by Håkan Nesser
Was “fear” the wrong word for this? she wondered. Was it too weak? Perhaps there was something stronger?
“Terror”?
She shuddered. Wrapped the covers more closely around her.
Yes, that’s what it was. It was a feeling of terror creeping up on her. This new man filled her with terror.
She reached out and switched the light on. Sat up and lit a cigarette. What the hell was going on? She inhaled deeply several times, and tried to sort out her thoughts.
Tonight had been their third meeting, and they still hadn’t been to bed together. That said all there was to be said. Something must be wrong.
The first time, she’d had her period. Looking back now, she realized that he had almost seemed relieved.
The second time, they’d gone to the movies. There had been no question of anything else.
But this evening ought to have been when it happened. They’d drunk a few glasses of wine, and watched some idiotic program on the telly. She’d been wearing a thin, flimsy dress and not a stitch underneath, and they’d sat on the sofa. She had caressed the back of his neck, but all he’d done was to stiffen up…. Stiffen up and place a heavy hand on her knee. Left it lying there like a dead fish, while he attacked the wine even more voraciously.
Then he had apologized for not feeling well, and gone to the bathroom. He’d left soon after eleven.
They were going to meet on Saturday for the fourth time. He would pick her up straight after work. They’d go for a drive, if the weather was anything like reasonable, and then go to his place. He was adamant that he wanted her to stay the night. Only half an hour after leaving her, he’d called and made the arrangements. Apologized again for not feeling on top form. And she had agreed to all the plans, of course. Said she was looking forward to it.
She had second thoughts almost before replacing the receiver. Why hadn’t she said that she had a previous engagement? Why had she been so stupid as to say yes to a man she didn’t want?
Why could she never learn?
She stubbed out her cigarette in annoyance, and noticed that her fear was giving way to anger. Perhaps that was a sign.
A sign that she was only imagining things. Surely it couldn’t be all that dangerous? She’d had so many men in her life, surely she could cope with one more. No doubt she would get this John, as he called himself, where she wanted him.
Satisfied with these conclusions, she switched off the light and rolled over onto her side. It really was time for some sleep now. She would get up at seven, and be in place in the boutique at half past eight, as usual. Just before falling asleep, however, she managed to make two decisions that she promised herself she would remember when she woke up the next morning.
Firstly, she would talk to Johanna after all. Impress upon her that she had an obligation of absolute silence, of course; but nevertheless, fill her in on the circumstances.
Secondly, she would meet this man on Saturday, but if the slightest thing went wrong, she would turn on her heel without more ado, and that would be that.
That’s what would happen.
Once this had been decided, Liz Hennan was finally able to drop off to sleep thinking about more down-to-earth matters.
Such as those expensive trainers, for instance: the ones she was intending to buy in order to improve her times and boost the number of calories she could burn off.
Which must have been a bad investment and wishful thinking, in view of the fact that she had only three days left to live.
33
“Where’s Reinhart?” wondered Van Veeteren, arranging two used toothpicks in the form of a cross on the desk in front of him.
“Here!” said Reinhart, as he came in through the door. “I nipped into the book auction for a few minutes. Am I late?”
“Who the hell has time to read books?” said Rooth.
“I do,” said Reinhart, sitting down next to the radiator.
“Shitty weather, by the way! You wonder how people can raise the strength to go out and kill one another.”
“Go out?” said deBries, and sneezed twice. “Most of the murderers I know kill one another indoors.”
“Yes, but that’s because they can’t go out to do it,” said Rooth. “They obviously get on everybody’s nerves, just sitting around and gaping at this nonstop rain day after day.”
“It stopped raining in the afternoon the day before yesterday,” said Heinemann.
“Can we get started?” asked Van Veeteren. He counted his flock: Münster, Reinhart, Rooth, deBries, Jung, and Heinemann. That made seven, including himself. Seven officers working on the same case. That wasn’t something that happened every day.
Mind you, this was only the first week. The newspapers were still dreaming up headlines. Psycho Murderer. Death High School. And so on. There again, the word count diminished noticeably with every new edition. Presumably he could expect several of his team to be given other assignments from Monday onward. DeBries, Jung, and Heinemann…perhaps also Rooth.
But for the time being, they were at full strength. Hiller had committed himself to several pledges, both on TV and in the newspapers. It would soon be time to bid for money for the next financial year. It wouldn’t do any harm if they had a murderer under lock and key before Christmas, at the latest.
And the right murderer this time.
Rooth blew his nose. Reinhart looked as if he needed to do the same, but he lit his pipe instead. Van Veeteren was being careful with every movement involving the small of his back. The match against Münster on Tuesday had left its mark, no doubt about that. He was in pain, especially when he sat down. He glanced at deBries and Heinemann. They looked distinctly groggy as well. Who knows if that was due to a cold or a lack of sleep? But in any case, his collection of police officers was not a particularly impressive bunch, to be honest.
Not something to line up for a live broadcast, he thought. Let’s hope the inside looks a bit better than the shell.
“Can we get started?” he said again.
“Majorna first?”
Van Veeteren nodded, and deBries took a notebook out of his briefcase.
“There’s not a lot to say,” he said. “We’ve spoken to every living soul out there, apart from those afflicted with mutism and the potted plants. Doctors, staff, patients…A total of 116 in all. About 100 haven’t seen a thing, but half of them think they have. Several have had dreams and visions…. For fuck’s sake, four have admitted to the murder.”
He paused and blew his nose into a paper handkerchief.
“Nevertheless, we’ve pinned down an overall picture that seems to hold water. Ninety-five percent, in any case. The murderer appeared in the office a few minutes past five. Asked about the patient Janek Mitter. Said she was a colleague of his, and would like to see him. Nothing unusual about that. Mitter had had several visits earlier.”
“Did he use the word ‘colleague’?” Van Veeteren asked.
“Yes, they’re sure about that. There were two people in reception when she turned up.”
“And both of them have forgotten all about her?” said Reinhart. “Great.”
“Well, it was only one of them who handed over to the night shift later,” said Rooth. “We asked all sorts of questions about the pitch of this person’s voice, of course, and it seems highly likely that it was a man. He found it necessary to ask the way several more times, and everybody had the impression that there was something odd about the voice.”
“Okay,” said Van Veeteren. “We’ve established that it was a man. Go on!”
“As for where he hid himself,” said deBries, “we don’t really know a thing. There are plenty of possibilities—to be precise, sixteen places that weren’t locked: storerooms, lavatories, communal rooms, and no end of cupboards.”
“I had the impression that everything was locked up, apart from the patients,” Reinhart said.
“No, that’s not true,” said Rooth. “But whatever, we haven’t found any clues at all.”
“I don’t think that’s very important,” said Van Veeteren.
“What about the letter?”
Rooth thumbed through his notebook.
“We’ve checked what Mitter was up to that Monday, from the moment he woke up to the time when he handed over the letter to Ingrun.”
“Ingrun?”
“That’s the name of the attendant. He received the letter at precisely five minutes past two. We tried to discover if Mitter could have checked a telephone directory before he started writing—bearing in mind the address, of course…”
“Tell us about the time after lunch,” said Van Veeteren.
“That will suffice.”
“Yes, probably. We have an interesting piece of information regarding the morning, but we can come back to that later. Anyway, there’s a telephone kiosk for the use of patients on every floor. And in every kiosk there’s a directory for the local district. Mitter finishes his lunch in the dining room at about a quarter past one, then he sits in the smoking room with several other patients and a few attendants. Then, according to a couple of witnesses, he goes to the lavatory. Comes out again a few minutes after half past. Then there’s a bit of a gap. Some maintain that he goes back to his room for a while, others say that he went straight to the office to collect what he needed to write his letter, and that he had to wait for a few minutes. In any case, Ingrun turns up at the office at a quarter to two. He finds Mitter waiting there, produces a pen, some paper, and an envelope, and takes Mitter with him to the dayroom. He stands outside for the ten minutes it takes Mitter to write the letter; he stays outside because he wants to smoke in peace and quiet. He’s just finished his coffee in the staff canteen.”
“Did Mitter have a note with him?” asked Münster.
“No,” said deBries. “We pressed Ingrun hard on that point. I suppose you could say that he’s not the most gifted of all the people we questioned, but we’re as sure as you could expect us to be. Mitter had no papers, apart from what he was given by Ingrun.”
“Did this clown notice if Mitter wrote the letter first, or the envelope?” Van Veeteren asked.
“No, unfortunately not,” said Rooth. “He was too preoccupied with his cigarette. I think you’ve met him, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “I agree with your assessment of the creature.”
He paused and contemplated the little pile of chewed-up toothpicks on the desk in front of him.
“Anyway,” he said. “The question is if the man wrote to Bunge High School, or to somewhere else. As far as I’m concerned, I shall continue to assume that he wrote to Bunge. You are welcome to reach a different conclusion. What was all that about something that happened during the morning? I think I know what you are referring to, but it would be as well if everybody was informed.”
Rooth sighed.
“Mitter was in the telephone booth for some time in the morning, but evidently not to look for an address. He called somebody.”
“Very interesting,” said Van Veeteren. “Who did he call, if I might ask?”
“Perhaps you can tell us that yourself, Chief Inspector, if I’ve understood the situation correctly,” said deBries.
“Mmm,” growled Van Veeteren. “Klempje has confessed.”
“Confessed what?” asked Reinhart, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
“There was a call from Majorna to the duty officer last Monday. It was Mitter, who had something to tell us. He asked for me, but I wasn’t in…. Nobody informed me when I did come in.”
“But that’s a bloody scandal!” said Reinhart.
There was a pause for several seconds.
“What happened to Klempje?” asked Jung. “When did you hear about this, Chief Inspector?”
“Yesterday,” said Van Veeteren. “Klempje has been temporarily replaced.”
Reinhart nodded. DeBries snorted.
“Anything else from Majorna?” asked Van Veeteren.
Rooth shook his head.
“If we find any more dead bodies out there,” he said, “I suggest that deBries and I should be spared the job of investigating. It’s not a healthy place for fragile police officers to be.”
“Questions?” said Van Veeteren.
“One,” said Reinhart. “If they managed to forget about that visitor all night, isn’t it also possible that he simply cleared off? Left the place without anybody noticing? Much earlier?”
“In principle, yes,” said Rooth. “But hardly through the main entrance.”
“But he could have left through some other door?”
“Of course,” said deBries.
Reinhart emptied the contents of his pipe into the wastebasket.
“Are you sure it’s completely extinguished?” asked Rooth.
“No, but if a fire breaks out, we’ll probably notice. There are seven coppers sitting around in here, after all.”
Van Veeteren made a note in the pad he had in front of him.
“Damnation!” he said. “We’d overlooked that possibility. Thank you, Reinhart.”
Reinhart flung out his arms.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“So, let’s move on. Bunge! First the letter, please.”
Münster sat up straight.
“Unfortunately, we didn’t get anywhere with that,” he said. “Reinhart and I put both school janitors and Miss Bellevue through the mangle, but we can’t expect them to remember one little letter that arrived a week ago. They receive nearly three hundred items of mail every day, about two hundred in the morning, and roughly half as many after lunch.”
“Who distributes the mail?”
“On that particular day it was Miss Bellevue and one of the janitors in the morning, and the other one in the afternoon.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“A pity,” he said. “Is there anything that doesn’t fit in?”
“Possibly,” said Reinhart. “But you might well think it’s nitpicking. I’d prepared three envelopes: I knew for certain that two of them had been in last week’s mail to Bunge….”
“How the hell could you fix that?” interrupted deBries.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Reinhart. “I have a contact.”
“A Portuguese lady who teaches there part-time,” explained Münster.
“Hmm,” said Reinhart. “Anyway, all three of them—the two school janitors and Miss Bellevue—recognized the two I mentioned, but nobody appeared to have seen the letter from Majorna at all.”
“And what conclusion do you draw from that?” asked Van Veeteren.
“The Devil only knows,” said Reinhart. “None at all, I suppose. But perhaps it’s worth noting that they recognized those envelopes, even if they didn’t remember who they were addressed to, but that they didn’t even remember the letter from Mitter.”
“Not much of a point to note,” said deBries.
“I agree,” said Reinhart.
Van Veeteren sighed and looked at the clock.
“How come we haven’t got any coffee? Rooth, would you mind…?”
“I’ll get some,” said Rooth, as he vanished through the door.
“Carry on!” said Van Veeteren, taking a Danish pastry.
“Okay,” said Münster. “We were hard at it all day Tuesday—Reinhart and I, Jung and Heinemann, and we interrogated eighty-three persons in all. Seven were absent, but Jung paid them a visit yesterday. Two members of the staff have been on study leave for three weeks, and I think we can forget them. I met most of these characters in connection with the investigation a month ago, and I can assure you that it wasn’t exactly a case of ‘How nice to see you again!,’ not for any of the parties concerned.”
“We don’t get paid for being liked,” said Van Veeteren.
“Did you find a murderer?”
“No,” said Münster. “Quite a few who probably ought to be behind bars, but nobody who was a candidate for this murder.”
“Any…suspicions?” Van Veeteren
wondered.
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” said Münster.
“Same here,” said Heinemann. “No suspicions at all.”
Jung and Reinhart shook their heads.
“Hardly to be expected, anyway,” said Reinhart. “Any damned idiot can keep a straight face when there are ninety of them to be interviewed!”
“No doubt,” said Van Veeteren. “Let’s concentrate on the main points: the alibis and date of appointment.”
“What has the date of appointment got to do with it?” asked Rooth.
“I think the murderer has been employed by the school for quite a short time,” said Van Veeteren.
“Why?”
“It’s just a feeling I have. Nothing rational, nothing that would stand up in court. Anyway, let’s get on with it!”
Jung handed the papers he’d had on his knee to Münster.
“All right,” said Münster. “This is going to be mainly juggling with figures, but if we can exclude eighty-nine out of ninety, all we need to do then is to pick the bastard up, I suppose.”
“Speaking of what will stand up in court…” said Rooth.
“Ninety persons, in other words the whole lot of them, maintain that they are innocent,” said Münster.
“You don’t say?” ventured deBries.
“Eighty-two say that they have an alibi for that Thursday night when Mitter was murdered, the remaining eight went home immediately after school and were alone all evening and all night.”
Van Veeteren made another note.
“We have checked up on sixty-one of the eighty-two. Checked up and eliminated. Of the twenty-one doubtful cases, we can probably exclude about fifteen. That leaves eight, plus six who either don’t have an alibi or have a particularly ropey one. If we have counted correctly, and we think we have, that leaves fourteen persons, and possibly the odd one more, who might have been able, hypothetically, to murder Mitter.”
Münster paused. Rooth stood up and started serving more coffee. DeBries cleared his throat. Reinhart took his pipe from his mouth and leaned forward. Van Veeteren dug out the remains of a Danish pastry with a pencil.
