The Inspector and Silence

by Håkan Nesser

  Handled both the questions and the grief and shock she must have been feeling.

  When he left her, he had realized that she was a woman he could easily have fallen in love with. Thirty years ago. At the time when he was still capable of falling in love. He had thought about it quite a lot afterwards. Yes, it certainly would have been possible.

  If he hadn’t already given away his life to somebody else, that is.

  And now she was standing here, booking a holiday. Ulrike Fremdli. Fifty and a bit, he would have thought. With her hair recently dyed even more chestnut brown.

  There were certain patterns . . .

  He took a queue ticket and sat down on the narrow tubular-steel armchair behind her, without greeting her. Of course, there was no reason to think that she would remember him as clearly as he remembered her. Or would even remember him at all, come to that. He waited. Shifted the toothpick to the right side of his mouth and tried to look as if he wasn’t listening.

  As if he were just a very ordinary customer wanting to book a package holiday. Or an unusually sweaty part of the furniture.

  But he certainly was listening. Ears cocked. At the same time he could feel a worrying sensation beginning to nag at him. Both in his gut and behind his larynx, where he had long been convinced that the soul was situated. In his case, at least.

  Because Crete was what was being discussed. As plain as a pikestaff, he’d realized that right away. The attractively sun-tanned travel agent was talking about Theseus and Ariadne and the Village of Widows. About Spili and Matala and the Samaria Gorge.

  And now about Rethymnon.

  Chief Inspector Van Veeteren gulped. Took out his handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck again. Despite the slow-moving fans whisking the air under the ceiling, it was as hot as a baking oven.

  ‘You mustn’t underestimate the currents,’ stressed the bronzed young man.

  Certainly not, Van Veeteren thought.

  ‘The Christos Hotel,’ suggested the young Adonis. ‘Simple, but well run. Situated in the middle of the old town . . . Only a minute’s walk to the Venetian harbour.’

  Ulrike Fremdli nodded. The demigod smiled.

  ‘Leaving on the first, then? Two weeks?’

  Van Veeteren felt an attack of giddiness rising up inside him. An almost pubertal feeling of dizziness. He put down the magazine and stood up quickly. I must get a breath of fresh air, he thought. Hell’s bells! I can feel a heart attack coming on.

  Out in the street he paused under a lime tree. Spat out the toothpick and bit his bottom lip hard. Confirmed that this did not wake him up, and hence he had not been dreaming.

  For Christ’s sake, he thought. I’m too old for this sort of thing.

  He bought a bottle of mineral water at the newspaper stall and drank it all in one gulp. Then paused for another minute, thinking things over. It would be silly to get carried away, he told himself.

  But it would be even sillier to ignore all the signs that are dangled in front of me. By the way, seeing as I’m here . . .

  He emerged into the sunshine again. Walked quickly and jauntily over the square and turned into Kellnerstraat. Passed by a few second-hand bookshops before stopping at the corner of Kupinski’s Alley. Wiped the sweat from his brow and looked hard at the over-full display window.

  Carefully, as if studying a poker hand.

  Yes, the notice was still there.

  Assistant required.

  Partnership a possibility.

  F. Krantze

  It must have been hanging there now for – he worked it out – six weeks. He breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, half the summer must have passed since he first saw it.

  He hesitated again before slowly walking back towards the square. Chewed at a toothpick and contemplated the Art Nouveau facades dating from the turn of the century. Weather-beaten, but still looking good. The leafy lime trees casting shade over the pavements. Yorrick’s pavement cafe on the corner. Winderblatt’s directly opposite. A large, panting St Bernard dog under one of the tables, its tongue reaching out as far as the kerb.

  Oh yes, he thought. I sure as hell could see myself living here.

  And by the time he got into his car, he had made up his mind.

  If that notice is still there in August . . . well, I’ll go ahead and do it.

  It was as easy as that.

  It was then even easier to drive hell for leather back home to Klagenburg, pickup the telephone and order a two-week package holiday to Rethymnon, Crete . . . the Christos Hotel, which had been recommended to him by a good friend. Single room. Departing 1 August, returning on the 15th.

  When he hung up, he glanced at his watch. It was 11.40, 17 July.

  Not much point going to the police station before lunch, he decided, and tried to feel a little regret. Didn’t succeed very well. He wandered around his flat, fanning himself with yesterday’s Allgemejne. Not that it did much good. He sighed. Pulled off his sticky shirt, fetched a beer from the fridge and inserted a Pergolesi CD into the hi-fi.

  Life? he wondered.

  Arbitrary or well-planned?

  3

  ‘The heat makes people less inclined to commit crimes,’ said deBries.

  ‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Reinhart. ‘The facts are the precise opposite, of course.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ wondered Rooth, with a yawn.

  ‘They just don’t have the strength,’ said deBries.

  ‘Of course they do,’ said Reinhart. ‘The hotter it gets, the lower the defences – and human beings are criminal animals at heart. Read The Stranger. Read Schopenhauer.’

  ‘I haven’t the strength to read anything,’ said Rooth. ‘Not when it’s as hot as this, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘And people’s urges become more urgent,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘No wonder. Just look at all those women running around town half-naked – it’s not surprising that frustrated studs throw their inhibitions aside.’

  ‘Frustrated studs?’ said Rooth. ‘What the hell . . . ?’

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered deBries. ‘Sex murderers will obviously be inspired to act in weather like this – but at least we haven’t had any such cases yet.’

  ‘Just wait a bit,’ said Reinhart. ‘The ridge of high pressure is only four days old. Where the hell’s the chief inspector, by the way? I thought we were supposed to have a meeting after lunch. It’s nearly half past one.’

  DeBries shrugged.

  ‘He’s probably playing badminton with Münster.’

  ‘No,’ said Rooth, tucking into an apple. ‘Münster was in my office a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ said Reinhart.

  ‘He’d say next to nothing if he didn’t,’ said deBries.

  ‘Shut your trap,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Reinhart.

  The door opened and Van Veeteren entered, followed by Münster.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. Slept well?’

  ‘I was somewhat delayed by the heat,’ Van Veeteren explained as he flopped down onto his desk chair. ‘Well?’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘What do you mean by “Well?”?’ asked Rooth and took another bite.

  Van Veeteren sighed.

  ‘Report!’ he said. ‘What the hell are you all planning to do? Reinhart first. The Vallaste pyromaniac, I assume?’

  Reinhart knitted his brow and sucked at his pipe. Nodded rather vaguely. The arson attack in Vallaste had been occupying the police for two and a half years now, and the investigation had been put on ice several times; but when there was nothing else of a serious nature going on, he usually unfroze it again. He had been the officer in charge, and it was his reputation that suffered as long as the culprit remained at large.

  There were not many officers left in the force who thought along those lines, as Van Veeteren knew only too well; but he knew that Reinhart did.

  ‘I have a few loose ends,’ he admitted. ‘I thought i
t might be worthwhile looking a bit more closely at them. Unless there’s something else that craves the attention of a somewhat bigger brain than the average . . .’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Münster.

  ‘Certain parts of the body swell in hot weather,’ said deBries.

  ‘No doubt,’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘Okay start rummaging around among the loose ends.’

  He leaned back and contemplated his subordinates with a resigned expression. They were a bit of a motley crew, in outward appearance at least. DeBries had got divorced a month ago, and had made use of his first few weeks of freedom to renew his wardrobe in an attempt to make himself look younger – the result had been something reminiscent of an ageing and depraved yuppie from the eighties. Or a resuscitated and semi-detoxicated rock artist from the sixties, as Reinhart had suggested. The Woodstock Mummy. As for Rooth, possibly as a reaction to the heatwave, he had finally got round to shaving off his straggly beard, and the lower part of his face, now as smooth as a baby’s bottom, stood out in sharp contrast to the tanned cheeks, forehead and whisky-fuelled wrinkles.

  He looks like the missing link, Van Veeteren thought.

  As for Münster – well, he looked like Münster, albeit with sweaty patches under his arms; and Reinhart had always reminded the chief inspector of what he no doubt really was, deep down: an intellectual docker.

  Van Veeteren himself was hardly a thing of beauty. But luckily one has an inner self, he consoled himself, and yawned.

  ‘And when do you gentlemen intend going on holiday?’ he asked. ‘Take it in turns.’ He might get more sense out of them than asking them to report on their work plans.

  ‘The fifth,’ said Reinhart.

  ‘Next week,’ said deBries. ‘I’d be grateful if you don’t put me on some case or other.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Münster. ‘But no doubt Jung and Heinemann will be able to run the show in August, if something crops up. And Rooth and Moreno, of course.’

  ‘Natürlich,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Can you speak French?’ deBries wondered. ‘Maybe you’ve done a correspondence course?’

  Rooth scratched at his phantom beard.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘That’s a German proverb. Shall we continue with this hotel burglary or do you have something else lined up for us?’

  ‘Be off with you,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But make sure you arrest Pompers and Lutherson. Everybody knows they did it.’

  ‘Thank you for the tip,’ said deBries.

  He and Rooth left the room.

  ‘People get irritable in this weather,’ commented Münster when the door had closed behind them. ‘It’s not surprising, really.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,’ said Reinhart. ‘Is there anything else, or can I leave? You can always phone if anything crops up.’

  ‘Be off with you,’ said Van Veeteren again, and Reinhart trudged off.

  Münster walked over to the window and looked out. Over the town, and the heat trembling over the rooftops.

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t suddenly find ourselves with a murder on our hands now, or something of the sort,’ he said, leaning his forehead against the glass. ‘Just before the holiday. I remember what it was like two years ago—’

  ‘Shush!’ The chief inspector interrupted him. ‘Don’t wake up the evil spirits. Incidentally, I’m booked up for the first half of August. Impossible to change it. I shall delegate every corpse that turns up during the next few weeks to you and Reinhart.’

  Perhaps for ever in fact, he thought. He kicked off his shoes and began leafing listlessly through the piles of paper on his desk.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Münster. ‘I’ll be incommunicado from Monday onwards anyway.’

  The chief inspector inserted a new toothpick and clasped his hands behind his head.

  ‘It would be good if a nice little two-week case were to crop up now,’ he said. ‘Preferably away from town, something I could sort out on my own.’

  ‘I bet it would,’ said Münster.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I bet it would be nice,’ said Münster.

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ said Münster. ‘Something by the seaside, perhaps?’

  Van Veeteren thought it over.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘No. I’ll be damned if somewhere by a little lake wouldn’t be preferable. I’ll be off to the Med after that anyway . . . Do you happen to have your racket handy?’

  Münster sighed.

  ‘Of course. But isn’t it a bit on the hot side for that?’

  ‘Hot?’ snorted Van Veeteren. ‘On Crete the average temperature at this time of year is forty degrees. At least. So, shall we get going?’

  ‘All right, since you asked me so nicely.’ Münster sighed again, leaving the window.

  ‘I’ll treat you to a beer afterwards,’ Van Veeteren assured him generously. He stood up and made a couple of practice shots. ‘If you win, that is,’ he added.

  ‘I think I can say thank you for the beer in advance,’ said Münster.

  He’s in an unusually good mood, he thought as they took the lift down to the garage. Almost human. Something absolutely extraordinary must have happened to him today.

  Spili, the chief inspector was thinking at the same time. The source of youth . . . half an hour up the mountain in a hired car from Rethymnon . . . the wind blowing through her hair, and all that.

  Why not?

  And then Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop.

  4

  From a purely physical point of view, the morning of 18 July was perfect.

  The sky was cloudless, the air clear and still cool; the dark water of the lake was mirror-like, and Sergeant Merwin Kluuge completed his run round the alder-lined shore, nearly seven kilometres, in a new record time: 26 minutes and 55 seconds.

  He paused to get his breath back down by the marina, did a few stretching exercises then jogged gently up to the terraced house, where he took a shower, and woke up his blonde-haired wife by carefully and lovingly caressing her stomach, inside which she had been carrying the fruit and aspirations of his life for the past six months.

  The terraced house was even more recent. Barely eight weeks had passed since they had moved in – with the kind assistance of his parents-in-law’s savings; and he was still overcome by feelings of innocent wonder when he woke up in the mornings. When he put his feet on the wine-red wall-to-wall carpet in the bedroom. When he tiptoed from room to room and stroked the embossed wallpaper and pine panelling, which still exuded a whiff of newly sawn timber hinting at unimaginable possibilities and well-deserved success. And whenever he watered the flower beds or mowed the little lawn flanked by the trees, he could not help but feel warm and genuine gratitude to life itself.

  Without warning, everything had suddenly fallen into place. They had been shunted onto a bright and sun-soaked new track, with himself and Deborah as the only carriages of any significance in a solidly built and smooth-running train heading into the future. All loose ends had been tied together when it became clear that Deborah was pregnant – or rather when that fact became public knowledge. They had married two weeks later, and now, on this lovely summer morning, when Merwin Kluuge toyed gently with the soft – and to the naked eye almost invisible – hairs on his wife’s rounded stomach, he was filled with a sensation bordering on the religious.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Tea,’ she replied without opening her eyes. ‘You know I haven’t touched a drop of coffee for three months now. Why do you ask?’

  Oh yes, of course, Kluuge thought, and went into the kitchen to prepare the breakfast tray.

  They had breakfast together in bed, watching the early morning programme on their new 27-inch television set, and once again Kluuge ran his fingers gently over the tense skin, feeling for kicks and any other sign of life from Merwin junior. At precisely 07.45 he left his home and his married bliss.

  He wheel
ed his twelve-gear bicycle out of the garage, clipped back his trousers, fixed his briefcase on the luggage carrier, and set off.

  Exactly eleven minutes later he came to a halt in Kleinmarckt. The square was still more or less deserted; three or four market traders were busy opening up their stalls next to the town hall, arranging displays of fruit and vegetables. A few fat pigeons were strutting around the fountain, for want of anything else to do. Kluuge parked his bicycle in the stand outside the police station, secured it with a couple of stout locks, and wiped a drop of sweat from his brow. Then he walked through the semi-transparent glass doors, greeted Miss Miller in reception, and took possession of the chief of police’s office.

  He sat down behind the impressively large desk, removed his bicycle clips and turned to the first page of the notepad beside the telephone.

  Missing girl??? it said.

  He looked out of the window, which Miss Miller had opened slightly, and gazed at the blossoming elder. The chief of police had informed him that it was an elder, but anybody could see that it was blossoming.

  From a purely physical point of view it was still a perfect morning; but as far as Merwin Kluuge’s duties as acting chief of police were concerned, there was beyond doubt a cloud on the horizon.

  At least one.

  Precisely one.

  ‘Holiday,’ Chief of Police Malijsen had said, tapping him on the collarbone with two fingers. ‘I hope to God you’re fully aware of what the word holiday means. Peace and quiet. Being alone and left to yourself. Coniferous forests, mountain air and new waters to fish in. I’ve invested my hard-earned wages in hiring this damned cottage, and I have every intention of staying there for three weeks, provided the Japs don’t attack us. Is that clear, Sergeant Kluuge?’

  For the last thirty years Chief of Police Malijsen’s credo had been that sooner or later the Japanese would inflict upon the world a new – but much better executed – Pearl Harbor, and he rarely missed an opportunity to mention it.