blood-soaked sound waves onto his cerebral cortex.

  Or however you might prefer to express it.

  He opened one reluctant eye and glared at the confounded contraption in a vain attempt to shut it up. It kept on ringing even so. Ring after ring carved its way through his dawn-gray bedroom.

  He opened another eye. The clock on the aforementioned table indicated 7:55. Who in hell's name had the nerve to wake him up on a Saturday morning when he wasn't on duty he wondered. Who?

  In January.

  If there was a month he hated, it was January—it went on forever with rain or snow all day long, and a grand total of half an hour's sunshine.

  There was only one sane way of occupying oneself at this lugubrious time of year: sleeping. Period.

  He stretched out his left hand and lifted the receiver.

  “Van Veeteren.”

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector.”

  It was Reinhart.

  “Why the flaming hell are you ringing to wake me up at half past five on a Saturday morning? Are you out of your mind?”

  But Reinhart sounded as incorruptible as a traffic warden.

  “It's eight o'clock. If you don't want to be contacted, and refuse to buy an answering machine, you can always pull out the plug. If you'd like to listen, Chief Inspector, I can explain how you—”

  “Shut up, Inspector! Get to the point!”

  “By all means,” said Reinhart. “Dead body in Leufwens Allé. Stinks of murder. One Ryszard Malik. The briefing's at three o'clock.”

  “Three?”

  “Yes, three o'clock. What do you mean?”

  “I can get from here to the police station in twenty minutes. You could have phoned me at twelve.”

  Reinhart yawned.

  “I was thinking of going to bed for a bit. I've just left there. Been at it since half past one…. I thought you might like to go there and have a look for yourself.”

  Van Veeteren leaned on his elbow and raised himself to a half-sitting position. Tried to see out through the window.

  “What's the weather like?”

  “Pouring down, and windy. Fifteen meters a second, or thereabouts.”

  “Excellent. I'll stay at home. I suppose I might turn up at three, unless my horoscope advises me not to…. Who's in charge now?”

  “Heinemann and Jung. But Jung hasn't slept for two nights, so he'll probably need some rest soon.”

  “Any clues?”

  “No.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Shot. But the briefing is at three o'clock, not now. I think it's a pretty peculiar setup. That's why I rang. The address is Leufwens Allé 14, in case you change your mind.”

  “Fat chance,” said Van Veeteren, and hung up.

  Needless to say it was impossible to go back to sleep. He gave up at a quarter to nine and went to lie down in the bath instead. Lay there in the half-light and thought back to the previous evening, which he'd spent at the Mephisto restaurant with Renate and Erich.

  The former wife and the lost son. (Who had still not returned and didn't seem to have any intention of doing so.) It had been one of Renate's recurrent attempts to rehabilitate her guilty conscience and the family that had never existed, and the result was just as unsuccessful as one might have expected. The conversation had been like walking on thin ice over dark waters. Erich had left them halfway through dessert, giving as an excuse an important meeting with a lady. Then they had sat there, ex-husband and ex-wife, over a cheese board of doubtful quality, going through agonies as they tried to avoid hurting each other any more than necessary. He had seen her into a taxi shortly after midnight and walked all the way home in the pious hope that the biting wind would whip his brain free from all the murky thoughts lurking inside it.

  That had failed completely. When he got home he had slumped into an armchair and listened to Monteverdi for an hour, drunk three beers, and not gone to bed until nearly half past one.

  A wasted evening, in other words. But typical, that was for sure. Very typical. Mind you, it was January. What else could he have expected?

  He got out of the bath. Did a couple of tentative back exercises in front of the bedroom mirror. Dressed, made breakfast.

  Sat down at the kitchen table with the morning paper spread out in front of him. Not a word about the murder. Naturally enough. It must have happened as the presses were rolling…. Or whatever the presses did nowadays. What was the name of the victim? Malik?

  What had Reinhart said? Leufwens Allé? He had a good mind to phone the inspector and ask a few questions, but pricks of conscience from his better self, or whatever it might have been, got the upper hand, and he refrained. He would find out all he needed to know soon enough. No need to hurry. Better to make the most of the hours remaining before the whole thing got under way, perhaps. There hadn't been a murder since the beginning of December, despite all the holidays, and if it really was as Reinhart said, an awkward-looking case, no doubt they would have their hands full for some time to come. Reinhart generally knew what
he was talking about. More so than most of them.

  He poured himself another cup of coffee, and started studying the weeks chess problem. Mate in three moves, which would presumably involve a few complications.

  · · ·

  “All right,” said Reinhart, putting down his pipe. “The facts of the case. At six minutes past one this morning, an ambulance driver, Felix Hald, reported that there was a dead body at Leufwens Allé 14. They'd gone there because the woman of the house, Ilse Malik, had phoned for an ambulance. She was extremely confused, and had failed to contact the police even though her husband was as dead as a statue…. Four bullet wounds, two in his chest, two below the belt.”

  “Below the belt?” wondered Inspector Rooth, his mouth full of sandwich.

  “Below the belt,” said Reinhart. “Through his willy, if you prefer. She'd come home from the theater, it seems, at about midnight or shortly before, and found him lying in the hall, just inside the door. The weapon seems to be a Berenger-75; all four bullets have been recovered. It seems reasonable to suspect that a silencer was used, since nobody heard anything. The victim is fifty-two years old, one Ryszard Malik. Part owner of a firm selling equipment for industrial kitchens and restaurants, or something of the sort. Not in our records, unknown to us, no shady dealing as far as we are aware. Nothing at all. Hmm, is that it, Heinemann, more or less?”

  Inspector Heinemann took off his glasses and started rubbing them on his tie.

  “Nobody noticed a thing,” he said. “We've spoken to the neighbors, but the house is pretty well protected. Hedges, big yards, that sort of thing. It looks as if somebody simply walked up to the door, rang the bell, and shot him when he opened up. There's no sign of a struggle or anything. Malik was alone at home, solving a crossword and sipping a glass of whiskey while his wife was at the theater. And then, it seems the murderer just closed the door and strolled off. Quite straightforward, if you want to look at it from that point of view.”

  “Sound method,” said Rooth.

  “That's for sure,” said Van Veeteren. “What does his wife have to say?”

  Heinemann sighed. Nodded toward Jung, who gave every sign of finding it difficult to stay awake.

  “Not a lot,” Jung said. “It's almost impossible to get through to her. One of the ambulance men gave her an injection, and that was probably just as well. She woke up briefly this morning. Went on about Ibsen—I gather that's a writer. She'd been to the theater, we managed to get that confirmed by a woman she'd been with … a Bernadette Kooning. In any case, she can't seem to grasp that her husband is dead.”

  “You don't seem to be quite with it either,” said Van Veeteren. “How long have you been awake?”

  Jung counted on his fingers.

  “A few days, I suppose.”

  “Go home and go to bed,” said Reinhart.

  Jung stood up.

  “Is it okay if I take a taxi? I can't tell the difference between right and left.”

  “Of course,” said Reinhart. “Take two if you need them. Or ask one of the duty officers to drive you.”

  “Two?” said Jung as he staggered to the door. “No, one should do.”

  Nobody spoke for a while. Heinemann tried to smooth down the creases in his tie. Reinhart contemplated his pipe. Van Veeteren inserted a toothpick between his lower front teeth and gazed up at the ceiling.

  “Hmm,” he said eventually. “Quite a story, I must say. Has Hiller been informed?”

  “He's away by the seaside,” said Reinhart.

  “In January?”

  “I don't think he intends to go swimming. I've left a message for him in any case. There'll be a press conference at five o'clock; I think it would be best if you take it.”

  “Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I'll need only thirty seconds.”

  He looked around.

  “Not much point in allocating much in the way of resources yet,” he decided. “When do they say his wife is likely to come around? Where is she, incidentally?”

  “The New Rumford Hospital,” said Heinemann. “She should be able to talk this afternoon. Moreno's there, waiting.”

  “Good,” said Van Veeteren. “What about family and friends?”

  “A son at university in Munich,” said Reinhart. “He's on his way here. That's about all. Malik has no brothers or sisters, and his parents are dead. Ilse Malik has a sister. She's also waiting at the Rumford.”

  “Waiting for what, you might ask?” said Rooth.

  “Very true,” said Van Veeteren. “May I ask another question, gentlemen?”

  “Please do,” said Reinhart.

  “Why?” said Van Veeteren, taking out the toothpick.

  “I've also been thinking about that,” said Reinhart. “I'll get back to you when I've finished.”

  “We can always hope that somebody will turn himself in,” said Rooth.

  “Hope springs eternal,” said Reinhart.

  Van Veeteren yawned. It was sixteen minutes past three on Saturday, January 20. The first run-through of the Ryszard Malik case was over.

  Münster parked outside the New Rumford Hospital and jogged through the rain to the entrance. A woman in reception dragged herself away from her crochet work and sent him up to the fourth floor, Ward 42; after explaining why he was there and producing his ID, he was escorted to a small, dirt-yellow waiting room with plastic furniture and eye-catching travel posters on the walls. It was evidently the intention to give people the opportunity of dreaming that they were somewhere else. Not a bad idea, Münster thought.

  There were two women sitting in the room. The younger one, and by a large margin the more attractive of the two, with a mop of chestnut-brown hair and a book in her lap, was Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno. She welcomed him with a nod and an encouraging smile. The other one, a thin and slightly hunchbacked woman in her fifties, wearing glasses that concealed half her face, was fumbling nervously inside her black purse. He deduced that she must be Marlene Winther, the sister of the woman who had just been widowed. He went up to her and introduced himself.

  “Münster, Detective Inspector.”

  She shook his hand without standing up.

  “I realize that this must be difficult for you. Please understand that we are obliged to intrude upon your grief and ask some questions.”

  “The lady has already explained.”

  She glanced in the direction of Moreno. Münster nodded.

  “Has she come around yet?”

  Moreno cleared her throat and put down her book. “She's conscious, but the doctor wants a bit of time with her first. Perhaps we should … ?”

  Münster nodded again: they both went out into the corridor, leaving Mrs. Winther on her own.

  “In deep shock, it seems,” Moreno explained when they had found a discreet corner. “They're even worried about her mental state. She's had trouble with her nerves before, and all this hasn't helped, of course. She's been undergoing treatment for various problems.”

  “Have you interviewed her sister?”

  Moreno nodded.

  “Yes, of course. She doesn't seem all that strong either. We're going to have to tiptoe through the tulips.”

  “Hostile?”

  “No, not really. Just a touch of the big-sister syndrome. She's used to looking after little sister, it seems. And evidently she's allowed to.”

  “But you haven't spoken to her yet? Mrs. Malik, I mean.”

  “No. Jung and Heinemann had a go this morning, but they didn't seem to get anywhere.”

  Münster thought for a moment.

  “Perhaps she doesn't have all that much to tell?”

  “No, presumably not. Would you like me to take her on? We'll be allowed in shortly in any case.”

  Münster was only too pleased to agree.

  “No doubt it would be best for her to talk to a woman. I'll stay in the wings for the time being.”

  · · ·

  Forty-five minutes later they left the hospital together. Sat
down in Münster's car, where Moreno took out her notebook and started going through the meager results of her meeting with Ilse Malik. Münster had spoken to Dr. Hübner—an old, white-haired doctor who seemed to have seen more or less everything—and understood that it would probably be several days before the patient could be allowed to undergo more vigorous questioning. Assuming that would be necessary, that is.

  Hübner had called it a state of deep shock. Very strong medicines to begin with, then a gradual reduction. Unable to accept what had happened. Encapsulation.

  Not surprising in the circumstances, Münster thought.

  “What did she actually say?” he asked.

  “Not a lot,” said Moreno with a sigh. “A happy marriage, she claimed. Malik stayed at home yesterday evening while she went to see A Doll's House at the Little Theater. Left home about half past six, drank a glass of wine with that friend of hers afterward. Took a taxi home. Then she starts rambling. Her husband had been shot and lay in the hall, she says. She tried to help him but could see that it was serious, so she called an ambulance. She must have delayed that for getting on an hour, if I understand the situation rightly. Fell asleep and managed to injure herself too. She thinks her husband is in this same hospital and wonders why she's not allowed to see him…. It's a bit hard to know how to handle her: the nurse tried to indicate what had happened, but she didn't want to know. Started speaking about something else instead.”

  “What?”

  “Anything and everything. The play—a fantastic production, it seems. Her son. He hasn't time to come because of his studies, she says. He's training to be a banking lawyer, or something of the sort.”

  “He's supposed to be arriving about an hour from now,” said Münster. “Poor bastard. I suppose the doc had better take a look at him as well.”

  Moreno nodded.

  “He'll be staying with his aunt for the time being. We can talk to him tomorrow.”