The Inspector and Silence

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘So you think that’s what it’s all about, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zander said. ‘That’s what I think. And I’m not the only one.’

  Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

  ‘What do you think about the murders?’ he asked.

  Zander stubbed out his cigarette and his face took on a thoughtful expression.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘This Yellinek character might well be a bloody psychopath, I don’t doubt that for a second: so I reckon he’s the one who’s done it. And now, needless to say, he’s hiding away here in Stamberg, in a house owned by some lunatic woman who’s a member of his congregation – there are plenty of those around. Most likely, of course, he’s busy screwing her all ends up. For Christ’s sake! The Pure Life? Fuck me!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the chief inspector, glancing at the poster. ‘But why are Madeleine and the rest of them refusing to say a word, do you think?’

  ‘Because he’s told them to stay schtum, of course. He’s the big shagger god after all, and they obey every word he utters. I take it you know about the court case against him a few years ago?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘Anyway, all I can say is that I hope to God you find the bastard and put an end to him and his fucking hangers-on,’ Uri Zander declared. ‘It’s disgusting that they’re allowed to carry on as they do – and they have a school as well. Just imagine, pouring all that shit into youngsters’ minds!’

  Van Veeteren began to realize that he’d got as far as he was going to get, and there wasn’t much point in sitting around and listening to Zander’s outbursts. His host was currently fumbling around in the cigarette pack: the cupboard was evidently almost bare, and so he slid it back under the pile of newspapers.

  ‘Your ex-wife?’ Van Veeteren began. ‘Madeleine. You haven’t married somebody else since then, have you?’

  Zander shook his head.

  ‘Is there any message you’d like me to pass on to her? We’ve got them locked up in Sorbinowo, and I expect to see her tomorrow or the day after.’

  Zander looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘A message for Madeleine? I’ll be fucked if I have anything to say to her.’

  ‘Maybe your daughter might want to say something to her?’

  ‘They have no contact with each other. I’ve explained that already.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, you have,’ said the chief inspector.

  All right, he thought, and braced himself for the effort required to extract himself from the beanbag, or whatever it was he was sitting in. Enough for today. All things considered, he’d been presented with a pretty substantial picture of Madeleine Zander – especially if he compared it with the strangely elusive impression he’d had from the unbleached linen confrontations in Waldingen.

  But whether it was going to be of any use to him was another question, of course.

  They were already in the hall when his final question occurred to him. ‘Ewa Siguera – does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Siguera?’ said Uri Zander, scratching the place where his hair used to be. ‘No, I don’t know anybody of that name – unless you mean Figuera, of course. I think that was her name.’

  ‘Figuera?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who’s Ewa Figuera, then?’

  Zander shrugged.

  ‘I don’t really know her,’ he explained, ‘but if I remember rightly that was the name of the woman Madeleine lived with for a while. She might have been a lesbian, but I don’t know.’

  ‘When was that?’

  Zander thought it over.

  ‘I can’t really remember,’ he said. ‘It was Janis who mentioned it. A few years ago, I reckon. We happened to bump into them. Down by the river.’

  ‘Is she still living in Stamberg?’ Van Veeteren asked.

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ said Zander. ‘Why not look her up in the telephone directory?’

  Not a bad idea, the chief inspector thought as he took leave of his melancholy host.

  Another glimpse into an interesting life, he decided as he emerged into the sunlight again. And it occurred to him that he hadn’t even bothered to find out what Uri Zander did for a living nowadays. Always assuming he did anything at all, of course.

  Perhaps he could glean that information from the telephone directory as well, if the desire to know should get the better of him.

  Figuera? he muttered to himself as he inserted a new menthol-impregnated toothpick into his front teeth, as a counterbalance to Zander’s prejudices. What if it turned out that this whole case depended on a stupid misspelling?

  F instead of S.

  There was no evidence to suggest that this was the case, but it wouldn’t surprise him.

  Not one bit, dammit. Stranger things had been known to happen.

  31

  Since Inspector Jung turned up early, as usual, he had to sit down and wait a while for Ulriche Fischer.

  It was no big deal, in fact. He declined politely but firmly the offer of Constable Matthorst’s company, and instead sat down at a table under one of the chestnut trees that surrounded the big lawn (where one or two residents and one or two carers were wandering around, evidently aimlessly) – and this gave him an excellent opportunity to plan and polish his tactics for the impending conversation.

  The only problem was that he couldn’t concentrate. Not for more than three seconds at a time, that is. No matter how he tried to tame and channel his thoughts, they seemed to sleepwalk stubbornly back to the same topic.

  His holiday.

  The forthcoming holiday and the trip with Maureen and Sophie. That’s the root of the matter! he thought vaguely. Something he’d read, presumably.

  Maureen. Apart from a few short breaks, they had been together for four years now, but during all that time they had never decided to live together – properly as it were. Naturally everything depended on a series of different factors and circumstances, but above all – there could be virtually no doubt at all about this – it was due to his own cowardice and the ambivalence he displayed.

  Always assuming you could display an ambivalence?

  If so, I’d be the one to do it, Jung thought.

  But there wasn’t long to go now, he knew that. Making a decision, that is. There comes a point when you have to either push ahead with things, or walk away; even a newly promoted detective inspector knew that. And this joint holiday – three weeks touring England and Scotland by car with Maureen and her fifteen-year-old daughter – well, this was one of those points. No doubt about it, none at all. Needless to say it was as unspoken as many other things in their relationship, but nevertheless it was as clear as . . . crystal. Yes, it was crystal clear.

  He sighed and took a sip of the juice he’d just been served by a blonde nurse.

  He liked them, of course. Both of them. Perhaps he was even in love with Maureen, sometimes at least, and probably he would never – never ever – feel stronger emotions for any other human being. He didn’t think so, anyway. So why hesitate? Why?

  But even if he’d been able to grasp why he hesitated, would that have made things any easier?

  Perhaps not, he thought. And when he tried to imagine a future – as middle age approached – without Maureen or Sophie, the images he could conjure up in his bachelor mind’s eye were not especially cheerful.

  Football. Beer. One-night stands, as Rooth used to call them. Lonely evenings in front of the television, and depressing piles of dirty laundry he could never bring himself to wash. And annoying telephone calls from his senile mother, wondering why she never had any grandchildren to knit scarves for at Christmas.

  Get knitting, he used to tell her. It won’t be long now. (She never remembered anything they’d said.)

  The same kind of images he used to conjure up before he met Maureen, in other words. Just slightly older and greyer in tone.

  So why hesitate?

  Maureen’s strength? Her calm
determination? Would that be a threat? Sophie’s dissatisfaction with school, and her periods of unreasonable moping?

  The fear of being dominated?

  None of them were good reasons.

  Giving up something although he no longer knew what it was? Was that what it was all about?

  Disappearing? Your life is a footprint in the water, Rein-hart used to say. So why did anything matter?

  Oh bugger it! Jung thought and emptied his glass of juice. I can toss a coin. Or maybe ask her and rely on her judgement being better than mine. Yes, that would be a neat solution.

  It would be just as well to sort it out before we go away, he decided just as Matthorst came out to announce that Ulriche Fischer was ready to receive him.

  So, now it would be good if he could concentrate for a while. What had Reinhart said? Reinhart, who was even going to become a father . . .

  Diffidence?

  Let’s go, then.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, dropping his notebook on the floor. ‘I’m sorry if I’m intruding on you, but the others have sent me here.’

  She didn’t respond. It’s possible that the two wrinkles between the sides of her nose and the sides of her mouth narrowed slightly, but that was a highly doubtful observation.

  ‘I have a few questions, but, obviously, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

  He held his pen sideways in his mouth while leafing through his notebook.

  ‘I used to be a member of a church when I was younger, but then my mother forbade me to go there any more.’

  ‘Forbade you?’

  ‘Yes. My name’s Jung, by the way.’

  She stared doubtfully at him, but then her eyes glazed over again.

  The first verse, Jung thought. How the hell can she look so pale in weather like this?

  ‘What I liked most about it was the feeling of liberation,’ he explained. ‘I was only about fifteen or sixteen at the time, so I didn’t really understand the essence of the faith, but I liked the atmosphere. The light, as it were. But that’s not what we’re supposed to be talking about . . .’

  ‘Are you winding me up?’ said Ulriche Fischer.

  Jung blushed. That was a trick he had developed over the years, and now he could produce one in less than a second.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t the intention. I’ll ask you my questions now.’

  Ulriche Fischer muttered something he couldn’t make out.

  ‘They’re probably the same questions as you’ve been asked before, I’m afraid. Some of them, at least. I’ve only just been put on this case – but I know quite a bit about it, of course. It’s awful, absolutely awful; I really do hope we can catch whoever did it before he strikes again. You don’t have any children yourself, do you, Miss Fisch? I mean Fischer.’

  She started to answer, but it got no further than her throat.

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Jung. ‘But it would be fun to have some eventually. What they want to know this time is when – exactly when – during that Sunday night your priest went missing. Or was it on Monday morning?’

  She swallowed again. And raised her eyes slightly.

  ‘And if he told you what his plan was.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘For the moment they’re inclined to think that you don’t know where he is. That he somehow kept it secret in order to protect you. That would be quite a noble thing to do, in a way.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Let’s face it, it’s not all that odd for him to hide away. Maybe they’d be willing to give him some sort of amnesty . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Ulriche Fischer.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Jung. ‘I’m just trying to interpret the mood. Nobody’s said that straight out.’

  He waited. Avoided looking at her while he scratched his wrists a little nervously. She’s not going to say a word, he thought. Why the hell should she decide to talk to me when she’s been sitting here and saying nothing for . . . how long is it now?

  A week?

  No, more. It must be about ten days by now.

  Waste of time. He sighed.

  ‘It was in the evening,’ she said suddenly.

  He gave a start and didn’t dare to say anything else. Five seconds passed.

  ‘It was in the evening,’ she repeated. ‘We didn’t see him after that.’

  ‘Really?’ said Jung.

  ‘He’s got nothing to do with the death of the girls,’ she said after a further pause that lasted so long Jung thought she had already put the lid on any continuation.

  ‘Nothing at all?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  Silence again. He wondered if he ought to drop his notebook once more, have a coughing fit, or merely repeat his blush; but none of those possibilities seemed adequate, and his repertoire was somewhat limited after all.

  ‘About what time was it?’ he asked in the end. ‘When you last saw him, I mean.’

  She made a strange gesture with her arms. Or rather her shoulders. As if she were rustling her wings, Jung thought, and almost smiled. Practising to be an angel.

  ‘About half past nine.’

  ‘But how can you be sure that the other two sisters didn’t meet him later than that?’

  ‘Because we are one spirit and one flesh.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Jung.

  She’s mad, he thought. How the hell could I forget that she’s mad?

  ‘I think I understand,’ he said. ‘You’re referring to the Trinity.’

  Her mouth suddenly formed a smile, and he responded with a blush of the first order.

  ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand all this. It’s so long since I was a member of that church.’

  The smile withered and died.

  ‘But Good Lord,’ he said. ‘That means that nobody has a clue about where he is? Or have you heard from him at all?’

  It was clear that she had said all she was going to say. That reference to the spirit and the flesh was intended to be the punchline, he guessed. The smile she had produced was clearly no more than an expression of lunacy in general.

  He thought for a moment, then gave up and began to reel off the questions in his notebook – all eighteen of them – but none of them received an answer.

  Not a single answer, and not even a puckered brow.

  Presumably she was feeling sorry for herself. Regretting having opened her mouth at all.

  All the time he maintained the same irreproachable care and correctness, even though he was thoroughly fed up by the end. As a counter to her silence, every time she ignored one of his questions he drew a clear and very audible line in his notebook, and there was something in these short, sharp sounds – repeated over and over again and as inexorable as a razor blade – that he found very attractive.

  Like the cuts made by a surgeon, he thought.

  Ten minutes later he left Wolgershuus. The whole visit, including his private thoughts under the chestnut tree, had taken less than an hour, and it was hard to predict how much the fragments of information he had squeezed out of Ulriche Fischer were actually worth.

  But of course there were others better qualified than himself to judge that.

  Thought Inspector Jung with his usual becoming modesty, and began to walk back through the forest. There was a smell of warm resin among the pine trees, and before he had even caught a glimpse of the town of Sorbinowo, he could feel his shirt clinging to his back and his fluid balance declining.

  If Reinhart hasn’t come back yet, I’ll go for a swim in the lake, he decided.

  And I’ll have a beer.

  32

  After the conversation with Uri Zander, Chief Inspector Van Veeteren drove back to town and had lunch at the Stamberger Hof. It was nearly half past one when he started eating, and as he decided he needed at least three courses – pâté, sole and figs in cognac – it was turned three by the time he’d finished.

  After some hesitation (but the casting vote was d
ictated by considerations of the digestive process), he returned to his car and left Stamberg again. Drove in an easterly direction for fifteen minutes and then found, without a lot of effort, an attractive and shady slope covered in beech trees down to the River Czarna. With the aid of a blanket and a pillow he made a rudimentary bed, took off his shoes and lay down for a postprandial nap.

  Once again he dreamed of a peaceful little antiquarian bookshop, a chestnut-haired woman and a sparkling blue sea, and when he woke up forty minutes later he recalled that he actually had a ticket for a flight due to leave Maardam in less than two days’ time. He sat up.

  It was all very promising, both the dream and the future prospects. Especially in view of the fact that right now he was sitting by an unfamiliar sluggish river, watching a herd of similarly unfamiliar and sluggish cows gaping at him from the high grass on the other side.

  What the hell am I doing? he asked himself, well aware that this was a very old and frequently asked question. Still unanswered.

  Over a hundred kilometres away were an investigation team and a hundred reporters waiting for the outline of a double murderer to become clearer.

  Or perhaps they were waiting for him – the notorious Chief Inspector Van Veeteren with only one unsolved case to his name – to winkle him out.

  Or her?

  He moved a couple of metres to one side, leaned against a beech trunk and suddenly remembered one of Mahler’s favourite quotations:

  To live your life is not as simple as to cross afield.

  Probably Russian, he thought. It had that sort of ring about it.

  Then he lit a cigarette and tried to sort out his thoughts.

  Two girls.

  Aged twelve and thirteen. Raped and murdered.

  About a week between them. First Katarina Schwartz. Then Clarissa Heerenmacht. But found in reverse order.

  Both residents of Stamberg. Both members of the obscure sect the Pure Life and attending the sect’s summer camp at Sorbinowo.

  Pretty, slightly wild Sorbinowo.

  And then the priest.

  Shortly before the discovery of the younger girl’s dead body the alleged man of God, the church’s spiritual leader, Oscar Yellinek, goes up in smoke. The rest of those involved, the sect that is, seal their lips. The younger generation – about a dozen girls around the age of puberty – slowly start to thaw out, but what they have to say is not of much relevance to the murder mysteries.