by Håkan Nesser
‘My name is Belle Vargas.’
He had the impression that he ought to note that down, but he had neither pen nor paper within reach.
‘I’m coming to see you because I’m worried about my father. He has . . . well, I don’t really know for certain, but I think one has to say that he has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes. That’s why I went to the police yesterday . . . To report him missing. And when I got back home, that intendent rang . . .’
‘Münster?’
‘Intendent Münster, yes. He suggested that I should look you up and tell you about it, because he thought you would be interested.’
Van Veeteren cleared his throat.
‘I’m afraid I don’t really understand what all this is—’
‘Forgive me. I was called Verlangen before I got married. My father’s name is Maarten Verlangen.’
It was a couple of seconds, perhaps three, before the penny dropped. But when it did, it was all the more nerve-shattering. Like – like a knife scraping against the bottom of a saucepan, or a fingernail breaking on contact with a slate. He looked at the clock. There was half an hour still to go before closing time. Belle Vargas was fiddling nervously with something in her shoulder bag: he realized that she was waiting to hear if he was going to listen to what she had to say or not.
‘I think . . .’ he said. ‘I think we need a cup of coffee. What do you say to that?’
I suppose I really am awake? he thought.
‘It’s fifteen years ago, I hope you are clear about that.’
‘I know. Intendent Münster stressed that as well, but I don’t need to be reminded. My father has been going downhill for some years now, and it’s as well that you are aware of that from the start. I’m not suggesting that it began with that business, but nevertheless it was somehow crucial . . . It floored him.’
She paused, and stirred her cup of coffee.
‘Belle?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Your name is Belle, is it? I remember him talking about his daughter. How old were you then?’
You should never ask a woman about her age, he thought: but if you wondered how old she was quite a few years ago, that was another matter of course.
‘Sixteen or seventeen,’ she said. ‘That was when he had his private detective agency, my dad; but after that G business it never got going again. He kept his office, of course, until just a few years ago, but he hardly ever had any work . . .’
‘I understand,’ said Van Veeteren, taking out his cigarette machine. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you could tell me what’s happened. Now, as it were.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Belle Vargas, blushing. ‘But, in fact, I don’t know what’s happened . . . Apart from the fact that he’s disappeared. I’m usually in touch with him once a week . . . or every other week at least . . . but now it’s been a month.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘In Heerbanerstraat. He’s lived in that scruffy little flat ever since they divorced . . . and that was over twenty years ago. No, I’m afraid my father hasn’t had much of a life.’
‘Perhaps he has realized that, and started all over again somewhere else?’
She laughed.
‘My father? No, I can hear that you don’t know him. And he would never go away without letting me know. He is . . .’ She struggled to find the right words. ‘He’s pretty lonely. I think I’m the only person of importance in his life. Me and my children – I have a boy and a girl.’
‘I understand,’ said Van Veeteren again. ‘Yes, I had the impression that he was a sort of lone wolf . . . even at that time. Fifteen years ago. But now you think he’s gone missing, do you?’
She nodded and swallowed.
‘Yes. As far as I know, he hasn’t been home since the third or the fourth. I was at his place in Heerbanerstraat the day before yesterday, and there was an enormous pile of post and junk mail – mainly junk mail, of course. It . . . Something must have happened to him.’
Her voice trembled, and Van Veeteren gathered that she was much more worried than she had appeared to be.
‘What was he working at nowadays?’
I ought to have said ‘is he working at’, he thought, but it was too late.
‘He’s been out of work for some years now . . . Apart from the occasional little job now and again. I suppose I ought to admit that he’s been drinking more than is good for him. I suspect that applied even when you met him. But . . . Well, things haven’t got any better.’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘That’s the way it can go,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for your sake, and I understand that it must be difficult. But I don’t really understand why you’ve come to see me. Or why Intendent Münster thought you ought to come to me. I assume a Wanted notice has been issued?’
‘Yes. And they’ve checked up at all the hospitals and such places . . . I’m quite reconciled to the thought that he might have died in some sort of accident when he’d had a drop too much – but it seems that there are no unidentified bodies that could be him . . . And then, there are a few other circumstances.’
‘Circumstances?’ wondered Van Veeteren. ‘What circumstances?’
She rummaged in the shoulder bag she had put on the floor in front of her, and dug out an envelope. Opened it, and produced a sheet of paper.
‘This was lying on the kitchen table.’
Van Veeteren took it and examined it. A normal A4 sheet, lined, from a spiral-bound writing pad, by the look of it. There were two things written on it:
14.42
and
G. Bloody hell
That was all. Rough handwriting. A blue ballpoint pen that had left a few tiny blots. The G was written bigger and more powerfully than any of the other letters – aggressively, no doubt about it. The numbers higher up were underlined. Down at the bottom of the paper, on the right, was a pale yellow stain in the form of a three-quarter circle: his diagnosis was a beer glass.
He returned the sheet of paper, and looked at her.
‘Well?’
She hesitated.
‘I suppose . . . I suppose it’s not all that much, but you must be aware that he was obsessed by that Hennan business. At times, at least. As if that – and only that – was the reason for his personal failure. You can’t imagine how many hours I’ve spent listening to him going on about it . . . He lost his job with that insurance company as a result of it, I don’t know if you are aware of that . . . And, well, if it’s true what they say and some people need something specific to complain about, then there’s no doubt that Jaan G. Hennan is the bugbear in my father’s life . . . I take it you know what I’m talking about?’
‘I think so,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Life doesn’t always turn out to be what we’d like it to be. But you said there were several things. Not just this sheet of paper.’
She nodded.
‘Yes. These scribbles don’t say all that much – but there was a phone call as well.’
‘A phone call?’
‘Yes. My father rang and spoke to my son, Torben. We’ve tried to work out precisely when that was, but you know what children are like . . . Torben is ten years old. It was presumably at the beginning of last week, ten or eleven days ago, but he can’t remember exactly. He only remembered about it the other day when we were sitting and talking about Grandad, and whether to issue an S.O.S. message . . .’
‘What kind of call was it?’
‘My father rang, and Torben answered. He was alone in the house, and that’s why we think it must have been a weekday when he’d come home from school, but my husband and I hadn’t yet got home from work . . . Monday or Tuesday, most likely. Anyway, I’ve checked everything it’s possible to check, and I can vouch for what my son says.’
‘So what did your father want?’
She paused briefly before answering. She held his gaze for an extra half-second, and he realized that she was trying to make sure that he was genuinely interested. T
hat he believed what she was telling him.
‘He asked Torben to give us a message,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, Torben forgot about it for a few days. But my father said: “It’s about Jaan G. Hennan. Now I understand how he did it. This evening I’m going to prove it.” He repeated it twice, and asked Torben to tell us exactly what he had said.’
Van Veeteren frowned.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘And your son forgot about it?’
‘Unfortunately. Other things got in the way. But he remembered about it in detail once he did get round to it – you know what ten-year-olds can be like.’
Van Veeteren nodded vaguely.
‘“Now I understand how he did it. This evening I’m going to prove it.” That’s what he said, is it?’
‘And that it had to do with Hennan, yes.’
‘It sounds a bit . . . well, what could one call it? Melodramatic?’
‘I know. He can be like that.’
‘Ten to twelve days ago?’
‘No more than two weeks, in any case.’
‘But you think that he hasn’t been at home for . . . How long was it you said?’
‘Four weeks, as far as I can judge.’
‘And you don’t know where he rang from?’
‘No.’
‘Does he have a mobile phone?’
‘No.’
‘Did he say anything about contacting the police, or anything like that?’
‘No, evidently not. And I’m quite certain that Torben would have remembered if he had done.’
Van Veeteren prised a cigarette out of the machine and said nothing for a while.
‘What did he sound like when he rang? Did your son get any impression of that? I mean, in view of—’
‘I understand what you’re getting at. I obviously asked Torben about that as well, and he maintains that Grandad was sober. He’s spoken to him a few times when he wasn’t, so he knows what it’s all about. He says that Grandad sounded quite . . . well, keen . . . eager . . . as if he were in a hurry. It was a very short call, it seems.’
‘And he didn’t say anything about ringing again later?’
‘No, he didn’t . . . Anyway, I don’t know what you think about this, but at least I’ve filled you in. It was that intendent who urged me to contact you . . .’
‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Thank you. It’s absolutely right that you should come to me. Intendent Münster made a completely correct judgement.’
He picked up the sheet of paper and studied it for a while in silence.
‘These figures,’ he said. ‘14.42 . . . It looks like a departure time. A train or a bus.’
She nodded.
‘Presumably. That’s what Intendent Münster thought as well . . . So maybe he’s gone off somewhere. But for heaven’s sake, this was such a long time ago!’
‘And he didn’t say anything about where he was calling from? He couldn’t have been at home, could he?’
‘He could have been absolutely anywhere. Torben is sure that he didn’t say a word about where he was.’
‘You don’t happen to have one of those . . . what are they called? Caller somethings?’
‘Caller-ID. No, unfortunately not.’
Van Veeteren leaned back and thought. Belle Vargas finished her coffee and seemed to be wondering if there was anything else she could add, or whether she should thank him for his hospitality and leave. He watched her out of the corner of his eye while thoughts meandered through his brain.
‘Damn it all!’ he muttered eventually. ‘After fifteen years. But then again . . . then again, it’s not certain that it means anything at all. He’s a bit obsessed by this Hennan business, you said?’
‘On and off, at least. I imagine that he might well have become so . . . so incredibly enthusiastic if he really had caught on to something . . . I’m not sure if you understand how—’
‘I certainly do,’ interrupted Van Veeteren. Cleared his throat and sat up straight on his chair. ‘Don’t underestimate me, intuition is my speciality. I was responsible for the Barbara Hennan investigation in 1987, and I met your father several times. I shall get in touch with Intendent Münster, and we shall see what we can do about this. Am I right in thinking that your father has never gone missing like this before?’
‘Never,’ said Belle Vargas emphatically. ‘I’m sure something must have happened to him, and I’m extremely grateful that you are taking the trouble to help me. My father is a . . . a quite insignificant person, if you see what I mean.’
‘Insignificant?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Ah well, not everybody has the distinction of wallowing in the spotlights. But don’t expect too much. Let us hope that there is a straightforward explanation, and that we find your father in good condition.’
She nodded. Stood up, shook hands and left the bookshop. Through the display window he watched her turn up the hood of her jacket to fend off the pouring rain, and hurry off in the direction of Kellnerplejn.
When she had disappeared behind a furniture van outside Gestetner’s, he finally pinched his arm. It hurt.
A straightforward explanation? he thought five seconds later. Maarten Verlangen in good condition?
He realized that he didn’t really believe in either possibility, and when he locked the street door he had a sudden attack of dizziness. He sat down on one of the reading chairs.
G? he thought. Yet again?
The last round?
These were only words that drifted into his head instead of thoughts, he knew that, and he felt a need to hold them at bay. They were too heavy for the slight suspicion that had suddenly emerged inside him. The vague feeling that the only case he had failed to solve in over thirty years of police work might have a verse as yet unsung, despite everything – a suspicion that would never keep afloat if he started examining it in detail, hoping, and planting words.
Caution! he thought. Don’t start creating illusions, you bookseller!
He stood up and pulled down the curtain across the door. Went back to the inner room and his armchair. Dug out the bottle of port and a glass from behind the row of Schiller and Klopstock, and filled it to the brim. Made himself comfortable in the armchair and lit the cigarette he had made during his conversation with Belle Vargas but never got round to lighting – and as if to order, the moment he closed his eyes and made himself defenceless, that old image from the gym appeared in his mind’s eye.
The frozen image from the gym itself with Adam Bronstein rolled up inside that stinking mat – and then another image from a few minutes later. A devilish moment.
When . . . when they are already on their way from the scene. When G has closed the gym door and is walking off, and when it has occurred to him how he will be able to save the life of Adam. He pauses in the schoolyard, pretending that his shoelace has come undone and needs tying. He crouches down among the red and yellow autumn leaves next to one of the bicycle stands and pretends to be tying a knot – and things proceed exactly as he had hoped: G doesn’t stop and wait for him, merely glances in his direction and continues walking towards the school gate with the others.
But then, suddenly, his courage fails him. Instead of staying where he is, allowing G and the others to pass through the dark gate, and then going back into the gym – instead of doing what he knows he ought to do, he stands up and hurries after them.
He’s not the one who rolled Adam Bronstein up in the mat.
It’s not his responsibility.
It’s not . . .
He opened his eyes and the image disappeared.
Is that why I hate him? he wondered. Is it because he implicated me in his guilt? Made me guilty for the first time fifty years ago?
He looked at the clock. It was a quarter past six . . . and he suddenly remembered that they were expecting guests: two of Ulrike’s children, his own grandchild Andrea and her mother. Ulrike had thought of serving up a paella, and no doubt needed his assistance in the kitchen.
He could feel a longing for
her, a longing to be in the kitchen with her, each with a glass of Chianti and with the smell of bread baking in the oven. A very strong longing.
Good Lord, he thought. I’m sixty-five years of age, but as lovelorn as a teenager.
He stood up and left the bookshop.
Late that night he telephoned Münster. He hadn’t spoken to him – nor to any other of his former colleagues – for several months, and it felt almost as if he were intruding. It was remarkable, but that’s the way it was.
It transpired that Münster had no information about Verlangen over and above what he had already heard from Belle Vargas. They had issued a Wanted notice the previous day, but as yet – after rather more than twenty-four hours – they had not received a single response. He agreed to meet Van Veeteren in a few days’ time to discuss the situation: if anything significant turned up in the meantime, Münster promised to inform the Chief Inspector immediately.
The intendent never actually used the words, but nevertheless Van Veeteren could hear them – as plain as day – on the tip of his tongue.
The Chief Inspector.
I would have retired last autumn if I’d stayed on in the force, he thought. Perhaps it was the intention that I would fit in another round with G after all. Perhaps that is what the director had intended all along?
Was that possible? The director?
He shook his head and tried to rinse away the thought with a mouthful of Chianti.
But it wouldn’t go away.
28
It was six months since he had last met Münster – and ten months since they had last played badminton – but it turned out to be an unexpectedly memorable meeting even so.
The intendent had been in bed with flu as recently as that same morning (38.3 degrees the previous night) and was a walking corpse. Van Veeteren had no difficulty in winning the first set 15–10, and at 10–3 in the second Münster was forced to throw in the towel, having been sent staggering from corner to corner like a fatally wounded quarry by his ruthless opponent.
