The Inspector and Silence

by Håkan Nesser

  12

  She finally found the body long after the sun had set. Darkness had begun to spread through the pine trees, and for one confused moment she wondered if it wasn’t just an illusion after all. A bizarre mirage, this sudden sight of a girl’s white skin gleaming at her through the brushwood – perhaps it would disappear the moment it occurred to her to close her eyes.

  But she didn’t close her eyes. The inner voice that had led her here would not allow her to close her eyes. She would have to act, to undertake the incomprehensible task it had given her.

  There was no arguing, she must do it.

  Where did it come from, this voice that drove her? She didn’t know, but presumably it was the only source of strength available to her in the nightmare she was experiencing. The only thing that kept her going, and made her take these measures and steps – it must be something based inside herself nevertheless; a side of her that she had never in her life needed to make use of, but it had now kicked in and made sure that whatever had to be done really was in fact done. A sort of reserve, she thought, an unknown well from which she could scoop out water, but over which – at some point in the distant future, may God please ensure that she soon got there! – she must place a heavy lid of forgetfulness. Plant the grass of time upon it: I am the grass; I cover all, as the poet said – why on earth should she think of poetry now? – so that neither she herself nor any other person could suspect what she had used its water for. Or even that it had been there.

  In the distant future.

  The well. Her strength. The inner voice.

  It was very dark now. She must have been standing there, staring at the incomprehensible, for an incredibly long time, even if she hadn’t been aware of it. She switched on her torch for a moment, but realized that light would do her no favours in these circumstances, and switched it off again. Pushed some twigs aside and pulled out the whole of the thin, naked body. Bowed down on one knee and took hold of it under its back and under its knees; was briefly surprised by the stiffness in the muscles and joints, and was reminded fleetingly of the body of a little foal when she had been present at a failed birth many years ago.

  The body was not heavy, below forty kilograms for sure, and she was able to carry it with little difficulty. She hesitated for a moment, wondering about various alternatives, but eventually came to a place where she could hear that inner voice once more. Carefully – as if displaying some kind of perverted respect no matter what the circumstances – she placed the body in a half-sitting position against the trunk of an aspen tree: an enormous aspen with a whole sky of whispering leaves – and began to cover it over with what she could find in the way of branches and twigs and last year’s husks.

  Not to hide it, of course. Merely to shield it a little in the name of dignity and propriety.

  When she had finished it was so dark that she couldn’t see the result of her work, but for the sake of respect and reverence, she stood there for a while, head bowed and hands clasped.

  Perhaps she said a prayer. Perhaps it was merely a jumble of words passing through her mind.

  Then she suddenly felt a white-hot flash of terror. She retraced her steps rapidly and collected the spade from where she had left it. Continued on to the road, and hurried away as fast as her legs would carry her.

  13

  ‘Intuition?’ said Przebuda, and smiled over the rim of his wine glass. ‘Surely you’re not telling me that you are troubled by doubts as far as intuition is concerned? Myself, I rely upon it without question, I simply think it’s a talent that has skipped a few stages – in the chain of cause and effect, that is. Or gives the impression of having skipped them. It’s a bit more advanced, but there’s no essential difference. We have it, but we don’t understand how we are in a position to have it. I mean, we absorb enormous amounts of information every second . . . Everything is stored away, but only a tiny portion of that gets as far as our active consciousness. The rest stays there, sending out its signals – usually in vain, simply because we are so unreceptive. Let’s face it, we’re only human after all.’

  Van Veeteren nodded, and stretched out his legs under the table. It was Monday evening, and he was slumped back in an old leather chair in Andrej Przebuda’s large living room-cum-study. He’d been sitting there for quite a while, sipping an outstanding Chateau Margeaux ’81 and nibbling slices of pear with Camembert. Smoked. Dinner had been eaten in the company of Eisenstein, de Sica, Bergman and Tarkovskij, and only when they had left the table and sauntered over to the armchairs did the conversation turn to the matter that was the chief inspector’s motive for his stay in Sorbinowo.

  Which had now been extended by a further day.

  ‘Presumably it’s the same phenomenon as occurs in connection with new discoveries in the natural sciences,’ said Przebuda. ‘The researcher already knows the answer, he’s seen the final solution before he actually gets that far. Or glimpsed it, at least. If that weren’t the case, he would presumably be in no state to discover it. The bottom line is that we need an advance image of the conclusion. I think Rappaport writes about this, Sartre as well, of course. Pierre and the cafe and all that, you know. It’s another side of the cognitive, that’s all. A sort of . . . Well, what should one call it? The avant garde of knowledge, perhaps?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘A chain that hangs together despite the fact that several links are missing. I’d like to see the public prosecutor who falls for that kind of thing. But you are no doubt right in principle. God knows, of course I believe in intuition.’

  ‘And what’s your impression of Waldingen, then?’ Przebuda asked, lighting his pipe that kept going out. Deliberately or accidentally. ‘The problem with smoking a pipe,’ he added, ‘is that it goes out as soon as you talk too much. I have to admit that it happens to me now and again. Well?’

  The chief inspector sighed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll be damned if I can work out what I really think. The people we are dealing with are pretty moronic, and they sort of get in the way and conceal the point at issue. Perhaps some kind of intervention would be justified no matter what – God only knows what rubbish they are drumming into those poor girls. But that falls some way short of actually murdering somebody. I can’t really say I’ve found evidence to suggest that anybody really has disappeared . . .’

  Przebuda was still preoccupied with his pipe.

  ‘Only a trace of a suspicion.’

  The chief inspector leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head; he let his gaze wander around the book-lined walls and was struck by a sudden illusion of being in the middle of an encyclopaedia. Przebuda’s interests seemed to embrace everything from the financial state of the steel industry in the eighties and fishing quotas in the Arctic Ocean to cultural anthropology and Provençal love lyrics. A newspaperman of the old school, obviously; an incorruptible journalist who – given sufficient time – was quite capable of writing an article on more or less any subject at all. Although he tried to exclude it, Van Veeteren had to admit that the setting of this evening’s conversation reminded him of something else as well. The classic crime novel hero – the case-hardened detective who gathers together all the facts in his head and then solves the case while sitting with his pipe in a winged armchair in his library.

  Although on this occasion it was Przebuda smoking the pipe. Van Veeteren was smoking cigarettes.

  So perhaps it was his host who would come up with the solution, not himself.

  If a solution was needed, that is. Perhaps all the goings-on didn’t amount to an equation – wasn’t that the conclusion he had reached? No missing girl, and no case in fact. Nevertheless there was something special about this room; the only thing missing, of course, was a chessboard. But Przebuda had already admitted that chess was a pastime that had never managed to capture his interest.

  Something that indisputably made the game even more unique than it already was, Van Veeteren thought. But pastime! Surely that w
as little short of blasphemy!

  ‘Needless to say I have a few notes,’ said Przebuda after a few seconds of silence. ‘In case you are interested. I thought I might write half a page last summer when they were last here. The Pure Life . . . I suppose I thought I’d try to dig down into the sect itself, as it were. Not just the summer camp. Anyway, I interviewed the shepherd and took a few photographs, but I eventually decided to shelve the project.’

  ‘Why?’

  Przebuda shrugged.

  ‘I don’t really know. Some jobs you just drop, period. I think it had something to do with the impression they made. I found it a bit distasteful, to be honest. I take it you understand what I mean.’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘That Yellinek and his four fancy women.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘Yes indeed. There were four women who took care of all the chores out there in the forest. Much younger than he was, and, well, I suppose that gave me cold feet, or however you might want to put it. And I don’t particularly want to give dodgy people like that free publicity. Has he brought the same harem with him this year as well?’

  ‘Three,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Only three.’

  Przebuda burst out laughing.

  ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’s beginning to run out of steam. If they observe other Muslim traditions, maybe they have the right to be satisfied as well. What’s the routine? Two nights out of three?’

  ‘Every other night, I think,’ said the chief inspector. ‘There are various trends. You don’t happen to have the names of the women who were here last year, do you?’

  Przebuda raised an eyebrow, and then his wine glass.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just a thought that struck me,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘All right, I’ll take a look,’ said Przebuda. ‘But first, your very good health.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Van Veeteren.

  Przebuda stood up and went over to his desk, which was piled high with documents. It formed a triangle in a corner of the room, and must have been over two metres square. He switched on a lamp and began rummaging through a collection of red and green files at least a metre high. After a while he returned with one of them, and took out a bundle of unsorted documents.

  ‘So, let’s have a look,’ he said, taking a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. ‘I don’t really know why I bothered, but I did actually take a few pictures of them. Yes, here we are.’

  He picked out a photograph and studied it critically for a few seconds before handing it to Van Veeteren. The chief inspector looked at the picture. It was obviously taken on the terrace outside the main building. In the early evening sunshine, to judge by the light and the shadows. Oscar Yellinek was leaning against the rail, flanked by four women, two on each side. Despite the fact that they were unremarkable, he had no trouble in identifying three of them. But to the left of Mathilde Ubrecht and with one hand resting on Yellinek’s shoulder was a dark-haired, unknown woman. She seemed a bit younger than the others, and unlike the rest of them had managed to raise a smile, aimed at the camera. Without a doubt she was easily the prettiest of them all.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Do you have their names?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Przebuda. ‘Does it say anything on the back?’

  Van Veeteren turned the picture over and read:

  ‘Fr. l.: Ulriche Fischer, Madeleine Zander, O.Y., Ewa Siguera, Mathilde Ubrecht’

  Ewa Siguera? he thought, and took a sip of wine. Sounds like a character in a novel.

  Przebuda had managed to light his pipe again, and blew a few puffs of thick smoke over the table.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think I’d already decided by then that I wasn’t going to run the story. What are you angling for?’

  The chief inspector thought for a moment, continuing to scrutinize the photograph.

  ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I suppose you could call it some sort of avant garde knowledge.’

  ‘I see,’ said Przebuda with a smile. ‘Maybe we should take a look at the rest of the papers anyway. I have quite a bit on Yellinek, if I remember rightly. Although I don’t think I made any notes about kidnapping. Still, the best things are always written between the lines. Don’t you think we ought to crack open another bottle, by the way?’

  ‘This heat certainly makes a man thirsty,’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘Religion is a multifaceted thing,’ declared Andrej Przebuda quite a while later. ‘Personally it’s something I’ve left behind me; but I can’t say that it hasn’t left its traces.’

  Van Veeteren waited.

  ‘My parents, all my family were practising Jews. When the heat was turned up and we realized what was really in store for us – my father was the most clear-sighted of the whole family – they placed me and my sister with a Catholic family in a little village miles away from anywhere. They kept us hidden on their farm for four years; we were the only two to survive. Ironically enough our hiding place was less than fifty kilometres from Auschwitz. Ah well, then I married a woman from India; she died six years ago and is buried in the Reformed Cemetery here in Sorbinowo.’

  The chief inspector nodded.

  ‘Any children?’ he asked.

  ‘A handful,’ said Przebuda. ‘Neither more nor less. Eleven grandchildren. But I’ve dropped the religion, as I said.’

  ‘And you weren’t inspired to take it up again when you met the Pure Life?’

  Przebuda smiled.

  ‘No, but perhaps we ought to be grateful to them because they look after quite a few people who would otherwise be locked away in an institution. At society’s expense, of course. But this business of the children is another story. Perhaps you should send in an undercover agent to find out what really goes on. Maybe a bright thirteen-year-old with a mobile phone . . . But I assume you have more urgent matters to keep you occupied.’

  Van Veeteren nodded in agreement.

  ‘Too right we have,’ he said. ‘For my part I’ll be going on holiday in just over a week, so unless somebody comes along with a missing young lassie in the next twelve hours, I’ll be on my way. I can’t claim to have achieved much at all. The film club and this evening were the only useful things, to be honest. But they are not to be sneered at.’

  ‘Glad you think so,’ said Przebuda.

  ‘May I take these papers about Yellinek as bedtime reading?’ the chief inspector asked. ‘I can call in and leave them in the editorial office tomorrow morning, before I leave.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Przebuda, spreading out his arms. ‘So you’re not thinking of letting go of the thread just yet?’

  Van Veeteren stubbed out the evening’s final cigarette.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll hang on to it until it breaks of its own accord. That’s a bad habit of mine I’ve had for years.’

  He got up from the armchair and noticed immediately that the last glass of Burgundy had been stronger than he’d thought.

  There won’t be a lot of reading done tonight, he thought. It’ll probably be more a question of trying to stay awake long enough to get into bed before I fall asleep.

  Which was of course no more than a pious hope – especially in view of what lay in store for him during the rest of the night.

  But as yet he hadn’t the slightest bit of knowledge about that – be it empirical or intuitive.

  14

  In normal circumstances – when he wasn’t standing in as chief of police in the Sorbinowo police district – he would naturally have delegated all calls in a situation like this to his answering machine. No question. He and Deborah had nestled down at opposite ends of the new Wassmeyer sofa with a box of chocolates within easy reach; the film starring Clint Eastwood hadn’t yet got as far as the first ads break, and a pleasant, warm breeze was wafting in through the open French windows. Gently and tenderly he was massaging her bare feet.

  From a purely physical point of view, it was more or less a perfect evening
.

  ‘Phone call,’ said Deborah, sliding a chocolate between her red lips.

  Kluuge sighed, and heaved himself up from the sofa. The nearest telephone was in the bedroom, and he closed the door behind him, so as not to disturb his wife’s enjoyment of the film.

  Typical, he thought. But if you’re on duty, that’s the way it is.

  ‘Chief of Police Kluuge.’

  ‘Hello?’

  That was quite enough for him to recognize the voice. In a mere split second, Clint and his wife and the chocolates were banished from his mind.

  ‘Yes, Kluuge here.’

  ‘It’s me again.’

  ‘So I hear. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to give you a tip.’

  ‘A tip?’

  ‘There’s the dead body of a girl at Waldingen.’

  ‘We are busy investigating . . .’

  ‘I know. But you’re not getting anywhere. If you go there and find the body, perhaps you will believe me.’

  ‘I don’t believe there is a body,’ said Kluuge. ‘You keep on calling just to draw attention to yourself. We have—’

  ‘Drive out to the summer camp.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’ll describe the way for you.’

  ‘The way to where?’

  ‘To the body. I’ll tell you exactly where it is, so you can go there and look at it. Then you might understand that I’m telling you the truth.’

  Kluuge gulped.

  ‘Er . . .’ was all he could manage.

  ‘A hundred metres past the camp buildings there’s a little path off to the right. Go down it, and just after you’ve passed a big boulder on your left you’ll see an enormous aspen tree. She’s lying just a few metres behind the rock. It’s no more than fifteen metres off the path.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Kluuge. ‘I must fetch a pen.’

  ‘You don’t need one,’ said the woman. ‘A hundred metres past the main building. A path to the right. Close to the aspen behind the big boulder. You’ll find her there.’