Woman with Birthmark

by Håkan Nesser

  It was quite a long time since she had started out on this mission. There was only one of them left. Just one of them still alive, she thought as she returned to the little cottage by the lake.

  And in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp she arranged his death.

  Later, at first light, she woke up and was unable to fall asleep again. So she got up and dressed. Went down to the lake and walked out onto the jetty. Stood there for quite a while, gazing out over the dark water and the mists, and trying to recall the almost ecstatic rapture she had felt in the beginning. Trying to weigh that against the calm she felt now.

  The superior feeling of perfection and control.

  She could find no real balance—but nor could she find any objections. Everything was falling into place. Soon it would be over. Everything.

  Two more days, she decided. In two more days. That might be a good time, bearing in mind the date as well.

  Then she went back indoors, and sat down at the table. Started writing.

  At my mother's interment…

  39

  Melgarves? Something about this Melgarves rang a bell….

  Jung fished around among the papers cluttering up his desk.

  “Did you serve Maureen breakfast in bed today, then?”

  Jung looked up.

  “Eh? Why on earth should I do that?”

  “You mean you don't know what day it is today?” said Moreno, glaring at him.

  “No.”

  “International Women's Day. March eighth.”

  “Good God,” said Jung. “I'd better buy her something. Thank you for letting me know. Did you get breakfast in bed?”

  “Of course,” said Moreno with a smile. “And a bit more besides.”

  Jung wondered for a moment what that might imply, then returned to his lists of incoming tips.

  “This Melgarves character,” he said. “I don't understand why he's ended up on this list.”

  “André Melgarves?”

  “Yes indeed. He's one of the group. He's phoned in and passed on some information or other, but he's been bracketed with all the others…. Krause must have missed his significance.”

  “That's not like him,” said Moreno.

  She crossed the room and read the brief notes over Jung's shoulder, frowned, and started chewing the pencil she had in her hand…. A certain Mr. André Melgarves had phoned from Kin-sale in Ireland and announced that he had information that could be of interest to the ongoing investigation. They were welcome to give him a call. His address and telephone number were duly recorded.

  “When did this come in?” Moreno asked.

  Jung looked at the back of the card.

  “The day before yesterday,” he said. “I think it's probably as well for the chief inspector to take this himself—what do you reckon?”

  “I think so,” said Moreno. “Go and show him now—but don't mention that it came in two days ago. He seemed a bit grumpy this morning, I thought.”

  “You don't say?” said Jung, getting to his feet.

  The young man was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with “Big Is Beautiful” printed on it. He was very suntanned, and his short-cropped hair looked like a field of ripe wheat. He was chewing away at something, and staring at the floor.

  “Name?” said Van Veeteren.

  “Pieter Fuss.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Messenger.”

  “Messenger?”

  “For a security company.”

  I see, thought Van Veeteren. Almost a colleague. He swallowed a feeling of impotence.

  “Anyway, I'm not the officer in charge of your case,” he explained, “but I have a few things to say about it and I'd like to have an answer to a question. Just one.”

  Pieter Fuss looked up, but as soon as he caught the chief inspector's eye he reverted immediately to examining his sneakers.

  “On Friday, February twenty-third,” said Van Veeteren, “at half past midnight, I was walking toward Rejmer Plejn. I was on my way home after an evening with some good friends of mine. I suddenly found my way blocked by you and four other young men. One of your friends pushed me up against a wall. You punched me in the face. You eventually forced me down onto the sidewalk. You hit me and kicked me. You had never seen me before. My question is: Why?”

  Pieter Fuss's expression did not change.

  “Have you understood my question?”

  No reply.

  “Why did you attack an unknown person? Punch him and kick him? There must be a reason, surely?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Can you speak a little louder? I'm recording this.”

  “I don't know.”

  “I don't understand. Are you saying you don't know why you do things?”

  No answer.

  “You were five against one. Do you think that was the right thing to do?”

  “No.”

  “So you do things that you think are wrong?”

  “I don't know.”

  “If you don't know, who does?”

  No answer.

  “What do you think your punishment ought to be?”

  Pieter Fuss mumbled something.

  “Louder!”

  “I don't know.”

  “All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Listen to me. If you can't give me a sensible answer to the question why, I shall see to it that you get at least six months for this.”

  “Six months?”

  “At least,” said Van Veeteren. “We can't have people running around who don't know why they do what they do to their fellow human beings. You can have two days to think about this in peace and quiet….”

  He paused. For a moment it looked as if Fuss was about to say something, but then there was a knock on the door and Jung poked his head inside.

  “Are you busy, Chief Inspector?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I think we've had a tip that could be of interest.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “One of the group has rung from Ireland. We thought you might like to follow it up yourself?”

  He handed over the card.

  “Okay,” said the chief inspector. “Can you escort this promising young man down to the duty officer? Be a bit careful—he's not all that sure what he's doing.”

  Fuss stood up and slunk away with Jung. Van Veeteren read what it said on the card.

  André Melgarves? he thought with a frown.

  Then he contacted the switchboard and asked them to phone him. Ten minutes later he had Melgarves on the line.

  “My name is Van Veeteren. I'm in charge of this case. You've said that you have information to give us.”

  “I don't really know if it's significant,” Melgarves said, and his doubt seemed more obvious on the crackly line than the words themselves.

  “Let's hear it,” said Van Veeteren. “It would help if you could speak a bit louder, I think we have a bad line.”

  “Ireland,” explained Melgarves. “The tax is advantageous, but everything else is rubbish.”

  “I see,” said Van Veeteren, pulling a face.

  “Anyway something occurred to me. I've received your letters and instructions. And I spoke on the phone to somebody. I've got some idea of what's been going on, despite being miles away. My sister has sent me some newspapers and cuttings. And, well, if I can be of any help, then obviously, I'm at your disposal. It's an awful business.”

  “It certainly is,” said Van Veeteren.

  “What struck me,” said Melgarves, “is only a minor detail, but it's something that Malik, Maasleitner, and Innings were mixed up in. It might be irrelevant, but if I understand the situation aright, you've had trouble in finding a link between them.”

  “We have had certain problems,” admitted Van Veeteren.

  “Well, it was in connection with our demob party,” said Melgarves.

  “Demob party?”

  �
�Yes, we had a big farewell do in Maardam. Arno's Cellar—I don't think it exists any longer….”

  “No, it's closed down,” said Van Veeteren.

  “Just two days before we were released. Yes, it was a party that everybody attended—and some of the officers and lecturers as well. No women, men only. We'd rented the whole place and … well, there was quite a lot of drinking going on, obviously.”

  “The link?” wondered the chief inspector.

  Melgarves cleared his throat.

  “I'm coming to that. We kept going until rather late—two, half past two, I'd say; quite a few were pretty drunk. Some passed out. To be honest, I wasn't completely sober myself, but it was one of those evenings, you might say. And it was allowed—we didn't have any duties until the following afternoon, and … well, only two more days before demob, and all that….”

  “I understand,” said Van Veeteren with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Perhaps you'd like to come to the point, Mr. Melgarves?”

  “Well, afterward,” said Melgarves, “that's when I saw them. Those of us who'd stayed on to the very end staggered out of Arno's. We were in groups, and kicking up a bit of a row, I'm sorry to say. Making our way back to Löhr—and that's when I happened to see them. I'd gone into an alley to, er, relieve myself, and when I'd finished I ran into them. They were in a doorway, and they had this girl with them—no more than seventeen or eighteen, I'd say. And they were giving her a rough time.”

  “Giving her a rough time? What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, trying to talk her into it, I suppose.”

  “Talk her into what?”

  “Oh come on, you know.”

  “I suppose so. And?”

  “Anyway, they were standing around her. They were pretty soused, and I don't suppose she was all that interested, or however you might put it. In any case, they were going on at her, and laughing, and wouldn't let her go.”

  “Did she want to go?”

  Melgarves hesitated.

  “I don't know. I think so, but I don't really remember. I've thought about it, of course, but I stayed there only a few seconds, and then I ran to catch up with the others. Not that they would have been what you might call desirable company.”

  Van Veeteren thought it over.

  “And she wasn't a prostitute?” he asked.

  “Could be, but maybe not,” said Melgarves.

  “How come you remember all this after thirty years?”

  “I can understand why you ask me that. I suppose it's because of what happened the next day.”

  “The next day? What happened then?”

  “Well, it was as if something had happened. Innings was really the only one I was acquainted with, just a bit, and he didn't seem to be himself for a couple of days afterward. He just wasn't himself, somehow…. He seemed to be evasive. I recall asking him what had happened to the girl, but he didn't answer.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don't know,” said Melgarves. “I mean, we were demobbed the following day, and we had other things to think about.”

  “Of course you had,” said Van Veeteren. “When exactly was this party can you remember that?”

  “It must have been May twenty-ninth,” said Melgarves. “We were demobbed at the end of the month.”

  “May 29, 1965,” said the chief inspector, and suddenly felt his temples pounding as he prepared to ask his next question.

  And anticipated the answer. He cleared his throat.

  “So, Malik, Maasleitner, and Innings,” he said. “Was there anybody else?”

  “Yes,” said Melgarves. “There were four of them. That Biedersen was with them as well.”

  “Biedersen?”

  “Yes. He and Maasleitner were probably the ones behind it all. Biedersen rented a room in town as well.”

  “A room in town?”

  “Yes. For the last few months we were allowed permanent night leave, as they called it. In other words, we didn't need to be in our billets at night. Biedersen had a student room. He threw a few parties there, I gather, but I didn't go to any of them.”

  The line started crackling something terrible, and the chief inspector was forced to bellow out his final questions in order to overcome the noise.

  “These three, plus Werner Biedersen. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a young woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did anybody else see this?”

  “Could be. I don't know.”

  “Have you spoken to anybody else about it? Then or now?”

  “No,” said Melgarves. “Not as far as I recall, at least.”

  Van Veeteren thought for a few more seconds.

  “Many thanks,” he said eventually. “Thank you for some extremely useful information, Mr. Melgarves. I'll get back to you.”

  He hung up.

  Now, he thought. We're almost there.

  · · ·

  “What the hell do you mean?” he roared ten minutes later. “Do we still not know where he is?”

  Münster shook his head.

  “Hell and damnation!” bellowed the chief inspector. “What about his wife?”

  “Not at home,” Münster explained. “DeBries keeps on phoning all the time.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Saaren.”

  “Saaren?” said Van Veeteren. “Up north … it all fits in. How far is it to there? A hundred and fifty kilometers? Two hundred?”

  “Something like that,” said Münster.

  Van Veeteren took out four toothpicks. Broke them in two and threw the bits on the floor. Reinhart appeared in the doorway.

  “Have we got him?” he asked.

  “Got him?” roared Van Veeteren. “Have we hell! He's been off the map for several weeks, and his missus is out shopping!”

  “But it is Biedersen?” said Reinhart.

  “Biedersen,” said Münster. “Who's next, that is. Yes.”

  “Have you got a cigarette?” asked Van Veeteren.

  Reinhart shook his head.

  “Afraid not. Just my old briar. What do we do now, then?”

  The chief inspector clenched his hands and closed his eyes for two seconds.

  “Okay,” he said, opening his eyes again. “This is what we do. Reinhart and I drive up to Saaren. The rest of you keep on chasing after his wife from here. If you find her, tell her to stay at home until we come, or she'll be jailed for life. Then we shall have to see what happens next.”

  Reinhart nodded.

  “Ask her if she knows where he is,” he added. “And keep us informed. We'll try to find her as well, of course.”

  Münster made a note.

  “So, we're off now,” said Van Veeteren, gesturing toward Reinhart. “Go down to the pool and collect a car. I'll be at the entrance five minutes from now. I just need to collect a few things first.”

  “Are you sure that it's so damned urgent?” asked Reinhart when Van Veeteren had settled into the passenger seat.

  “No,” said Van Veeteren, lighting a cigarette. “But when you've been in a straitjacket for seven weeks, I'll be damned if it isn't time to stretch a bit.”

  40

  He woke up with a start and fumbled for his pistol. Took hold of it and looked out the window. Noted that everything looked the same as before—except that the sun was shining.

  He realized that it must be the sun that had warmed up the loft. He was lying just underneath the ceiling, but it wasn't at all the same all-pervading chill he'd experienced so far. On the contrary it was nice and warm—and it was a few minutes to ten.

  Ten! It dawned on him that he had slept for over nine hours on end. He had snuggled down in bed shortly after half past twelve the previous night, and he didn't recall having lain awake for very long. No sleepless periods during the night, either.

  So he'd been lying here for nine hours. And what had been the point? He'd have been much more of a helpless victim than a guard
dog, that was for sure. Would he have even woken up if she had come creeping up the stairs?

  He rolled over onto his side and opened the window wide. The sunshine was very bright out there. Small birds were fluttering around in the shrubbery outside the kitchen door. The sky was blue, dotted here and there with tufts of scudding cloud.

  Spring? he thought. What the hell am I doing here?

  He recalled the previous evening. He'd stayed at the inn until eleven o'clock, and then thrown caution to the wind on the way back home. He'd simply stood up and left. Taken the main street—the chapel, Heine's, Van Klauster's—and then the narrow lane home to his cottage.

  He'd had his pistol in his hand all the time, to be sure—with the safety catch off. But still …

  He'd even entertained the thought of using the real bed, but something had held him back.

  It was a week now. Eight days, to be precise, and as he brewed some coffee and buttered some bread in the kitchen, he decided that this would have to do. Today would have to be the last day. He would have to face up to the facts and acknowledge that he was wasting his time. It wouldn't bear fruit. He would have fuck-all to show for it, so that was that.

  He might just as well have left right away, before lunch; but Korhonen had promised to show him some pictures of his new Thai girlfriend, and so he'd said he would be there tonight as well.

  But after that, he'd draw the line. The realization that it had been a mistake to come here had been growing inside him for some time now—the realization that it was pointless, and that these weren't the circumstances in which she intended to confront him.

  His telephone call to his wife four days ago—and her mention of the woman from Copenhagen who had been trying to contact him—had naturally been an indication and a confirmation. But not that she intended turning up here. Merely that she knew where he was.

  It must have been her—he'd realized that right away: he didn't have any female business contacts in Copenhagen. Nor any male ones, come to that. But this delay … these days that passed by without anything happening. The only way he could interpret it was that she had declined his invitation. Refused to meet him on his terms.

  The cowardly bitch, he thought. You murdering whore, I'll get the better of you, no matter what!

  Nevertheless, he didn't relax his safety procedures this final day. Despite his recognition of the fact that his calculations had failed, he spent his accustomed hours out in the forest. Ate his meals as usual, did a bit of packing after dark, and was aware of the fact that he mustn't be reckless.