The Inspector and Silence

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘You’ll be in charge of the shop. It’s time for you to stand on your own two feet and become more than a mere paper shuffler and a thorn in the side of Edward Marckx.’

  Gathering together and sending off the monthly reports from the Sorbinowo police district really did comprise the major part of Kluuge’s regular duties; that had been the case ever since he first took up his post just over three years ago, and would no doubt continue to be until the day – still ten years or more away – when Malijsen reached an age enabling him to resign his job and devote all his time to pleasure, sitting in front of the television. Or tying fishing flies. Or building defences to foil the increasingly inevitable attack from the slant-eyed yellow hordes from the east.

  According to Kluuge’s view of the world and its inhabitants, Chief of Police Malijsen had a screw loose, an opinion probably shared by a few other Sorbinowo residents, but by no means all. Despite being a bit of a one-off character, Malijsen had the reputation of being the right man for his job, and for keeping the gap between right and wrong, between upright local citizens and crooks, open and wide. Even such a dodgy character as Edward Marckx – arsonist, jailbird, hot-tempered drug addict and violent brawler – had once, presumably in connection with one of his many brushes with the law, expressed his grudging admiration of the chief of police:

  ‘A particularly obnoxious bastard, but with a heart in his body and a hole in his arse!’

  Perhaps Kluuge could sign up to the second part of that assessment.

  On his way out of the door, Malijsen had paused and been serious for a few moments. Checked the torrent of words and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Are you sure you can cope with this?’

  Kluuge had snorted quietly. Not rudely. Not nervously.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Nevertheless Malijsen had looked a bit doubtful and taken a card out of his wallet.

  ‘For Christ’s sake don’t disturb me unless you really have to! There’s a public telephone in the village, of course, but I need these weeks to get over Lilian.’

  Lilian was Malijsen’s wife, stricken by cancer; after many years of more or less unbearable suffering she had finally given up the ghost and departed from this world. Drugged up to the eyeballs, and a shadow of a shadow . . . That was in the middle of March. Kluuge had attended the funeral with Deborah, who had noted that the chief of police had shed the occasional tear, but not excessively.

  ‘If the shit hits the fan, you can always get in touch with VV instead,’ Malijsen explained. ‘He’s an old colleague of mine, and he owes me a favour.’

  He handed over the card and Kluuge put it in his breast pocket without so much as glancing at it. A quarter of an hour later, he sat down behind the imposingly large desk, leaned back and looked forward to three weeks of calm and prestigious professional activity.

  That was six days ago. Last Friday. Today was Thursday. The first call had come last Tuesday.

  The second one yesterday.

  Oh hell, Kluuge thought and stared at the card with the very familiar name. He drummed on it with his finger, thinking back to what happened two days ago.

  ‘There’s a woman who’d like to speak to you.’

  He noted that Miss Miller avoided addressing him as ‘Chief of Police’. She’d been doing that right from the start; at first it had annoyed him somewhat, but now he just ignored it.

  ‘A telephone call?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay put her through.’

  He lifted the receiver and pressed the white button.

  ‘Is that the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A little girl has disappeared.’

  The voice was so faint that he had to strain his ears to catch what she was saying.

  ‘A little girl? Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. But a little girl has disappeared from Waldingen.’

  ‘Waldingen? Can you speak a bit louder?’

  ‘The Pure Life Camp at Waldingen.’

  ‘You mean that sect?’

  ‘Yes. A little girl has disappeared from their confirmation camp in Waldingen. I can’t say any more. You must look into it.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. Who are you? Where are you calling from?’

  ‘I must stop now.’

  ‘Just a minute . . .’

  She had hung up. Kluuge had thought the matter over for twenty minutes. Then he asked Miss Miller to look up the number for Waldingen – after all, there was nothing there apart from an old building used as a centre for summer camps. After a while he had given them a call.

  A soft female voice answered the phone. He explained that he’d been informed that one of the confirmands had disappeared. The woman at the other end of the line sounded genuinely surprised, and said that nobody had been missing at lunch two hours previously.

  Kluuge thanked her, and hung up.

  The second call had come yesterday. Half an hour before the end of office hours. Miss Miller had already gone home, and the phone had been switched through to the chief of police’s office.

  ‘Hello. Chief of Police Kluuge here.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything.’

  The voice sounded a little louder this time. But it was the same woman, no doubt about it. The same tense, forced composure. Somewhere between forty and fifty, although Kluuge acknowledged that he was bad when it came to guessing age.

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘I rang yesterday and reported that a little girl had disappeared. You’ve done nothing about it. I assume she’s been murdered. If you don’t do something, I’ll be forced to turn to the newspapers.’

  That was the point at which Kluuge felt the first pang of panic. He gulped, and his mind was racing.

  ‘How do you know that a girl has disappeared? I’ve investigated the matter. Nobody is missing from the camp at Waldingen.’

  ‘You mean you’ve called them and asked? Of course they’ll deny it.’

  ‘We’ve carried out certain checks.’

  He thought that was quite a good line, but the woman wouldn’t be fobbed off.

  ‘If you don’t do something, they’ll kill some more.’

  There was a click as she hung up. Kluuge sat there for a while with the receiver in his hand, before replacing it and diverting his attention to the portrait of Lilian Malijsen in her bridal gown, in a gilded frame at the far end of the desk.

  My God, he thought. What if she’s telling the truth?

  He had heard quite a bit about the Pure Life. And read a lot. As he understood it, they got up to all kinds of things.

  Speaking in tongues.

  Exorcizing devils.

  Sexual rituals.

  Mind you, the latter was probably just a malevolent rumour. Wagging tongues and the usual upright envy. Rubbish! Kluuge thought, and returned to contemplating the blossoming elders. But somewhere deep down – perhaps at the very core of his emotions, to borrow one of Deborah’s latest pet expressions – he recognized that this was serious.

  Serious. There was something about that woman’s voice. There was also something about the situation in itself: his own disgracefully well-organized existence – Deborah, the terraced house, his stand-in duties as chief of police, the perfect mornings . . . It was only fair and just that something like this should crop up.

  There has to be a balance, as his father used to say. Between plus and minus. Between successes and failures. Otherwise, you’re not alive.

  He stuck a pencil in his mouth. Began chewing it as he tried to imagine Malijsen’s reactions if it turned out that a little girl had been found murdered on his patch, and the police had been tipped off but ignored it. Then he imagined the consequences of disturbing the divine peace that ruled over the heavenly fishing grounds. Neither of these options produced especially cheerful visions in Merwin Kluuge’s mind’s eye. Nor especially useful ones with regard to his possible future career prospects.

  The Pure Life? he thought. A litt
le girl missing?

  It wouldn’t surprise him.

  Not at all, dammit.

  He’d made up his mind. Picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the police station in Maardam.

  5

  ‘A hand grenade?’ said the chief of police.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ said Reinhart. ‘A seven-forty-five. He chucked it in through an open window, it rolled along the floor and exploded under the stage. Incredibly lucky, only eight injured and they’ll all pull through. If it had gone off on the dance floor we’d have had a dozen corpses.’

  ‘At least,’ said deBries, adjusting his wine-red silken cravat that had become slightly awry.

  ‘Do you need any help with your scarf?’ Rooth wondered.

  ‘And then what happened?’ Münster was quick to intervene.

  ‘He peppered some parked cars with an automatic weapon,’ Reinhart continued. ‘A nice chap, no inhibitions to speak of.’

  ‘My God,’ said Ewa Moreno. ‘And he’s still on the loose?’

  ‘Getting ready for this evening, no doubt,’ suggested Rooth. ‘We ought to go after him.’

  ‘Professional soldier?’ wondered Jung.

  ‘Very possibly,’ said Reinhart.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Heinemann, who had arrived late. ‘Could we start from the beginning again? I’ve only heard about it on the radio.’

  Chief of Police Hiller cleared his throat and wiped his temples with a tissue.

  ‘Yes, that’s probably best,’ he said. ‘Reinhart, you’ve been there, so I think you ought to give us the full story. Then we’ll have to decide how to allocate available resources.’

  Reinhart nodded.

  ‘Kirwan Disco,’ he began. ‘Down at Zwille, alongside Grote Square. Full of people. Shortly after half past two this morning – they close at three – an unknown person threw a hand grenade in through an open window. The explosion was audible all over the centre of town, but as I said, the damage was limited because it went off under the stage. The band that had been playing there ten minutes previously were still there, but they’re not feeling too good.’

  The door opened and Van Veeteren came in.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said, flopping down onto a chair. The chief of police looked at the clock. Reinhart raised an eyebrow before continuing.

  ‘Eight people injured, but none of the injuries life-threatening. Twenty or so with minor wounds were admitted to the Rumford and Gemejnte hospitals, but most of them will be allowed home today. There are a few witnesses who saw a man running away from the scene.’

  ‘Not a lot to go on,’ said Jung. ‘It was dark, and they only saw him from quite a long way off. But all were sure that it was a male person though.’

  ‘Women don’t behave like that,’ said Rooth. ‘Not the ones I know, at least.’

  ‘Typical male behaviour,’ said Moreno. ‘I agree.’

  Chief of Police Hiller tapped his desk with his Ballograf in irritation.

  ‘And then what?’ asked Münster. ‘You mentioned cars.’

  Reinhart sighed.

  ‘About half an hour later, somebody – let’s hope it was the same idiot, or we’re dealing with two of them – started shooting at parked cars outside the Keymer church. Probably from somewhere in Weivers Park. That could be heard all over town as well. It only lasted for about fifteen to twenty seconds, and nobody saw a damned thing. An automatic weapon. Two to three salvoes. About thirty shots, at a guess.’

  ‘Klempje, Stauff and Joensuu are busy crawling around among the cars,’Jung explained. ‘And Krause is taking care of the car owners.’

  ‘A fun job,’ said deBries.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Reinhart. ‘Krause could probably do with some help. There are twelve owners concerned, including two German families in transit.’

  ‘White Mercs,’ elaborated Jung.

  Van Veeteren stood up.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten my toothpicks downstairs in my office. I won’t be long.’

  He left the room, and silence reigned.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Hiller after a while. ‘This is most annoying. What with it being the holiday period and all that.’

  Nobody present reacted at all. Jung held his breath.

  ‘Ah well,’ repeated Hiller. ‘We obviously need to set a few officers to work on this. All available resources. It’s clearly a lunatic who could well strike again. At any moment. Well? Who’s available?’

  Reinhart closed his eyes and Münster studied his fingernails. DeBries left for the lavatory.

  ‘Satan’s shit,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Okay,’ said Reinhart twenty minutes later, stirring his coffee gloomily. ‘I’ll take care of it. I’ll have Jung and Rooth to help me in any case. And Münster, to start with at least.’

  ‘Good,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You’ll soon sort it all out.’

  Reinhart snorted.

  ‘What did the gardener have for you? I heard a rumour.’

  Van Veeteren shrugged.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Dunno?’

  ‘No. I thought I’d have lunch before confronting him.’

  ‘Lunch?’ said Reinhart. ‘What’s that?’

  Van Veeteren examined a chewed-up toothpick and dropped it into the empty plastic mug.

  ‘Do you know Major Greubner?’

  Reinhart thought that one over.

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘I play him at chess occasionally. Sensible fellow. It might be an idea to pick his brains.’

  ‘About this madman, you mean?’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘There’s only one regiment based in this town, after all. I don’t think they’ve started selling hand grenades in the supermarkets yet.’

  Reinhart stared at the dregs in his coffee mug for a while.

  ‘But perhaps I’ve got that wrong?’

  ‘You never know,’ said Reinhart. ‘Do you have his number?’

  Van Veeteren looked it up and wrote it down on a scrap of paper.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, duty calls. Do have a pleasant lunch.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘Come in,’ said Hiller.

  ‘I’m in already,’ said Van Veeteren, sitting down.

  ‘Please take a seat. I take it it’s generally agreed that Reinhart looks after this lunatic?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Hmm. You’re going on holiday at the end of this month, aren’t you?’

  Van Veeteren nodded. Hiller fanned himself with a memorandum from the Interior Ministry.

  ‘And then what? You can’t really be serious?’

  Van Veeteren said nothing.

  ‘You’ve had your doubts before. Why should I believe you’ll actually do it this time?’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You’ll get my final decision in August, but it looks like coming off this time. I just thought I’d better inform you. You like being informed, after all.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the chief of police.

  ‘What did you want me for?’ asked Van Veeteren.

  ‘Ah yes, there was something.’

  ‘That’s what Reinhart said.’

  ‘A chief of police called from Sorbinowo.’

  ‘Sorbinowo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Malijsen?’

  ‘No, I think it’s his stand-in while he’s on holiday . . .’

  Hiller took a sheet of paper from a folder.

  ‘. . . Kluuge. He sounded a bit inexperienced, and he’s evidently been saddled with a disappearance.’

  ‘A disappearance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But surely there must be help available closer to home?’

  Hiller leaned over his desk and tried to frown.

  ‘No doubt. But this Kluuge chappie has evidently been instructed to turn to us if anything should crop up. By the real chief of police, that is. Before he went on holiday. A Wilfred Malijsen. Is he
somebody you know?’

  Van Veeteren hesitated.

  ‘I have come across him, yes.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Hiller, leaning back in his chair. ‘Because he mentioned you specifically as the man he wants to go there and help out. To be honest . . . to tell you the truth, I have the feeling there’s something fishy behind this, but as you’ve evidently talked Reinhart into taking on the other business, you might just as well go there.’

  Van Veeteren said nothing. Snapped a toothpick in two and stared at his superior.

  ‘Just to find out what’s going on, of course,’ said Hiller. ‘One day, or two at most.’

  ‘A disappearance?’ muttered the chief inspector.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hiller. ‘A little girl, if I’ve understood it rightly. Come on now, what more can you ask for, dammit all? There can’t be a more idyllic place to be in than Sorbinowo at this time of year . . .’

  ‘What did you mean by something fishy behind this?’

  For a brief moment it looked as if the chief of police blushed.

  But it’s probably just his daily cerebral haemorrhage, Van Veeteren thought, then realized that was an expression he’d borrowed from Reinhart. He stood up.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d better go there and see what’s happening.’

  Hiller handed over the sheet of paper with the details. Van Veeteren glanced at it for two seconds, then put it in his pocket.

  ‘That hortensia’s looking a bit miserable,’ he said.

  The chief of police sighed.

  ‘It’s not a hortensia,’ he explained. ‘It’s an aspidistra. It ought to be coping well with the heat, but it obviously isn’t.’

  ‘Then there must be something else it can’t cope with,’ said Van Veeteren, turning his back on the chief of police.

  6

  Among the information on the sheet Hiller had given him was Sergeant Kluuge’s private telephone number. The chief inspector waited until he’d got home before ringing it. A young woman answered promptly, and announced that the acting chief of police was in the shower at the moment, but perhaps the caller could try again a little later. Van Veeteren explained who he was, and suggested that instead the sergeant should call him as soon as possible, if he really did have something of importance to discuss.