by Håkan Nesser
Jung handed the papers he’d had on his knee to Munster.
“All right,” said Munster. “This is going to be mainly jug-gling 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 Munster.
“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.”
Munster 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.
“Fourteen persons,” he said thoughtfully. “Do you have a list of them, Munster?”
Jung handed over another sheet of paper.
“Yes,” said Munster.
“Have you checked which of them have an alibi for the first murder?”
“Yes,” said Munster. “Six of them have watertight alibis for the Ringmar murder.”
“How can there be so many in that category?” interrupted deBries. “We’re talking about half an hour, or forty-five minutes at most, in the middle of the night. . ”
“Conferences,” said Reinhart. “Four of them were at the same conference three hundred miles away from here.”
“And the other two were in Rome and London,” explained Munster.
“Eight left,” said Van Veeteren. “How many of them are women?”
“Five,” said Munster.
“Three left. Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Munster. “At Bunge High School, there are only three men who don’t have an alibi for both murders.”
Rooth took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and sat with it in his hand.
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “How many of those have been appointed within the last few years?”
Munster paused for three seconds.
“None,” he said. “The youngest has been working there for fourteen years.”
“Shit,” said Van Veeteren.
34
“There’s something that doesn’t add up.”
“Quite a few things, I’d have thought,” said Munster.
Coming from Munster, that was definitely cheek, but Van Veeteren let it pass. He suddenly felt weary. . An exhausted ox sinking into a swamp. Where the devil did all these images come from? Something he’d read in a book, presumably. He stared listlessly at his notes. What the hell was it that was wrong?
Perhaps everything, as Munster had implied?
Or was it just a detail?
Munster sighed and looked at the clock.
“What shall we do now?” he asked. “Check the alibis more carefully?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “It’s obvious that we could smash one or two of them, but we’re not allowed to keep pestering the Bunge crowd: specific orders from above. The parents’
association have threatened to keep the children at home if we turn up anymore. Suurna has phoned Hiller seventeen times.”
“Hmm,” said Munster. “In that case, I don’t see what. .”
“Go and fetch Rooth again,” said Van Veeteren.
Munster stood up.
“But leave me alone for half an hour before the pair of you turn up.”
Munster opened his mouth and intended to say something, but the chief inspector swiveled around on his chair and turned his back on him.
In nineteen cases he was sure. In the twentieth. .
Underneath all the broken and chewed-up toothpicks was his diary, and it was not long before that had engaged his attention.
Twenty-eight days to Christmas Eve, he worked out.
Nineteen sweet young ladies
Aspired to be his wife. .
How much overtime could he turn into vacation time?
Number twenty killed him. . no, spurned him. .
Presumably enough for him to take the rest of the year off?
The next one took his life.
What the hell was he doing? What was it, whizzing around so helplessly in his ancient, sluggish brain? Was he thinking of giving up? Was he thinking. .
There was no point. The thought had struck home right away, he wasn’t going to be able to banish it. . He might as well admit it. An easy chair on a terrace in. . Casablanca.
He’d be able to sit back there in just a few days from now! A warm breeze, a book, and a glass of white wine. Why continue to kid himself that this pretentious guessing game served any purpose at all?
But there again, should he not. .? Didn’t he owe it to Mitter, at least, to crack this case? Incidentally, what was the aver-age temperature in North Africa in December? Not much to shout about, presumably. Cold winds from the Sahara, and all the rest of it. .
The next one he got wrong!
Wouldn’t the chances of success be better if somebody else took over completely?
Australia! That was it! What was it Caen had said?
Seventy-five degrees. . Lemon blossoms? Australia. .
He dialed Hiller’s number.
“I’m thinking of handing this case over to Munster. I’ve got stuck.”
“The hell you will,” said Hiller.
“I’m old and tired,” said Van Veeteren.
“Crap!”
“I’ve got back pain.”
“You’re supposed to work with your head, not your back.
For Christ’s sake, you have six men under you!”
“I was thinking of going to Australia.”
There was silence for a while.
“All right,” said Hiller. “Why not? Put this bastard behind bars, and you can have a month’s vacation. Shall we say you have six days in which to crack it? I’ve promised on television that we’ll clear up this case within two weeks. There’s a direct flight to Sydney every Thursday.”
Van Veeteren thought it over. Put down the receiver and studied his diary again.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, dammit!” said Van Veeteren.
“Well?”
“Okay, let’s say that,” said Van Veeteren with a sigh. “But if I haven’t cracked it by Wednesday, you’ll receive my letter of resignation. This time it’s serious. I shall buy a ticket tomorrow.”
He hung up before Hiller had a chance to get the last word in. Looked through his notes one more time. Then he tore them out of the pad and threw them into the wastebasket.
Six days to go, he thought.
Didn’t the last one in the rhyme get away with it, by the way?
Rooth sat down on the chair he had vacated half an hour earlier.
“What did you do before going to Majorna?” Van Veeteren asked.
“Bendiksen.”
“A possible murderer?”
“No way.”
“Had he received a letter?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“Former wife. The children. No letters. .”
“Tips?”
“No. The ex-wife seemed shocked.”
“Out of the question as the murderer, I take it. Any more?”
“Marcus Greijer and Uwe Borgmann.”
“Brother-in-law and. . neighbor?”
“Correct. Nothing.”
“Alibis?”
> “Watertight.”
“How long have they been living in Maardam?”
“Greijer for about ten years, Borgmann all his life.”
“Okay, anything else?”
Rooth shook his head. Van Veeteren dug a sheet of paper from out of a desk drawer.
“I have a list here of twenty-eight names. It’s Mitter’s suggestion for people who might have killed Eva Ringmar. I think we’ve investigated most of them, but not all.”
He handed the paper to Rooth.
“I want you and deBries to take a look at them.”
“What exactly are we after?”
“Alibis, of course. And their past. The interesting ones are those who’ve only moved to Maardam recently. And. . well, use your imagination, for Christ’s sake!”
Rooth blew his nose loudly.
“When are we supposed to do this by?”
Van Veeteren looked at his diary.
“Let’s say Monday. But if you find the murderer before then, do feel free to let us know.”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Rooth. “Have a nice weekend!”
He folded the sheet of paper and put it in his inside pocket.
Stood up and added:
“We’ll find him, no doubt, never fear.”
“Clear off,” said Van Veeteren.
“And what do we do, then?” asked Munster when they were alone again.
Van Veeteren tore up a few more notes while he thought the matter over.
“You and Reinhart can do what the devil you like,” he said eventually. “Whoever solves the case gets a bottle of cognac.”
“Five star?” asked Munster.
“Four,” said Van Veeteren. “Can I give you a few tips?”
Munster nodded.
“Concentrate on newly appointed staff at Bunge. I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find him, in any case! But for God’s sake don’t actually go there!”
“We’ve got their names,” said Munster. “All the ones appointed after Eva Ringmar.”
“How many of them are there?”
Munster took out his notebook and leafed through it.
“Men?”
“Yes, only the men, of course.”
“Eleven.”
“So many?”
“Yes, there is a certain amount of turnover, after all. That’s probably not so odd, come to that.”
“How many have an alibi for the first murder?”
“Only the first one?”
“Yes.”
Munster checked.
“One,” he said.
“Only one?”
“Yes.”
“That leaves ten. Are any of those on Mitter’s list as well?”
“You gave that to Rooth.”
Van Veeteren produced another sheet of paper from his desk drawer.
“Have you ever heard of photocopying, Inspector?”
Munster took the list and started comparing. Van Veeteren stood up and walked over to the window. Stood with his hands behind his back, staring out at the rain.
“Two,” said Munster. “Gert Weiss and Erich Volker.”
“Is Weiss as new as that?”
“Yes. He arrived at more or less the same time as Eva Ringmar.”
“I see. . I see. This Erich Volker, who the devil’s he?”
“Temporary teacher of chemistry and physics,” said Munster. “Appointed September ’91.”
“Interesting,” said Van Veeteren. “If I were you, I’d squeeze him a bit extra. Come down hard on them all, of course. And Weiss. Can I see the list of the new staff?”
Munster handed it over. Van Veeteren studied it for half a minute, rocking back and forth on his heels and muttering.
“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe. . but maybe not. You never know.”
Munster waited for clarification, but it never came.
“Any other tips?” he asked after a while.
“The Thursday before Easter, 1986. If the person under consideration was in Karpatz in a car at lunchtime, then he’s the one. Together with Eva Ringmar, that is.”
Munster looked as if he’d eaten something unpleasant.
Then he nodded and made a note. He’d been through this kind of thing before.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“The whole of April and May ’86,” said Van Veeteren. “In Karpatz, of course. But for Christ’s sake don’t ask him out-right. If he has the slightest suspicion, he’ll wriggle out of it.”
Munster made another note.
“Is that all?”
Van Veeteren nodded. Munster put his notebook into his jacket pocket.
“Monday?”
“Monday,” said Van Veeteren.
“What are you intending to do yourself?” Munster asked as he stood in the doorway.
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“We’ll see,” he said. “Beate Lingen to begin with.”
Munster closed the door behind him.
Who the hell is Beate Lingen? he wondered. Ah well, no badminton for the next few days, at least. If he worked all day Friday, he might even have a weekend off.
When he got back to his office, the phone rang.
“Another thing,” said Van Veeteren, “while we’re at it. The thirty-first of May is also a good date-1986, that is. Saturday afternoon, somewhere among the lakes at Maarensjoarna. But it’s only a hunch, and you’ll need to be extremely careful.
Have you understood?”
“No,” said Munster.
“Good,” said Van Veeteren, and hung up.
35
He stayed at home on Friday.
Woke up at about nine and plugged the telephone in again.
Looked up the travel agents in the yellow pages, and before getting out of bed, he had booked his ticket. An Australian Airways flight on Thursday, December 5, departure time 7:30 a.m. Open return.
Then he unplugged the telephone again and got up to have breakfast.
Sat at the kitchen table. Listened to the rain. Chewed at a justifiably thick sandwich of whole-grain bread with cheese and cucumber. The morning paper was spread out in front of him, and suddenly, he had that feeling.
A feeling of well-being. He tried to suppress it, but it was there all the time, warm and persistent and totally unambigu-ous. A feeling of gratitude for the infinite riches of life.
No matter what happened, seven days from now he would be having breakfast on the balcony of his hotel room in Sydney. Thumbing absentmindedly through a guide to the Great Barrier Reef. Lighting a cigarette and turning his face up to the sun.
By then he would either have captured a murderer, or resigned his job.
It was a game with only winners. A morning dripping with freedom. No dog throwing up in front of the refrigerator. No wife thinking of moving back in with him. The door locked.
The telephone unplugged.
He recalled Farrati and the frilly knickers. Dammit all, life was a symphony.
Then he thought about Mitter. And Eva Ringmar, whom he had never met while she was still breathing. She was the one it was all about.
And he realized that the symphony was in a minor key.
He had finished reading the newspaper by eleven. He ran a bubble bath, put on a Bach cello suite at high volume, lit a candle on the lavatory seat, and slid down into the water.
After twenty minutes he hadn’t moved a fin, but a thought had floated up to the surface of his brain.
A thought had been born thanks to a mixture of the water’s warmth, the candle’s flame, and the harsh tone of the cello.
It was a terrible thought. A possibility he would prefer to dismiss. Drown. Blow out. Switch off. It was the image of a murderer.
No, he hadn’t cornered him yet. But there was a way.
An accessible path that he merely needed to follow to its end. Keep going for as long as possible, and see what lay concealed at the destination.
In the afternoon he lay down on the sofa and listened to more Bach. S
lept for a while and woke up in darkness.
Got up, switched off the tape recorder, and plugged the telephone back in.
Two calls.
The first was to Beate Lingen. She remembered him-she said she did, and he could hear it in her voice. Nevertheless, he managed to get himself invited to tea on Saturday afternoon.
She had an hour, would that be enough?
That would be fine, he said. She was only an intermediate stop, after all.
The other was to Andreas Berger. Once again, he was in luck. Berger answered the call. Leila was out with the children.
He could speak uninhibitedly, and that was a requirement.
“I have a question that is very personal. I have a question that I think could be the key to this whole tragedy. You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.”
“I understand.”
Van Veeteren paused. Searched for the right words.
“Was Eva. . a good lover?”
Silence. But the answer was audible in the silence.
“Will you. . will you use whatever I say in some way or other? I mean. .”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “You have my word.”
Berger cleared his throat.
“She was. .” he began hesitantly. “Eva made love like no other woman in existence. I haven’t had many, but I think I can say that even so. She was. . I don’t know, words seem so inadequate. . She was angel and whore. . woman and mother. . and friend. She satisfied everything. Yes, everything.”
“Thank you. That explains a lot. I shall not use what you have said in any improper way.”
Saturday brought with it a pale blue sky and thin, scudding clouds. A sun that seemed cold and distant, and a wind from the sea. He spent the morning walking by the canals, and noticed to his surprise that he could breathe. The air weighed little; there was a whiff of winter in it.
At about two he took the tram to Leimaar. Beate Lingen lived in one of the newly built apartment houses on top of the ridge. High up, on the sixth floor, with a view over the whole town. Over the plain, and the river as it meandered its way to the coast.
She had a glazed balcony with infrared heating and tomato plants, and they sat out there all the time, drinking her Russian tea and eating thin Kremmen biscuits with jam.
“I spend most of my time out here when I’m at home,” she said. “If there was room, I think I’d move my bed out here as well.”
