The Inspector and Silence

by Håkan Nesser

  So perhaps this eagerness to keep things at a distance was no more than a defence against impotence, when all was said and done. Prepared in advance and defendable, in a way. After all, he wasn’t a young beginner any more. He’d been through this kind of thing before.

  Rather too often.

  ‘I have a few possible leads,’ he had explained. ‘Probably nothing of importance, but I think it’s best if I follow them up. You can manage on your own. I mean, this is what we’ve been expecting, isn’t it?’

  Kluuge hadn’t dared to protest. He’d indicated that further reinforcements were being sent, and hoped that the chief inspector would soon be back.

  ‘We shall see,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘If I find I’m not getting anywhere, I might even be back by this evening.’

  That was a blatant lie, of course. He was intending to spend at least two nights in Stamberg, and it was only for the sake of appearances that he hadn’t checked out of Grimm’s altogether.

  Still, rather a bill for four nights instead of two – something bound to raise an eyebrow in the accounts department – than having to cope with the sight of another abused little girl.

  Or having to explain why he couldn’t face up to that prospect. That was simply the way it was. His decision was not negotiable.

  And now, as he analysed and contemplated these thoughts and decisions in more detail – as the kilometres rolled past and Boccherini oozed out of the speakers – he was a bit surprised: but it was surprise tinged with resigned weariness. Even these thoughts were affected. Nothing to get excited about, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  I’ve had enough, he thought. I don’t want to stand gaping at yet another dead thirteen-year-old. I’ve reached a full stop, at last. Everything is clear now, I’ve caught up with myself.

  The decision is made.

  He stopped about halfway – after eighty kilometres or more – at a service area not far from Aarlach. Clouds had been building up all morning, quite a strong north-westerly wind was blowing over the open fields, and his guess was that it would be raining before nightfall. Nevertheless, he sat down at one of the outside tables with a cup of coffee, a bottle of mineral water and the early editions of the evening newspapers. Both Den Poost and Neuwe Gazett.

  There was nothing there about the second murder in Waldingen, not yet; but needless to say, it wouldn’t be long before he was confronted by the headlines. It wasn’t all that hard to work out the likely wording. Nor was it difficult to imagine the tension to which the investigation team was subjected.

  Nor the hunger of the hordes of reporters who were at this very moment flocking to the Sorbinowo forests in order to sink their teeth into the fresh corpse of another little girl.

  Well, no – not all that fresh. It would be a couple of weeks old by now.

  That hardly made the situation any better.

  He shuddered in disgust, and drained the bottle of mineral water.

  Then he lit a cigarette and tried instead to concentrate on what lay in store for him in Stamberg. Enough of all those thoughts about running away.

  His discussions with Inspector Puttemans took about an hour, and all the time he sat watching the progress of raindrops trickling slowly down the uneven surface of the windowpanes. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something about those thin, irregular trickles that appealed to him, and that he was unwilling to lose contact with. He didn’t want to miss the moment when one of all those raindrops suddenly felt that enough was enough, and decided to trickle upwards instead. Yes, something of the sort was no doubt what fascinated him. Something to do with rebellion and spiritual affinity.

  Or possibly with the first stages of Alzheimer’s, he was suddenly horrified to think.

  When the discussion was over they shook hands. Puttemans went home to his family and the roast duck that awaited him, as it did every Sunday. Van Veeteren had declined in friendly but firm fashion the offer to partake of the meal – instead he stayed at the police station for a while and telephoned several of the people whose names his colleague had presented him with. He arranged to meet them the following day, and when he hung up after the last of the calls, he saw that it was still raining.

  And that the drops were still trickling downwards.

  He remained at the station for another twenty minutes, reading through the notes he’d made on the conversation with Puttemans. He smoked another cigarette, whereupon it stopped raining. He left the police station and wandered aimlessly around the centre of town for a few minutes. Changed his mind and left a couple of bars without actually entering them, on the grounds that they looked as uninspiring as his motive for entering them in the first place. But shortly after five o’clock he found a hotel that corresponded more or less to the calibre he’d been looking for.

  Glossman’s, it was called. Off the beaten track. Small. At least fifty years old.

  A modest-looking dining room with white tablecloths, and television in every room.

  The latter was something he’d just have to put up with. He checked in and explained that he intended to stay for two nights. Possibly one or even two more. He picked up a couple of beers in reception, then indulged in a lengthy and refreshing bath in their company while thinking thoughts more or less martial in nature.

  In view of its age and significance, the town of Stamberg contained a number of churches dating from various centuries and built in different styles (including the so-called Moorish basilica at the heart of the old town, with its altar by Despré or one of his disciples). But when Van Veeteren eventually found his way to the sanctuary of the Pure Life, he realized that a different kind of spirituality held sway here.

  Completely different. Obviously late-sixties architecture – in so far as there was any such thing as architecture at that time. Dirt-grey concrete with occasional infusions of cheap red brick. Disproportionate windows apparently distributed at random. A sports hall or a secondary school closed down for the summer were the first thoughts to enter the chief inspector’s mind. The impression of neglect and melancholy was striking: the overgrown flower beds and the dandelions in the gaps between the paving stones were a clear indication of activity that had been suspended. Not to say abandoned. It was summer, and the arable land of the soul was lying fallow.

  Godforsaken! he decided, and kicked an empty beer can into the overgrown lilac hedge. And it was off the beaten track as well. In something that resembled an industrial park – with characterless, oblong factory buildings and deserted streets with no pavements. Not exactly your church in the heart of the village. Having completed a tour of the outside of the building, he was aware that there were also external forces conspiring to keep the faithful at bay.

  ‘Murdering bastards’ was sprayed in shaky fifty-centimetre-high letters over the entrance doors at the gable end. A bit further along, the graffiti urged readers to ‘Kill the swine’; combined with a large number of ‘Fuck messages and other obscenities, the overall impression was depressing. He also had the feeling that most of the graffiti was recent: that these young, anonymous al fresco artists had most probably been creating their masterpieces in the last few days.

  Or nights, to be more accurate.

  The Other World, he thought, and turned on his heel to put the whole wretched business behind him.

  But, it suddenly occurred to him: if it really was the case that the persecution of the first Christians was a part of the dogma in the catechism of the Pure Life, then here was grist to their mill.

  But given the current circumstances, that could hardly provide much consolation.

  After a lengthy dinner in the almost deserted dining room, he returned to his room just in time for the ten o’clock news. He switched on the television, and lay back on his bed.

  It was a twenty-minute broadcast, and he noted with a heavy heart that almost half of it was devoted to happenings in the Sorbinowo forests.

  Pictures from the places where the bodies had been found – both of them. Pictures of the
summer camp buildings, and of both the dead girls – albeit while smiling and still alive. Information about their age, where they lived, their interests. Instructive maps complete with crosses and arrows. Long-winded summaries of the investigation to date, followed by interviews.

  First of all Kluuge, who looked sweaty and embarrassed, and hardly gave the impression of trustworthiness, it unfortunately had to be said. Then Suijderbeck, who came out with four swear words in a mere thirty seconds and seemed to be having difficulty in refraining from suggesting that the sleek-haired reporter might consider going to hell.

  And to round it all off, a picture of the press conference as a whole – something which allowed the first ray of hope to illuminate the surface for some considerable time.

  Or at least, that is how Van Veeteren saw it. The two places on the far right of the five-man police panel were occupied by no less than Inspector Reinhart and Constable Jung – no, Inspector Jung as he now was – and even if neither of them seemed able to raise a smile (Reinhart looked as if he were sitting on a heap of broken glass), the chief inspector couldn’t help but notice that his cheek muscles kept twitching – his own cheek, that is, his right one.

  Obviously, any such thoughts faded away as soon as his friends and workmates withdrew; but the very fact that they had unexpectedly turned up to support him definitely gave him a faint feeling of confidence and cautious optimism. For the first time for a very long time.

  I wonder if they’ve booked rooms at Grimm’s, Van Veeteren thought. Perhaps I ought to give them a ring.

  But on second thoughts, he desisted. Instead, he devoted the next two hours to reading all the documents associated with the Pure Life and its members, given to him by Puttemans; and when he had finished, his conclusion was that it had most probably been a waste of time.

  Like so much else.

  27

  Nevertheless, he phoned them the next morning.

  ‘We have nothing to do with the investigation,’ Reinhart explained. ‘We’ve come here to track down an ancient detective chief inspector who’s disappeared.’

  ‘I’m on his trail,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘No need to worry.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Reinhart. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I’m just following up a few leads.’

  ‘That’s a quotation.’

  ‘Could be. In any case, I’ll be back tomorrow, or the day after. How are things?’

  ‘Bloody awful,’ said Reinhart. ‘You must know that. Who’s done it? That Messiah-prat?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where’s he hiding, then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe here. There are at least five hundred households in Stamberg that would be prepared to put him up. Most of them have been investigated, but you never know.’

  ‘No, you never do,’ said Reinhart, lapsing into one of his hacking morning coughs before continuing. ‘I find it a bit hard to imagine you wandering around, knocking on doors; but that’s not my problem. Anyway, if he’s not the one, who is it?’

  ‘In that case it’s somebody else,’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘I’ll make a note of that,’ said Reinhart. ‘And what does the chief inspector think I should use my little grey cells for on a day like today?’

  Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

  ‘Finding the murderer,’ he decided. ‘Yes, that would improve your situation quite a bit.’

  ‘I’ll make a note of that as well,’ said Reinhart. ‘If you phone this evening, I’ll give you a report. By the way, to be serious for a moment . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  Three seconds passed.

  ‘I don’t like this business at all.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Van Veeteren.

  Another pause, presumably while Reinhart fumbled after his pipe and tobacco.

  ‘Child murderers like these are the worst set of bastards I can think of.’

  ‘All the more reason to make sure we catch them,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll do whatever I can. By the way, what are our colleagues like?’

  ‘They’ve passed the test,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Suijderbeckis probably the best.’

  ‘The one with the wooden leg?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay so long for now,’ said Reinhart and replaced the receiver.

  The woman eyed him first for quite a while through the peephole in the door, and made him hold up his ID in front of the tiny hole before starting to unlock. This complicated procedure took another half-minute, and he began to wonder if she was quite right in the head.

  But perhaps they’re all like this, he thought, when she’d finally finished and he was able to step inside the cramped vestibule. All the mutton-heads in this naively sanctimonious flock.

  But then again, given what certain newspapers had written and the contents of some graffiti, maybe there were good grounds for barricading oneself in these days. If you wanted to avoid coming in excessively close touch with the Other World. Who was he to judge?

  Her handshake was cold and damp. She led him into the living room and invited him to sit down on a flowery sofa in front of an oval table laid with tea and cakes.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said, in a shaky voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren.

  She poured out some pale-looking tea from a pot, and he observed her furtively. A slim and somewhat anaemic woman. Forty plus, he guessed. The same sort of anaemia as displayed by the Three Graces in Sorbinowo, he noted, and wondered what it could be due to.

  A state of spirituality that was on the way to suffocating all bodily functions and needs? The triumph of the will?

  Or was it just his usual prejudices and traditional thoughts about gender roles? Hard to say. Nevertheless Renate turned up briefly in his mind’s eye. Glared reproachfully at him and disappeared.

  ‘Can you tell me something about your church?’ he wondered. ‘What you do, how you are different from other communions, that kind of thing.’

  She put her cup down on the saucer with a clinking noise.

  ‘Well . . .’ she began and cleared her throat several times. ‘We believe in the living God.’

  ‘I see,’ said the chief inspector with an encouraging nod.

  ‘In the living God.’

  Van Veeteren took a cake.

  ‘Jesus is in our midst.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that said.’

  ‘Anybody who has seen the light of faith . . .’

  ‘. . . ?’

  ‘It’s a blessing to be a part of it.’

  ‘So I gather,’ said the chief inspector. ‘And how long is it since you joined the Pure Life?’

  ‘Two years,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Two years, two months and eleven days. It was during the spring campaign that Christ revealed Himself to me.’

  Van Veeteren took a sip of tea, which tasted like warm water with a hint of mint. He swallowed it with some difficulty. Looked up and eyed the picture on the wall behind the woman’s back instead. Quite a large oil painting featuring a group of people dressed in white in front of light-coloured birch trunks and a pale, slightly shimmering sky. Porridge, he thought. Against the light. Anyway, carry on, for God’s sake!

  ‘You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like,’ explained the woman, now with a fresh dose of unctuousness in her voice. ‘You really can’t! If you really understood what it was like to live in the light, you would break away from your old way of life this very day.’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Excuse me. Can you tell me about Oscar Yellinek instead? I take it you know what’s happened in Waldingen.’

  The woman clasped her hands in her lap, but said nothing. Her lively optimism had vanished into thin air. He realized that he’d offended her. Already.

  ‘Have you ever been there?’

  She shook her head. />
  ‘What have you to say about Yellinek?’

  ‘Oscar Yellinek is our leader.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘He’s our link with the living God.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How? Well, he has contact because of his purity and his nobility.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Do you know where he is just now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you know that he’s run away from the camp at Waldingen?’

  ‘Yes . . . No, not run away.’

  ‘What would you call it, then?’

  ‘He’s simply following the voice of God.’

  ‘The voice of God?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you read what’s being written in the newspapers? A lot of people think it’s Yellinek behind the murders.’

  ‘That’s impossible. That’s all lies and slander. Some people are full of jealousy and malice, that’s why they say things like that. Christ was also persecuted . . .’

  The roses of indignation were coming into bloom all over her neck and cheeks. The chief inspector waited for a few seconds, trying to catch her eye.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Oscar Yellinek is a holy man.’

  ‘And that gives him the right to protect a murderer, does it?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t you? It’s the easiest thing in the world to understand. Do you agree that these girls are dead?’

  ‘Yes, I assume—’

  That they have been brutally raped and murdered?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Do you think it would be right to allow their murderer to go free?’