by Håkan Nesser
That was all he said. Promised to ring again later. And even if this call more or less corresponded to what Innings had been hoping for deep down, it increased his nervous tension even more—with another sleepless night as the outcome.
Needless to say, his sensitive stomach reacted accordingly; when he phoned in sick on Wednesday morning at least he had a legitimate physical excuse.
Perhaps he also felt emotionally calm when he settled down with his newspaper after Ulrike and the kids had left, but it didn't last long. He realized that subconsciously he'd been hoping to find something in the paper—the discovery of a woman killed in mysterious circumstances up in Saaren, or something like that—but, of course, there wasn't a single word about any such incident. Besides, it was obvious that the morning papers wouldn't have had time to carry such news. Biedersen had phoned at about half past eight. No matter what had happened next, the papers wouldn't have had time to print it. Innings had been working in the trade for nearly thirty years, so he should know.
The broadcast journalists would have had a better chance. He switched on the radio and didn't miss a single bulletin all morning. But there was nothing. Not a single word.
Something might be about to happen, that's what Biedersen had said.
What?
I'll be in touch.
When?
Minutes passed. As did hours. It wasn't until five minutes past twelve that the telephone rang.
It was the police. For one confused second this fact almost caused him to lose control of himself. He was on the point of coming out with the whole story, but then he realized that, of course, this was how he would be informed of what had happened.
If this woman really had been found shot up in Saaren, and there was even the slightest of links to the other murders, this was naturally how the police would react.
They would be in touch with all thirty-one and try to winkle out if anybody knew anything.
He came to this conclusion while talking to the police officer, who asked to come see him, and then when he sat waiting, he was pretty confident that he hadn't given himself away.
He had expressed surprise, obviously. Why would the police want to question him again? Routine questions? Okay, fair enough.
But while he waited, the other possible scenario dawned on him.
Biedersen might not have succeeded in killing the woman.
If the opposite had been the case—if it was Biedersen who had been killed—well, there was every reason for the police to come visiting.
Every reason. He could feel his guts tying themselves in knots as this possibility became a probability.
Even more reason, in fact, than if Biedersen had succeeded in what he had set out to do, and when he opened the door and let in the woman who identified herself as a detective constable, he was convinced he knew why Biedersen hadn't been in touch later, as he had promised.
I must keep a straight face, he thought. No matter what has happened, I must keep a straight face.
It felt like clutching at straws. Thin and worn-out straws. But he knew that there wasn't anything else to clutch at.
She sat down on the sofa. Held her notebook at the ready while he served up tea and cookies. She didn't seem to be about to come out with something devastating, and he succeeded in calming down a bit.
“Help yourself!”
He flopped down into the armchair opposite her.
“Thank you. Well, there are a few questions we'd like you to answer.”
“Has something happened?”
“Why do you ask that?”
He shrugged. She took a tape recorder out of her bag.
“Are you going to record this? That's not what happened last time.”
“We all have our own ways of working,” she said with a little smile. “Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“Okay,” she said, switching on the tape recorder. “Do you recognize this music?”
VII
February 15–23
25
If there was anything that Chief Inspector Van Veeteren hated, it was press conferences.
The similarity with sitting in the dock during a trial was striking, and the kind of defense you managed was a bit too reminiscent of a guilty man's dodgy evasions. There was something about the very atmosphere on these occasions that seemed to him to express both the general public's latent (and now often openly expressed) fear of the violence inherent in modern society, and its lack of faith in the ability of the police force to put an end to it.
It was just the same this time around. The conference room on the first floor was full to overflowing with journalists and reporters, sitting, standing, taking photographs, and trying to outdo one another in the art of asking biased and insinuating questions.
He had been press-ganged to accompany Hiller and sit behind a cheap, rectangular table overloaded with microphones, cords, and the obligatory bottles of soda water that for some unfathomable reason were always present whenever high-ranking police officers made statements in front of cameras—Reinhart maintained that it had something to do with sponsorship, and it was not impossible that he was right.
Reinhart was often right.
However, the sponsorship Van Veeteren received from the chief of police was virtually nonexistent. As usual, once the questions started to come, Hiller leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed and a sphinxlike expression on his face. He was only too happy to leave all the answers to the chief inspector, who, he was careful to stress, was the person responsible for the investigation. Hiller was merely the administrator and coordinator.
But he provided the introductory information himself, formally dressed in his midnight-blue suit and emphasizing each point by means of forceful tapping on the table by a silver ballpoint pen.
“The murder victim is a certain Karel Innings,” he explained. “According to what we have been able to ascertain, he was shot dead in his home in Loewingen at some time between half past twelve and half past one yesterday, Wednesday. Innings happened to be alone in the house, being home sick with a stomach complaint, and so far we have no definite clues concerning the killer. The victim was hit by a total of five bullets—three in the chest and two below the belt—and the weapon appears to have been a Beringer-75. There are clear indications that the gun was the same one as was used in two previous cases during the last few weeks … the murders of Ryszard Malik and Rickard Maasleitner.”
He paused for a moment, but it was obvious that he had more to say, and no questions were fired at him yet.
“It is thus possible that we are dealing with a so-called serial killer; but there is also a clear link between the people who have lost their lives so far. All three are members of a group who spent their military service in the years 1964 and 1965 at the Staff College here in Maardam, an institution that was later relocated to Schaabe. Our efforts are currently concentrated on trying to discover the precise significance of this link, and of course also providing the best possible level of protection for the remainder of that group.”
“Have you any clues?” interrupted a young woman from the local radio station.
“All questions will be answered shortly by Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, who is sitting here beside me,” Hiller explained with a smile. “But before I throw the meeting open to the floor, just let me point out that you will be given access to all the information we possess at present, and I sincerely hope that we are all on the same side in the hunt for the ruthless murderer we are evidently up against. Thank you.”
The chief of police had said his piece. Van Veeteren leaned forward over the table and glared at the audience.
“Fire away,” he said.
“Was it the same method in this case as well?” said somebody.
“How come the police didn't provide some kind of protection, if it was known that the victim would be one of that group?” wondered somebody else.
“With regard to the method …,” Van Veeteren began.
“With regard to the method,” Van Veeteren repeated, unperturbed, “it was a little different this time. The victim, Innings, that is, evidently invited the perpetrator into his house and offered him tea…. Or her. This naturally suggests …”
“What does that suggest?” yelled a red-haired reporter in the third row.
“It can suggest that he was acquainted with the murderer. At any rate, it seemed that he was expecting him to call.”
“Is it one of the others in the group?” asked somebody from the Allgemejne.
“We don't know,” said Van Veeteren.
“But you have interrogated the whole group?”
“Of course.”
“And will do so again?”
“Naturally.”
“Protection?” somebody repeated.
“We don't have unlimited resources,” explained Van Veeteren. “It obviously requires vast manpower to keep thirty people under observation all around the clock.”
“Is it a madman?”
“A person is presumably not totally sane if he goes out and kills three people.”
“Was there any sign of a struggle at Innings's place? Had he tried to defend himself or anything like that?”
“No.”
“What theories do you have? Surely you have more than just this to go on?”
“Do you have a suspect?” the redhead managed to interject.
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“At this stage we don't have a suspect.”
“Is it a man or a woman?”
“Could be either.”
“What's all this about music being played over the telephone?”
“There are indications that suggest the murderer keeps calling his victims for some time before shooting them. He calls them and plays a particular tune over the phone to them.”
“What tune?”
“We don't know.”
“Why? Why does he ring?”
“We don't know.”
“What do you think?”
“We're working on various different possibilities.”
“Had Innings received one of these phone calls?”
“We haven't clarified that as yet.”
“If he had, surely he'd have contacted the police?”
“You would think so.”
“But he hadn't?”
“No.”
There was a pause. Van Veeteren took a sip of soda water.
“How many police officers are working on this case at the moment?” asked Würgner from Neuwe Blatt.
“All available officers.”
“How many is that?”
Van Veeteren did the calculation.
“About thirty Of various ranks.”
“When do you think you'll be able to close the case?”
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“It's not possible to say.”
“Has it got something to do with the armed forces? The link seems to suggest that.”
“No, I would hardly think so,” said Van Veeteren after a moment's thought.
An elderly and unusually patient editor of a crime-magazine program on one of the television channels had been waving his pen for a while, and now managed to get his oar in.
“What exactly do you want help with? Pictures and stuff?”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “We'd like you to publish photographs and names of all the men in the group, and to write about the telephone calls. Ask the general public to pass on to us any possible tips they may have.”
“Why didn't you release the pictures and so on earlier? You must have known about it after the second murder, surely?”
“It wasn't definite,” said Van Veeteren with a sigh. “It was only an indication.”
“But now it's definite?”
“Yes.”
A gigantic man with a long, gray beard—Van Veeteren knew him to be Vejmanen on the Telegraaf—stood up at the back of the room and bellowed in a voice reminiscent of thunder: “Okay. The interviews with Innings's relatives and friends! What results have they produced?”
“We are still conducting them,” said Van Veeteren. “You'll get the details tomorrow.”
“How kind of you,” thundered Vejmanen. “And when do you think we'll have the next victim?”
Van Veeteren blew his nose.
“Our intention is to pick up the killer before he strikes again,” he explained.
“Excellent,” said Vejmanen. “So shall we say that you are in no particular hurry? This business is going to be newsworthy for four or five days at least…. Possibly a whole week.”
He sat down, and appreciative laughter could be heard here and there in the audience.
“If I understand it rightly,” said a woman whose clothes and makeup suggested that she was attached to some television program, “you will be providing some kind of protection to all the remaining members of this group. But at the same time, one of them might be the murderer. Won't that be a pretty intricate task?”
“Not really,” said Van Veeteren. “I can promise you that we shall cease to protect the murderer from himself the moment we know who he is.”
“Have you made a profile of the killer?” shouted somebody from the back.
“I can't say we have.”
“Will you be making one?”
“I always make a profile of the perpetrator,” said Van Veeteren, “but I don't normally send it out into the ether.”
“Why not?” asked somebody.
The chief inspector shrugged.
“I don't really know,” he said. “I suppose I hold the old-fashioned view that one ought to stick to the facts when it comes to the media. Theories are best suited to the inside of my head. At least, my theories are. Any more questions?”
“How long is it since you failed to solve a case?”
“About eight years.”
“The G-file?”
“Yes. You seem to know about it…. As you can all hear, the level of questioning has sunk. I think we'd better leave it at that.”
“What the hell?” exclaimed the red-haired reporter.
“As I said,” said Van Veeteren, rising to his feet.
“For Christ's sake, this is incredible!” said Reinhart when he, Münster, and Van Veeteren gathered in the chief inspector's office ten minutes later. “The murderer rings the doorbell, is let in, sits down on the sofa, and drinks a cup of tea. Then takes out a gun and kills him. Incredible!”
“And then simply goes away,” Münster added.
“Conclusion?” demanded Van Veeteren.
“He knew him,” said Münster.
“Or her,” said Reinhart.
“You mean the bullet in the balls suggests a her?”
“Yes,” said Reinhart. “I do.”
“But it's hardly any less incredible if it's a woman,” said Münster.
There was a knock on the door and Heinemann came in.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he perched cautiously on the window seat.
“These two are standing here saying it's incredible all the time,” muttered the chief inspector. “I'm just sitting and thinking.”
“I see,” said Heinemann.
“What's everybody else doing?” asked Reinhart.
“Rooth and deBries have gone off to interview the neighbors in a bit more detail,” said Heinemann. “Moreno and Jung were going to take his workplace, I think you said.”
“That's right,” said Van Veeteren. “There doesn't seem to be much point in looking for a murderer among his relatives and friends in this case, but we have to hear what they have to say. Somebody might have noticed something. You can take this little lot, Münster….”
He handed a list to Münster, who read it as he walked slowly backward through the door.
“Heinemann,” said the chief inspector, “I suggest you continue searching for links…. Now
you've got an extra one to work on. Let's hope there's a lower common denominator than the whole group.”
Heinemann nodded.
“I think there will be,” he said. “I'm thinking of asking Hiller for a bit of help in getting me permission to look at their bank details.”
“Bank details?” said Reinhart. “What the hell for?”
“There's no harm in having a look,” said Heinemann. “If these three have been up to something, the odds are it won't withstand all that much daylight. And such things usually leave traces in bank accounts. Is there anything else you want me to do, Chief Inspector?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “You might as well keep on doing what you've been doing.”
Heinemann nodded. Put his hands in his trouser pockets and left Van Veeteren and Reinhart on their own.
“He's not so thick,” said Reinhart. “It's mainly a question of tempo.”
Van Veeteren took out a toothpick and broke it in half.
“Reinhart,” he said after a while. “Will you be so kind as to explain something for me?”
“Shoot,” said Reinhart.
“If it's as Heinemann says and these three have had some kind of criminal past together, and that they know very well … er, knew very well … who the perpetrator is, why the hell did Innings let him in and serve him tea before allowing himself to be shot?”
Reinhart thought for a while, digging away with a matchstick at the bowl of his pipe.
“Well,” he said eventually. “He—or she, I mean—must have been in disguise, I assume. Or else …”
“Well?”
“Or else they know who it is, but don't know what the person looks like. There's a difference. And it was a long time ago, of course.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Have you any cigarettes?”
Reinhart shook his head.
“Afraid not.”
“Never mind. Just a few more questions, so that I know I'm not barking up the wrong tree. If it really is just a small group that the killer is after, Innings must have known that his turn would be coming. Or suspected it, at least. Isn't that right?”
“Yes,” said Reinhart. “Especially if he was going to be the last one.”
Van Veeteren thought about that for a few seconds.
