by Håkan Nesser
‘Hard to say. The most likely thing is, of course, that he wanted information about Clarissa Heerenmacht. He must have realized that she was missing by this time, in any case. If he was the one who killed her, he obviously knows more about that than anybody else.’
Przebuda nodded and began filling his pipe.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I think I get the picture. Would you like another glass?’
‘Is it really necessary?’ wondered the chief inspector. ‘Well, just a few drops, then.’
Andrej Przebuda stood up and walked over to the corner cupboard.
‘And then what?’ asked Przebuda. ‘Down at the rock, I mean.’
‘A good question,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Well, then – presumably within fifteen minutes of Belle Moulder leaving her – the murderer comes into the picture. Either he’s down there on the rock already, or he turns up somewhere as she’s on her way back to the camp. I don’t think the girl decided to give dinner a miss, even if that’s not impossible, of course.’
‘You say “he”,’ Przebuda commented.
‘Let’s assume it’s a man,’ said the chief inspector. ‘He rapes her, and strangles her to death. And then we come up against the next complication.’
‘Really?’
‘The location,’ the chief inspector explained. ‘I’d like to think there’s some kind of logic even in the most perverted patterns of behaviour – we’ve discussed this before. The murderer kills her somewhere or other, and all we can say with certainty is that it didn’t happen where we found the body. There are no signs of a struggle or violence around that place, which indicates that she must have been taken there afterwards. Either immediately after the murder, or later. By the killer, or somebody else.’
‘By the killer or somebody else . . . ?’ Przebuda repeated, raising an eyebrow.
‘The reason for moving the body is also a bit intriguing,’ Van Veeteren went on. ‘You would usually move a body in order to hide it, but in this case it looks like the intention was just the opposite – to help us to find it.’
Andrej Przebuda nodded.
‘That woman on the telephone . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d refrain from writing about her. Perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree, but the investigation team has decided to keep her existence secret for the time being. Well, what conclusions do you draw?’
Neither of them spoke for quite a while. Van Veeteren eyed the pack of cigarettes on the table in front of him, but didn’t take one. Instead he clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. Wondered if he’d remembered all the essentials, or if he’d left out any details.
And if it was possible to come to any sensible conclusions.
‘Two,’ Przebuda decided in the end. ‘Two conclusions. She seems to know what she’s talking about, and she wants to help the police. That woman, I mean.’
Van Veeteren said nothing.
‘Two questions as well,’ said Przebuda. ‘Why? And who the hell is she?’
‘My friend the editor is bubbling over with intelligent questions,’ the chief inspector declared. ‘But there’s another one.’
‘I know,’ said Przebuda. ‘How? How the hell can she know so much?’
‘Exactly,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ve been grappling with these imponderables for several days now. Who is she? How come she knows? Why does she want to help us?’
‘But the fact no doubt is . . .’ Przebuda began, and then held back.
‘What?’
‘Surely the implication is that it’ll be sufficient to get an answer to one of those questions. Solve one and the others solve themselves. Don’t you think?’
The chief inspector sighed.
‘Presumably,’ he said. ‘But how about making a suggestion? Surely an experienced old newspaperman like you should be able to manage one out of three?’
Przebuda burst out laughing. Then he cleared his throat and turned serious.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But surely it’s not possible for the chief inspector’s intuition to have been fast asleep all week? Do you think it’s one of them? Those women at the summer camp, that is?’
Van Veeteren contemplated the flickering candles for ten seconds.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘But I think I can exclude one of them, in any case.’
‘Better than nothing,’ said Przebuda.
They set off at a leisurely pace on a stroll past the cemetery on the western edge of the town, along a meandering path for pedestrians and cyclists to the residential area of Kaasenduijk – where acting Chief of Police Kluuge lived with his Deborah – and then a semicircular route back into Sorbinowo from the north. One hour in all, two and a half kilometres through the fragrant summer’s evening. To start with Przebuda maintained a non-stop commentary on items of interest they passed by – buildings, local landmarks, flora and fauna (mainly mosquitoes and cattle of the black-and-white variety) – but he eventually grew tired of that and they returned to the agenda they seemed to have agreed was inevitable.
‘This Yellinek character – I take it he does a runner in the middle of the night, is that right?’
‘Same as before,’ muttered the chief inspector. ‘We don’t know. None of the girls saw him after a quarter to ten on the Sunday evening, so we assume he must have cleared off before dawn in any case. There’s one girl – but only one, nota bene – who thinks she heard a car starting at some point during the night.’
‘A car?’
‘Yes, they had a car out there, an old Vauxhall, registered in the name of Madeleine Zander. Yellinek doesn’t even have a driving licence.’
‘But it was still there next morning?’
‘Yes. Parked in the same place as usual. She – or one of the others – might have driven him somewhere during the night, but we have no proof or confirmation.’
‘How else would he have been able to get away?’
Van Veeteren shrugged.
‘The devil only knows. So it’s certainly most likely that he disappeared with the help of that car, but where does that get us?’
‘What about neighbours out there?’ Przebuda wondered.
‘The Finghers in one direction,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘They had a bit of contact with the campers. And there’s a couple by the name of Kuijpers a bit deeper into the forest. There was somebody at home in both places that night, but nobody heard a car. But that doesn’t mean a thing, of course. The probability is that Yellinek’s hidden away in the home of one of his church members somewhere, but there are getting on for a thousand of them, so we need considerable resources if we’re going to make a serious search. Obviously the police in Stamberg are pouncing on as many of them as they can find, but they don’t seem to be making any headway. And of course it’s holiday time. And on top of that is the refusal to cooperate.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Przebuda, wafting away a cloud of gnats. ‘Things aren’t exactly stacked in your favour.’
They continued in silence for a few minutes.
‘Why?’ said the editor eventually, having followed his own train of thought to the next halt. ‘Why did he run away if he’s innocent? Doesn’t that suggest he’s the culprit?’
‘That’s very possible,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Although he had good reason to go under cover in any case. He’s been in trouble with the police before, and if girls suddenly start disappearing from his camp he’s bright enough to realize that he’s on the spot. It’s obviously disgraceful of him to run away like that, but by no means beyond comprehension. We must never lose sight of the fact that we’re dealing with an arsehole. A king-size arsehole.’
‘So you’re saying there’s a logical explanation, are you?’
‘Without a doubt,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and I reckon it would have been odder if he’d stayed around. Especially in view of this other girl that’s missing – remember this is just between me and yo
u: you’re the only editor in the whole country who knows about that – and even more so when you take into account what a shit that Yellinek is.’
‘I see,’ said Przebuda. ‘Although I don’t really get what the implications are. There’s nothing to link Yellinek and his hangers-on directly with these terrible happenings, is there?’
‘No,’ said Van Veeteren with a sigh. ‘No very strong link at least. As far as I can see it’s possible we’re dealing with some anonymous lunatic wandering about in the forest.’
‘With no link to the Pure Life?’
‘No link at all.’
‘Well I’ll be damned!’ said Przebuda.
‘But on the other hand, it’s just as likely that they are the ones responsible.’
‘Of course,’ said Przebuda. ‘One or other of them.’
He paused to light his pipe, then he and the chief inspector immersed themselves in private thoughts as they strolled, at a very gentle pace, side by side along what was in fact the home straight of Sergeant Kluuge’s jogging track. But not even the editor was aware of that geographical fact.
‘Ah well,’ said Przebuda as they approached the built-up area again. ‘Whichever way you look at it, it’s a very nasty business. I hope you can sort it out. But I must admit that I’ve got nothing much to contribute, I’m afraid . . . Anyway, I think we’re coming to a parting of the ways. That’s Grimm’s down there, as you can see – but if ever you need a Dr Watson again, my tiny brain is at your disposal.’
‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Two tiny brains are better than one, I suppose.’
They said goodbye, but before Andrej Przebuda had climbed even five of the steps up to Kleinmarckt, he paused.
‘Do you think you’re going to solve this case?’ he asked. ‘Do you usually solve your cases?’
‘Most of them,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘But you have some unsolved cases, do you?’
‘One,’ admitted the chief inspector. ‘But let’s not go into that. Every new day brings enough problems, as I’ve said before.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Przebuda, and Van Veeteren thought he could hear his friend smiling in the darkness. ‘Goodnight, Chief Inspector. May the angels sing you to sleep.’
No, Van Veeteren thought grimly when Przebuda had disappeared. Let’s not start thinking about the G file as well. We’ve got enough on our hands without that.
By the time he strode through the milk-white glass doors of Grimm’s Hotel, his dejection had caught up with him.
We ought to have talked about other things, he thought. We ought to have focused on something else.
Katarina Schwartz, for instance. Or Ewa Siguera. Or potential violent criminals in the area. I’m damned sure he’d have been able to come up with something useful if we’d done that!
But perhaps his self-criticism was unfair. In any case, the disappearance of the Schwartz girl was still something they’d managed to keep away from the journalists – after nearly a week under the spotlights. That was probably due more to good luck than good management; and besides, one might ask if there was any point in keeping it secret. Perhaps, perhaps not.
And they hadn’t heard a word from the French police.
Becalmed, the chief inspector thought (although he had only been in a sailing boat twice in the whole of his life – both times together with Renate). For the whole of that Saturday in Sorbinowo there had hardly been a breath of wind, and the case had not moved forward even a fraction of an inch.
Becalmed.
He recalled the potentially meaningful silence up at Wolgershuus the previous day, and realized that there was more to coming to an end and dying than people generally imagined.
Madeleine Zander and Ulriche Fischer! he then thought with a feeling of disgust as he stood at the reception desk, waiting for his key. Were things really so bad that he would have to tackle them as well?
When the night porter eventually appeared, it transpired that there was another woman’s name to frustrate him.
Albeit in a slightly different way.
Reinhart had left a message for him. It was short and sweet:
There’s no damned Ewa Siguera anywhere in this country. Shall I continue with the rest of the world?
Van Veeteren’s reply was more or less just as stringent:
Europe will be enough. Many thanks in advance.
Ah well, he thought when he had eventually gone to bed, I suppose I might just as well carry on as planned, no matter what.
25
The second of the victims of the sect murderer – as several newspapers would call the person concerned – was discovered at about six on Sunday morning by a sixteen-year-old boy scout and a fifteen-year-old girl guide who were part of a biggish group on a hike in the forests north-west of Sorbinowo. At the pair’s urgent request, no attempt was made to find out what they were doing some three kilometres away from their tents at that time in the morning, but Chief of Police Kluuge – who was once again the first on the scene – naturally had his suspicions.
The body of the young girl was under a pile of brushwood and dry twigs about twenty metres from the narrow road from Waldingen to Limbuis and Sorbinowo, and the distance to the nearest of the summer camp buildings was no more than a hundred and sixty metres or so. The distance between where the two bodies had been discovered was measured later and found to be about three times that, and perhaps one could reasonably have expected that the police team that had spent two days searching the area after the first murder would have found the body; and perhaps also – Kluuge thought à propos of nothing in particular – the unusually pale colour of the girl guide’s face might have had to do with the fact that she found it hard to forget what she had been doing next to, and even hidden behind, the pile of twigs in question.
In any case, that was the conclusion he drew as the three of them sat on a stack of logs watching the sun rise over the trees to usher in a new day, waiting for the medical team and the crime scene officers to arrive – and he was also aware that these irrelevant speculations only came into his head as a way of keeping his thoughts under control.
When he compared the Katarina Schwartz who had spent almost two weeks in the form of a dead body, reduced to a mass of chemical processes, with the photograph of a smiling young girl with blonde plaits he had in his wallet, there was no doubt that his thoughts needed all the distractions they could possibly get.
I’ve grown old, he thought. Even though it’s no more than a week since I grew up.
The first report from more or less all the experts at the scene was ready by shortly after one p.m. and confirmed that the dead child was Katarina Emilie Schwartz, thirteen years old, resident in Stamberg. She had been raped (no trace of sperm) and strangled, suffered pretty much the same type of injuries as the other victim, Clarissa Heerenmacht, and had probably met her killer somewhere between twelve and sixteen days earlier. No clothes – nor indeed any trace of clothes – had been found at or in the vicinity of the place where the body was discovered, and it was considered to be highly likely that the girl had been killed at some other location. The press communiqué issued later in the afternoon contained all known details of the tragic discovery – apart from the fact that the police had known about the girl’s disappearance for quite a while.
At the same time the police issued two Wanted notices.
One was a repeat of the appeal for information about Oscar Yellinek.
The other was new and aimed at tracing the girl’s parents.
By coincidence, a little later that same afternoon a fax arrived from the French police: Mr and Mrs Schwartz had been traced to a so-called gîte on a farm in Brittany. Before the sun had set over Sorbinowo that long Sunday, the unfortunate couple had set off on the journey home in order to be confronted as soon as possible by the earthly remains of their daughter.
And when old Mrs Grimm – the hotel’s owner who was at bottom indifferent to anything not connected with royalty or Bohem
ian porcelain – checked through the hotel ledger even later that evening, she found that not only was every room taken, but that the number of guests who had given their occupation as ‘journalist’ or something similar was strikingly large.
As for Mr Van Veeteren (watchmaker and horologist), who had been staying in room number 22 for the last ten days, by midnight he still hadn’t returned from the excursion he had set out on that morning.
But as he seemed to have left most of his belongings in his room, she was not particularly worried that he might have run off with no intention of returning to pay his bill.
After all, he had given the impression of being an honest man, on the whole.
FIVE
28-31 JULY
26
For the first fifteen kilometres or so he felt almost like a successful fugitive.
Only very slightly guilty. A bit like when he was at school, he recalled, on one of those early summer days when he skipped French or Physics and instead cycled with a like-minded friend down to the canal to watch some girls swimming. Or rode out to Oudenzee to lie back on the beach and do some surreptitious smoking.
Playing truant, in other words. There was no doubt he had left Kluuge and the others in the lurch. And hence there was no doubt either that Krantze’s was quite a satisfactory alternative, all things considered.
Nevertheless, it was rather remarkable that he was able to keep the whole business at a distance. That’s how it felt, at least, as he sat behind the wheel in the sparse morning traffic. Servinus had informed him about the new discovery by telephone at about eight o’clock. The body of the second little girl. After overcoming his initial feelings of disgust and repugnance, he had spoken in turn to Kluuge, Lauremaa and Suijderbeck several times during the course of the morning, but he had not cancelled his plans.
He hadn’t driven out to Waldingen to see the circumstances for himself, and didn’t feel guilty about that – or only very slightly so, as already stated. But he had been aware of a feeling of weariness swelling inside him, and it was essential to keep that at bay – that bank of clouds spreading across the landscape of his soul and casting over it a shadow of death, the dark skies of tiredness and loathing . . . and once again he was struck by this attack of poetic eloquence. He had known that this was going to happen, of course. He’d been waiting for this selfsame discovery all these days, and now confirmation had arrived.
