by Håkan Nesser
“I’ve given him an opportunity, that’s all. To bow out like a gentleman.”
“Meaning?”
“To commit suicide.”
Mahler seemed almost moved.
“But what if he isn’t a gentleman? There seems to be a lot of evidence to suggest that he isn’t.”
“Then I’ll make public what I know. He has a daughter and two grandchildren. If he merely shrugs and turns away, I’ll tell her that her father has three murders on his conscience, and I’ll make sure she’s convinced that it’s the truth. His wife held her tongue for the whole of her life for this very reason. . Or so I think.”
Mahler thought it over.
“Yes, sounds good,” he said. “Do you think it’ll work?”
Van Veeteren pulled a face.
“The devil only knows,” he said. “We’ll find out tomorrow at noon. I’m going to pay him a visit then.”
“You cunning bastard!” said Mahler. “You have your methods; I have to grant you that.”
He took another swig, then started to study the board again. After barely a moment’s thought, he advanced his king’s pawn two squares.
“Not much of a job, the one you’ve got,” he said.
“Serves me right,” said Van Veeteren.
“Yes, I expect it does,” said Mahler.
An hour and a half later, Mahler had turned a single-pawn advantage into a win after just over sixty moves. He bent down and produced a small, flat parcel from the briefcase he had on the floor beside him.
“You can have this as consolation,” he said. “Hot off the press this afternoon, so it’s as fresh as it comes.”
Van Veeteren tore off the wrapping paper.
Recitative from the Back of Beyond, it said.
“Many thanks,” he said. “Just what I need, I suspect.”
“You never know,” said Mahler, looking at his watch.
“About time to call it a day, methinks. You can start with page thirty-six. I reckon you might find something there that rings a bell.”
Van Veeteren split open the pages of the thin collection of poems after taking a shower and settling into bed. The clock radio on his bedside table said a couple of minutes after half-past twelve, and he decided to make do for the time being with the author’s recommendation. Poetry was not something you lapped up at any old time, especially not Mahler’s fastidious verses, and he could feel slumber lurking behind his eyelashes.
The poem was called “January Night” and was only seven lines long.
Light unborn
Lines unknown
The law as yet unwritten
In the darkness the child
In the dancing shadows the rhythms
From the rules of Chaos for the handling of heartache And a little categorical imperative
He switched off the light, and the lines lingered on, both in the darkness of the room, or so it seemed, and in his own fading consciousness.
The inner and the outer darkness, he thought, just before succumbing to the infinite embrace of sleep.
Tomorrow at noon.
40
As he stood outside the door, his watch said 11:59, and he decided to wait for that one last minute. He had written noon, and perhaps there was a point in being precise with details.
Not neglecting the apparently insignificant.
He rang the bell.
Waited for a few seconds, listening for sounds from inside.
Put his finger on the button and pressed again. A long, angry ring. Then he leaned forward, listening with his ear pressed against the cool wooden door.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices. No human sounds.
He stood upright. Composed himself for a moment. Took a deep breath and tried the door handle.
Open.
He crossed the threshold. Left the door slightly ajar. It was the first time he had entered an apartment where he might expect to find a dead body-it was not a certainty, but there was something else this time. Something that felt both worrying and predictable at the same time.
The air was heavy in the dark, cramped hall. The kitchen was straight ahead. Sun could have been streaming in, but the blinds were drawn. On the right, a door to what looked as if it ought to be a bedroom was half open. On the left was a bathroom and double doors to the living room.
Two rooms and a kitchen, that was all. It was no bigger than that, as Munster has said.
He took the bedroom first. The bed ought to be the obvious place; that’s where he’d have chosen himself, if he’d found himself in this situation.
He carefully opened the door wide.
Empty. Bed made, everything neat and tidy. Blinds drawn here as well. As if he had gone away somewhere.
Then the living room. Just as tidy and boring. An ugly suite in some sort of grayish brown, durable synthetic material. A large television set, a bookcase with ornaments. Seascapes on the walls.
The same dreary cooped-up feeling in the kitchen. A calen-dar and garish landscapes on the walls. Washed dishes in the drying rack, covered with a tea towel. Refrigerator almost empty. A withered potted plant on the table.
Only the bathroom left. A possibility Van Veeteren might also have chosen. Slowly fading away in hot water. Like Seneca. Not Morat.
He switched on the light.
He could almost imagine the murderer’s smile, a lingering, half-ironic reflection in the shiny, dark blue tiles. As if he’d known that Van Veeteren would save this until last. As if he’d played with the idea of writing a message to this interfer-ing cop and leaving it here, but then decided not to because it was so obvious who would draw the longest straw in this pointless duel.
Van Veeteren sighed and briefly studied his face in the mirror over the sink. It was not a particularly uplifting sight-
something midway between Quasimodo and a mournful
bloodhound. As usual, in other words; possibly even a bit worse.
He switched off the light and went back into the hall.
Paused for a moment, checking that the letter basket on the inside of the door was empty. That had to suggest that he’d left not very long ago. Abandoned this gloomy but well-looked-after apartment about an hour ago, most likely.
It seemed impossible that he had just slipped out for a few minutes. Everything suggested that he had gone away. For a few days at the very least.
Forever? Perhaps that was a good sign, when all was said and done. A glimmer of hope twinkled once more. Why should he do it inside his home?
No reason at all, as far as Van Veeteren could see.
He left the apartment and closed the door behind him.
Why had he left it open?
So that Van Veeteren would be able to examine the apartment? If so, what was the point?
Or had he simply forgotten to lock it?
“Mr. Van Veeteren?”
He gave a start. He hadn’t noticed that one of the neighboring doors had been cautiously opened. A woman with red frizzy hair peeked out.
“You are Mr. Van Veeteren, aren’t you? He said you’d come at about this time.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“He asked me to tell you that he couldn’t meet you here, unfortunately, because he’d gone to the seaside.”
“To the seaside?”
“Yes. He left you a message as well. Here you are.”
She held out an envelope.
“Thank you very much,” said Van Veeteren. “Did he say anything else?”
She shook her head.
“No, what else was there for him to say? Excuse me, but I’ve got a cake in the oven.”
She closed the door.
Ah well, thought Van Veeteren, staring at the envelope.
He didn’t open it until he’d found a table at the outdoor cafe a bit farther down the same street. As he sat with it in his hand, waiting for the waitress, he thought back to what Mahler had said the previous evening.
Doing something at the right time is mor
e important than what you actually do.
A bit exaggerated, of course, but perhaps it was true that timing was the most important part of all patterns? Of all actions, of every life. In any case, it wasn’t an idea to be sneered at, that was clear.
The beer arrived. He drank deeply then opened the envelope. Took out a sheet of paper folded twice and read: Florian’s Guesthouse
Behrensee.
He took another swig.
The sea? he thought. Yes, that was a possibility, of course.
XI
November 25, 1981
41
Night once more.
Awake once more. Judgment was passed yesterday, and her last hope was blown out like a candle flame in a storm.
Guilty.
Verhaven guilty again. She fumbles for her glass. Sips at the lukewarm soda water and closes her eyes. Turns her thoughts inside and out. What is it behind this unbelievable turn of events? What is it forcing her to hang on despite everything? Instead of just letting everything go, dropping all her resistance?
Breaking this lunatic silence and sinking down into the darkness. What?
Andrea, of course.
Last time she was two years old; now she’s of marriage-able age. A mature woman. The woman her mother never
became; there is a progression in everything, an inexorable, black logic against which she has no defenses. A destiny, it seems to her.
Please, God, let her relationship with Juhanis come to something.
Please, God, make them make their minds up soon so that he can take her away from here.
Please, God.
When?
When did the first crystal-clear suspicion enter her mind this time?
The same day? That same rainy afternoon in September
when the body was discovered by Mr. Nimmerlet? As early as that?
Perhaps. Perhaps she knew right away. Suppressed it and slammed the door shut on it. Immediately hit upon her twisted excuse to escape and swallowed it hook, line and sinker; he hadn’t been in town that day. He’d driven to Ulming with the broken chain saw; she checked that herself in her diary. It must have been that very day. . He stopped by at the Morrisons on the way as well, even if they weren’t at home, it seems. He said that himself, and there had been nothing unusual about what he’d done or the way he’d acted. Nothing unusual.
They couldn’t do anything with the saw, but of course he had been there, and as it’s a long way between Ulming and Maardam, it can’t have been him. Not this time; this time it really is Verhaven; it must be Verhaven.
Guilty!
But she knows even so.
She’s lying here in her big bed in the refurbished bedroom, and knows. Is more and more convinced of this black certainty. Chained to him and to her silence, that’s how it feels; more and more bitter, more and more strong, and clearer than ever during these ecstatic, sleepless hours in the early morning.
Him and her. Man and wife.
But never man and woman. Not since Andrea was born.
All these years they have never come together. She has closed her legs to him and left him outside; that’s what has happened.
Transformed this strong and healthy man into somebody who runs after whores. A married man who every month takes his car to town in order to satisfy his tortured urges with bought love.
That’s what I have turned him into.
And into a murderer.
Him and her. This unavoidable certainty. And the choice, has she ever had a choice?
No, she thinks, and swallows that as well. I have never had a choice.
She sits upright. Dries the cold sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. Tries to relax her shoulders and take slow, deep breaths while she looks out the window. The sky in the east is defined by the dark outline of the coniferous forest.
Oh God, she thinks. Can anybody understand?
Even You?
She clasps her hands, but the words of her prayer are locked inside her.
I will take the punishment, she thinks. Punish me for my silence!
Let me remain in my bed forever! Let me. . let me do just that. Let me cease once and for all staggering through this house, which is my home and my prison. Let me stay here.
May my wrecked pelvis split open forever!
She sinks back against the pillows and it dawns on her that this is how it must be. Exactly like this.
But may there be some kind of meaning, despite everything. At last the words find their way over her lips. May. . may my unfathomable darkness be my daughter’s light! she whispered out into the night. I do not beg for forgiveness! I do not beg for understanding! I ask for nothing! Punish me, oh God!
Then she closes her eyes, and almost as if she has been given an answer, she can feel the shaft of pain shooting up through her body.
XII
May 29–31, 1994
42
The rain had been with him for most of the journey, but it started to ease off as he approached the coast. The setting sun broke through the clouds on the horizon, shooting jagged shafts of light over the choppy sea. The air smelled salt-laden and fresh when he got out of the car, and he paused for a few seconds to savor deep breaths of it. Seagulls were gliding over the water, filling the bay with their self-assured, drawn-out screams.
The sea, he thought once again.
People had ventured out onto the beach between the two piers after the rain-it was not a long beach, not much more than half a mile. Some dogs were chasing one another; a group of young people were playing volleyball; a fisherman was sorting out his nets. Van Veeteren couldn’t remember when he had last visited this rather old-fashioned seaside resort with its olde-worlde charm; its heyday, when the Casino and Spa Hotel flourished, came to an end at some point in the twenties, unless he was much mistaken-but he had been there several times even so. With Renate and with the children as well; perhaps it was only a couple of occasions, now that he came to think about it. . A few days each time, but Behrensee was small enough for him to remember where Florian’s was located.
Strictly speaking there wasn’t much more to the place than the elegant promenade, so he couldn’t very well have missed the guesthouse, in any case. But he had a clear memory of it.
A high, art nouveau facade at the southernmost end of a row of hotels and boutiques, squashed between a recently built supermarket and the slightly shabby Sea Horse hotel, where he had stayed during one of his short visits.
If he remembered rightly, that is.
And he did. It was a narrow building, five stories high, painted pink and white. The copper roof was still glowing faintly in the last rays of the setting sun, and the balconies were a deep wine red color. A little bit worse for wear here and there, but certainly not one of the cheaper establishments in this idyllic if crackled resort.
He went through the milky white glass doors. Placed his briefcase carefully on the floor and rang the bell on the reception desk. After half a minute a middle-aged woman appeared with a towel in her hands. It looked as if she had been busy drying dishes. She squinted at him over the edge of her gold-framed spectacles, and hid the towel away.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Arnold Jahrens. If my information is correct, he is staying here.”
“Let’s have a look.”
She turned some pages of the ledger.
“Yes, that’s right. Room 53. It’s on the top floor. You can take the elevator.”
She stood on tiptoe and pointed over his shoulder.
“Is he in now?”
She checked the key rack.
“I think so. He hasn’t left his key here, in any case.”
“The top floor, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll just see to a few things first; then I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“As you wish,” said the woman, picking up the towel again.
He knocked twice, but there was no sign of life.
He tried the handle, and the door swung open.
An ordinary sort of room, he decided. But with a certain traditional charm. A wide bed with an iron frame. Quite high, dark wainscoting. A small desk. Two even smaller armchairs.
A wardrobe.
To the left, just inside the door, was the bathroom. As he could see the room was empty, he opened the door and switched on the light.
Empty here as well. There was no bath, only a modern
shower; there was no suitable place for somebody intending to commit suicide.
He entered the room. Put his briefcase on the desk and dug a toothpick from the supply in his breast pocket. Looked around.
“Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, I presume?”
The voice came from the balcony and had just the
restrained tone of mockery and self-confidence that Van Veeteren was dreading most of all.
“Mr. Jahrens,” he said, going out onto the balcony. “May I sit down?”
The powerfully built man nodded and indicated the empty basket chair on the other side of the table.
“I have to say that you seem to have a damn good imagination for a police officer. I really don’t understand how anybody could cook up a story like this one.”
Van Veeteren opened his briefcase.
“Whiskey or brandy?” he asked.
“If you think it will help if you make me drunk, you have another thought coming.”
“Not at all,” said Van Veeteren. “It’s just that I couldn’t find any beer.”
“All right.”
He fetched two glasses from inside the room, and Van
Veeteren poured.
“You don’t need to play around,” he said. “The fact is that I know you have three lives on your conscience, and I shall make sure that you don’t get away with it. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Jahrens. “And how do you think you are going to do that? I expect you have a little microphone or transmitter hidden away somewhere that’s linked to a tape recorder somewhere else, and you’re hoping that I’m going to get tipsy and let the cat out of the bag. Isn’t that a cheap trick?
