by Håkan Nesser
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Yes, I know. He’s acquired a taste for blood, he’s learned a thing or two. But let’s go back to that letter. Are you with me?”
“Of course.”
“Mitter writes a letter to the murderer, to the person he suspects had something to do with the death of his wife…”
“Stop!” said Münster. “How do you know that he really did write to the murderer? Why couldn’t it have been an ordinary letter to…to a friend?”
“We’ve started checking,” said Van Veeteren, inserting another toothpick into his mouth. “But the investigation isn’t quite finished yet. None of those close to him has received a letter—his ex-wife, his children, or his good friends. There are a few we haven’t managed to get hold of yet: Petersén and Stauff are working on that. But I don’t think they’ll find anybody.”
“But couldn’t that indicate…”
“Yes, of course it’s very possible that the murderer is one of those; but I don’t think it will do any harm if he is made aware that we are not a bunch of idiots. If we then pin him down a week or two from now, all we have to do is nail him. There’s nothing like a murderer who’s been kept on tenterhooks for a while.”
Münster nodded.
“Back to that letter,” said Van Veeteren. “Let’s assume it is in fact a letter to inform the murderer about something. Questions, Münster!”
“Well, the address, of course. Could somebody have checked the address? But I don’t suppose so…”
“Absolutely right! Those blind idiots who run Majorna haven’t seen a thing! Not a single letter! Even though somebody was standing over Mitter as he wrote, watching him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Either they keep a check on letters written for reasons of security, or there’s some weirdo writing a dissertation—the link between schizophrenia and left-handedness, who cares! The important thing—and listen carefully to this, Inspector, because it’s crucial—Mitter is given paper, pen, envelope, and stamp by a nurse, he sits down in the assembly hall—yes, that’s what they call it—and writes his letter. It takes no more than ten minutes; he hands it to the nurse who posts it in the box outside the entrance when he goes home two hours later. Until then, he’s been carrying it around in the pocket of his working jacket. Is that all clear?”
“Of course.”
“What strikes you about it?”
Münster closed his eyes. Leaned his head against the wall and thought about it.
“I don’t know…”
“The address.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think, Münster, for Christ’s sake! If you can’t work this one out, I’ll never support your application for promotion!”
“Of course: How did he know the address?”
“Of the murderer, yes.”
“Address book?”
“No. He didn’t have one with him. Not anywhere in the hospital.”
“Telephone directory?”
“There isn’t one in the assembly hall.”
“And he stayed in there all the time?”
“The nurse was standing outside, keeping an eye on him. Never let Mitter out of his sight—don’t ask me why. There are glass doors between the rooms. He smoked two cigarettes, he said. Evidently a five-minute brand…”
“If the nurse was being that careful, surely he could have taken a look at the letter as well.”
Van Veeteren grunted.
“Do you think I haven’t explained that to him? Mind you, it’s by no means sure that that would have helped us: he didn’t seem all that good at reading. He’s the sort of he-man who can overturn a locomotive, but doesn’t know which end of a pen to hold downward.”
Münster smiled dutifully.
“Enough of that,” said Van Veeteren. “Nobody has seen what Mitter wrote on the envelope. He had no help from an address book or a telephone directory or anything else. So that means…”
“That he knew the address by heart. Oh, shit…”
“I’m coming to the same point, though I have to say I get there a bit faster. How many addresses do you know by heart, Münster?”
Münster pondered that one.
“Count them!” said Van Veeteren.
“My own,” said Münster.
“Bravo,” said Van Veeteren.
“My parents’…”
“And?”
“My childhood address in Willby…”
“Too old.”
Münster hesitated.
“My sister’s in Hessen—I think.”
He paused.
“Oh, and police HQ, of course,” said Münster eventually.
Van Veeteren felt for a new toothpick, but he’d evidently run out.
“Finished?” he asked.
Münster nodded.
“You’re forty-two years old and have learned four addresses by heart. Well done, Inspector. I could only manage three. What conclusion do you draw from that?”
“He wrote to somebody…very close to him.”
“Or?”
“To himself?”
“Idiot,” said Van Veeteren. “Or?”
“Or to his workplace.”
Van Veeteren clasped his hands behind his head and stretched himself out on his desk chair.
“Bunge High School,” he said. “Fancy a beer?”
Münster nodded again. Van Veeteren looked at the clock.
“If you give me a lift home, you can buy me a glass of beer on the way. I think Kraus’s place will be best.”
Münster wriggled into his jacket.
I suppose he’s doing me a favor, he thought.
“It’s Friday already, dammit!” Van Veeteren announced as they elbowed their way through to the bar.
Carrying two foaming tankards, he wriggled into an almost nonexistent space between two young women on a bench. He lit a cigarillo, and after a couple of minutes there was room for Münster as well.
“Bunge or a good friend,” said Van Veeteren. “And we can no doubt forget about the good friends. Any snags?”
“Yes,” said Münster. “At least one. An unusual name.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you have an unusual name, letters get through to you no matter what. Dalmatinenwinckel, or something like that…”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Dalmatinenwinckel. I once had a girlfriend called that. It was enough to write her name and the town; a street address wasn’t necessary.”
“A good job you didn’t marry her,” said Van Veeteren. “But I expect you’re right. We’d better send somebody to check at the post office.”
He drank deeply and smacked his lips in appreciation.
“How are we going to go about it?” Münster asked. He suddenly felt exhausted again. He was slumped down in a corner of the bench, and the smoke was making his eyes hurt. It was already half past one. If he added up the time it would take them to drink the beer, then to drive V.V. home, drive out to his own suburb, get undressed, and take a shower, he concluded that it would be three o’clock at the earliest before he could snuggle down beside Synn….
He sighed. The thought of Synn was much more persistent than the murder chase just now: still, no doubt that was a healthy sign, when all was said and done.
“You can take Bunge,” said Van Veeteren. “You and Reinhart. I suppose you won’t be able to get started before Monday.”
Münster nodded gratefully.
“The letter is the first thing, of course. It’s possible that we won’t be able to track it down at all, obviously, but if we have an amazing stroke of luck…Well, if somebody remembers it, we’ll know. We’ll have him, Münster, and it’ll be all over there and then!”
Münster said nothing.
“But I don’t think we’re going to have an amazing stroke of luck; I can feel it in my bones. Check the mail procedures at the school in any case—who sorts out incoming mail, if they put stuff in
different pigeonholes, that kind of thing. You’ll get an envelope from Majorna to take with you, of course, but there’s nothing special about it, unfortunately. It looks like any other bloody envelope. And be careful—it’s not necessary for all and sundry to know about this letter.”
“How many teachers are there?” asked Münster.
Van Veeteren pulled a face.
“Seventy, I think. And the bastards get half a ton of mail every week.”
Münster wasn’t sure if Van Veeteren was exaggerating or not.
“What about the pupils?”
“Seven hundred of them,” sighed Van Veeteren. “I don’t suppose they get many letters sent to them at school, but still: seven hundred. Bloody hell!”
“I read a detective story once, about a pupil who started executing his teachers. He disposed of nine of them before they nailed him.”
“I know the feeling,” said Van Veeteren. “I was tempted to do the same when I was a pupil there.”
“What do we do next? Alibis?”
“Yes. Interrogate every single one of the bastards. Tell Reinhart to be hard on them. The time involved is nice and clear: Thursday afternoon to Friday morning. This morning. Anybody who can’t account for that period will be locked up anyway.”
“Eva Ringmar as well? Or have we enough to be going on with?”
“Have another go at the Ringmar alibis; it won’t do any harm. And, Münster, if we find anybody who might have had an opportunity both times, lie low: I’d like to be in on what happens next.”
He raised his tankard and drained it completely.
“That was good,” he said. “Fancy another one?”
Münster shook his head.
“Really? Ah well, I suppose it’s starting to get a bit late. Anyway, Rooth and deBries can spend a bit longer out at Majorna, and then they can do the rounds of the neighbors. Plus Bendiksen, I think. Sooner or later we have to find out what happened to Eva Ringmar.”
“And what are you going to do yourself, sir?”
Without thinking about it, he’d slipped back into the usual formal politeness. Van Veeteren sat for a while without answering.
“First of all I shall talk to the wig-makers,” he said eventually. “Did you know that in this town you can buy or hire wigs from eleven different places?”
“I had no idea,” said Münster. “Just think.”
“Yes; and there are a few more loose ends I’m intending to tie up,” Van Veeteren said as he dropped his cigarillo into his tankard. “Do you know what I think, Münster?”
“No.”
“I think this is a nasty business. A very nasty business indeed, dammit.”
27
He took the route over the moors. It would doubtless add an hour to his journey, but that was what he wanted today.
Alone behind the wheel with Julian Bream and Tarrega echoing in his ears, and the barren landscape acting as a barrier and a filter between himself and all too importunate reality; that was more or less what he had reckoned on. He also chose a car from the police pool with considerable care: an almost new red Toyota with tinted windows and some decent loudspeakers at front and back.
He was on his way by eight or so; a dark, foggy morning which improved as time wore on, but the damp, gray clouds never really went away. When he stopped for lunch at an inn in Moines, the whole village was still shrouded in a heavy mist that seemed to come rolling in from the moors. He realized that it was one of those days when the light would never really break through. Darkness would never be totally conquered.
He ate a fish stew with a lot of onion and wine in it, and allowed his thoughts to wander over the previous day and the paltry results it had produced. He had spent more than eight hours interviewing the staff of various wig boutiques, a thankless and monotonous exercise that he could have delegated to somebody else in view of his rank, but which he had undertaken nevertheless. When it was all finished and he was installed at his desk, summing up, he was at least able to confirm that during the past week, none of the eleven boutiques had sold, rented out, or been robbed of a wig similar to the one worn by the killer on the night of the murder at Majorna.
He had expected no other outcome. Why should such an intelligent and cold-blooded person—which is what they seemed to be dealing with, no matter what—have done something so stupid? But everything had to be checked, and now that was done.
The work carried out by the pathologist and the forensic team had failed to produce a breakthrough, either. Meusse’s observations had been confirmed down to the smallest detail, and what the forensic boys liked to call their Hoovering operation produced as little in the way of results as if the crime scene had been an operating theater instead of a ward in a psychiatric hospital.
Nevertheless, the evening brought with it a faint ray of light, even if it had nothing to do with the case. Just as he was about to go to bed, Renate had called and announced that she didn’t think it was such a good idea for them to move back together after all. In any case, there was certainly no hurry. There’s a time for everything, she had said; and for once he was in full agreement with her. They had concluded their telephone conversation on the best of terms, and she had even persuaded him to promise to pay a visit to their lost son in state prison as soon as he had time.
He drove on through the afternoon, along the narrow, winding roads over the moors and beside the river, as the darkness and the fog grew, and now came the illusory opening he had been hoping for. The very essence of motion…where moving through space and time seemed to stimulate an impression of movement in other spheres as well. Thoughts and patterns and deductions flowed through his consciousness, effortlessly and without resistance, accompanied by the unfilled space created by the classical guitar.
But the direction taken by these expanding movements kept pace with the oncoming darkness. There was something about this case, about both these murders, that was constantly forcing everything onto a downward path, and leaving a nasty taste in his mouth. A feeling of disgust and impotence, similar to what he used to experience every time he was confronted by a violent murder; when he’d still been a young police officer who believed he could bring about change; before the daily confrontation with a certain kind of behavior blunted him sufficiently for him to be able to carry out his job properly.
Hand in hand with these suspicions was the fear that he knew more than he understood. That there was a question, a clue, that he ought to be able to pin down and examine in more detail, or some connection that he had overlooked, which, when exposed to the light of day, would prove to be the key to the case as a whole.
But this was no more than a vague feeling, perhaps no more than a false hope given the lack of anything else; and whatever the truth was, it had not become one jot clearer this afternoon. It had been, and continued to be, a journey into the unknown. What was growing inside him was worry—the worry that everything would take too long, that he would get it all wrong again, that evil would turn out to be much more powerful than he had wanted to acknowledge.
Evil?
That was not a concept he liked to be confronted with.
The woman who opened the door had long red hair and looked as if she might give birth at any moment.
“Van Veeteren,” he said. “I phoned yesterday. You must be Mrs. Berger?”
“Welcome,” she said with a smile; and as if she had been able to read his thoughts, she added, “Don’t worry about me; there’s a whole month to go yet. I always get to look like this.”
She took his coat and ushered him into the house. Introduced two children, a boy aged four to five, and a girl aged two to three; it was a long time since he’d been any good at making more precise estimates in that age group.
She shouted upstairs, and a voice announced that he was on his way. Mrs. Berger invited Van Veeteren to sit down in a cane armchair, part of a small group in front of an open fire, and excused herself, saying her presence was needed in the kitchen. The boy and girl peered furti
vely at Van Veeteren, then decided to accompany their mother.
He was left alone for about a minute. It was clear that the Berger household was not exactly suffering from a shortage of money. The house was located securely and well away from the nearest neighbors at the edge of the little town, with uninterrupted views of the countryside. He had not had enough time to form an opinion about the exterior of the house, but the interior and fittings demonstrated good taste and the means to satisfy it.
For a brief moment, he may have regretted accepting the invitation he had been given. Interrogating one’s host over dinner was hardly an ideal situation. Not easy to bite the hand that feeds you, he thought; much easier to stare somebody down across a rickety hardboard table in a dirty prison cell.
But no doubt all would be well. It was not his intention to cross-question Andreas Berger, even if it might be difficult to resist the pleasure of doing so. Van Veeteren had come here simply to establish an impression—surely there was no more to it than that? For even if he had every confidence in Münster’s judgment, much more so than Münster could ever have imagined, there was always a little chance, a possibility that Van Veeteren might notice something. Something that might require a special sixth sense to pick up, an advanced sort of intuition or a particular kind of perverted imagination….
And if nothing else, four eyes had to be able to see better than two.
That boy, for instance. Was it possible that he was a little bit on the old side for the circumstances? No doubt it would be an idea to check the dates when he had an opportunity. For if it really was the case that the new Mrs. Berger had been pregnant before the old Mrs. Berger had made her final exit, well…That would surely be of some sort of significance?
Andreas Berger looked more or less as Van Veeteren had imagined him. Trim, easygoing, about forty; polo shirt, jacket, corduroy trousers. A somewhat intellectual air.
The prototype of success, Van Veeteren thought. Would fit into any TV ad you cared to name. Anything from aftershave and deodorant to dog food and retirement insurance. Very pleasant.
Dinner took an hour and a half. Conversation was easy and unexceptional, and after the dessert, the wife and children withdrew. The gentlemen returned to their cane armchairs. Berger offered his guest a range of drinks, but Van Veeteren was content with a whiskey and water, and a cigarette.
