by Håkan Nesser
With life. With death.
With necessity.
In the evening he went out for a walk. Partly to reconnoiter the area he had in mind, partly to satisfy and come to terms with an obscure need to wander around town. His town.
Kaalbringen. The community stuck fast to the diagonal running from the flat plains and up to the high coast in the east. The rounded bay, the spit of land pointing a finger at the open sea, the busy entrance to the harbor with the quays and breakwaters, the marina with restless luxury yachts and cabin cruisers rubbing against jetties and mooring posts . . . He spent quite a while up in the ruined Monastery of St. Hans, with the wind and the seagulls screaming and dancing all around him; he looked down at the streets, the squares and the muddle of houses. The churches: St. Bunge, St. Anna and St. Pieter; copper, copper and red brick. The two hotels with their backs to the land, chests toward the sea: The See Warf and the old Bendix; the municipal woods cutting through the buildings like a sharp-edged sword; the private houses in Rikken and Werdingen. On the other side, hardly visible in the afternoon haze, the apartment blocks at Pampas, Vrejsbakk and the industrial estate looking like a miniature model on the other side of the river.
His Kaalbringen. With a sudden flash of insight, he realized that he hadn’t felt for a very long time as closely attached to the town as he did now. In these circumstances. Perhaps there was a meaning and a source of comfort in that . . . He was the Axman. The town down below was in his grip of iron. Down below people were now going out in the evenings in groups, or locking themselves in. His shadow weighed heavy and dark. If the town was on the lips of people all over the country, it was no doubt thanks to him.
And this was the unexpected dimension. So far from the real force behind it all. The motive.
Could he have anything against that? He didn’t think so. Perhaps he was even pleased, in some mysterious way.
Brigitte. Bitte.
It was only when the lights went on down below that he noticed the onset of dusk. He put his hands in his pockets and started strolling slowly back to town. He thought for a while about his time schedule . . . gave himself two days, no more. Tomorrow evening, or the one after; the rhythm was not without significance.
It was important to listen to the inner voice.
14
“There is a little tiny connection,” said Beate Moerk, “but it’s not much to go on.”
“What’s that?” wondered Kropke, without turning his head from his computer.
“Both Eggers and Simmel had only recently arrived in Kaalbringen. Well, Simmel was coming back again, of course. But in any case, neither of them was here a year ago, for instance.”
Van Veeteren folded up his newspaper and left his seat in the window bay.
“When did Eggers turn up?” he asked. “Was it May, or—”
“More like the beginning of April, and at first he used to travel back and forth quite a bit. Simmel moved back into his house in February.”
“And what conclusions do you draw from that?” asked Kropke.
“None at all,” said Beate Moerk. “I just thought it might be worth noting, nothing else.”
Van Veeteren rummaged around in his pocket for a toothpick, but in vain. “It might not be a bad idea,” he muttered. “I think I’ll make a house call now.”
House call? thought Kropke when the door had closed behind the chief inspector. What the hell does he mean by a house call?
On the way he called in on Bausen, who was busy emptying his desk drawers.
“Burning your boats, are you?”
“Yes. I don’t want to leave anything compromising. Kropke can be a pedantic devil, you know.”
“No new brainstorms?”
Bausen shook his head.
“It’s been ten days now. They say that if you don’t clear up a case inside two weeks, you’ll never solve it.”
“Lots of time,” said Van Veeteren. “Have you spoken to that Mandrijn fellow?”
“Mandrijn? Yes, of course. Why?”
“There was just something I thought of,” said Van Veeteren. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that you promised me a chance at revenge tonight.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Bausen. “Try the Nimzo-Indian defense; then you’re bound to win.”
“I’ll bring a bottle with me. I don’t want to steal any more of your pension.”
Bausen threw out his arms.
“If you insist, Chief Inspector.”
Van Veeteren cleared his throat and rang the doorbell.
If I carry on wandering around and interviewing people haphazardly, he thought, I’m bound to meet him sooner or later.
Always assuming it was somebody local, that is, and Bausen was pretty certain it was; and when he eventually came face-to-face with him, he would know, not an ounce of doubt about it. That’s the way it generally was. That was what gave him his strength and the upper hand—his ability to know when he was face-to-face with the criminal. His intuition was almost like a woman’s, and he was hardly ever wrong.
Hardly ever . . .
He rang the bell again. Footsteps could be heard in the newly built house, and then a figure came into view through the frosted-glass door.
“Just a moment!”
The door opened. Dr. Mandrijn had been taking a nap, it seemed. Or possibly involved in some midafternoon love tryst. His black hair was ruffled, his dressing gown was gaping open, his bare feet were highlighted by the wine-red marble floor.
About thirty-five years, was Van Veeteren’s immediate assessment. Successful physician and head of family. Intelligent eyes. Not especially athletic, shoulders somewhat hunched. Nearsighted, perhaps? He flourished his ID.
“Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. Have you ten minutes to spare?”
“What’s it about?”
He ran his hand through his hair and fastened his belt.
“Murder,” said Van Veeteren.
“What . . . oh, yes,” said Mandrijn, coughing. “The Axman again? A ghastly business. Come in, by all means.”
Van Veeteren looked around the high-ceilinged, white-painted room. A large picture window looked out onto a virgin lawn. Particles of dust danced around in the rays of sunshine angled across the room. He could see that the garden would eventually be pretty.
“Did you build it yourself?”
“Well, I designed it and did all the fittings at least. It’s not finished yet, as you can see, but it’s possible to live here. I was up all night painting the ceilings. That’s why I was having an afternoon nap. I’m on call at the hospital tonight. What do you want to know? I spoke to another officer last week—”
“Yes, Chief of Police Bausen. I’d just like to ask a couple of complementary questions.”
Mandrijn gestured toward one of the two armchairs in the room, and Van Veeteren sat down.
“I understand that you rented the Simmels’s house while they were away in Spain,” he began. “Let me see, that must have been . . . from 1988 onward; is that right?”
“August 1988, yes. We both got jobs at the hospital at the same time, Catrine and I; she’s my wife. Fresh out of medical school, both of us, and of course, we didn’t know if we wanted to stay here or not. It seemed ideal to rent a house instead of buying one, or building a new one.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Two. They’re at the day nursery,” he said, sounding a bit apologetic. “Catrine’s on duty today. Can I offer you anything?”
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“So you’ve decided to stay on in Kaalbringen.”
“We certainly have. We think it’s wonderful here. The only thing is, we’d counted on staying for another six months in the Simmels’s place.”
“So they came back sooner than expected?”
“Yes. The intention was that they wouldn’t come back at all, but they said we could have the house for five years. I assume he intended selling the place once they were established down there.”
“Where? In Spain, of course.”
“Do you have the Simmels’s address in Spain?”
“No . . . no, the contact man was Klingfort, the solicitor. Why do you ask?”
Van Veeteren didn’t answer. He asked another question instead.
“What was your impression of Mr. and Mrs. Simmel?”
Mandrijn looked out the window.
“Just between you and me?” he asked after a while.
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t impressed, I have to say. I don’t suppose they meant any harm, but they weren’t very nice . . . well, a bit vulgar, I suppose you could say. Rich but cheap. No class, if you’re allowed to say that nowadays. Especially him, of course.”
“Why did they come back?”
Mandrijn shrugged.
“I’ve no idea. They told us at the beginning of December that they intended coming back home, and they wanted us out of the house by February first. Pretty short notice, in fact. A damnably bad way of going about things, to be blunt about it, but we didn’t want to stir things up. We’d already bought a plot, so all we needed to do was to start building.”
Van Veeteren pondered for a moment.
“Do you have any theory of your own about why Ernst Simmel was murdered?”
If he says it was a Lunatic or No Idea, that will be the fiftieth time in a row, he thought. Mandrijn took his time, rubbing away at one of his ear lobes.
“Yes,” he said, astonishing Van Veeteren. “I’ve thought a lot about that. I think quite simply that it was somebody who couldn’t bear to see him around Kaalbringen again. He was a real bastard, Chief Inspector. A real bastard.”
You don’t say, thought Van Veeteren.
He made a detour on the way home. He felt a distinct need to stretch his legs, and to put some distance between himself and the case. Maybe also to escape . . . perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising. Nothing to get agitated about. He explored a few roads he’d never been on before—not difficult around here, of course; found himself in unknown places and out-of-the-way havens, and eventually finished up on a ridge with a bird’s-eye view of the town down below.
This was the countryside, not the urban environment. He followed the edge of the forest in an easterly direction, toward the restaurant Bausen had spoken about. Wandered lonely as a cloud up here, his hands clasped behind his back and the wind in his face. Some of the trees had already started to shed their leaves, thanks to the dry summer, and it suddenly struck him that there was some kind of promise in the air, or perhaps a portent. Pure imagination, of course, but premonitions are like that. When he came to the ruined monastery, he sat down with a cigarette and some unformulated questions; and it was only when he heard a dog barking in the distance that he stood up and started walking down the steps in the hillside—carved directly out of the limestone, slippery and not easy to walk on.
This would be an ideal place to have an accident, Van Veeteren thought.
When he reached the bottom, he found himself next to the graveyard—St. Pieter’s Church, if he remembered rightly—the graveyard that looked out over the sea. It must have been leveled and terraced at some point in the past when they started to use it, he thought, and he spent a little time wondering what it was really like down there in the loose, artificial earth among all the caskets and cavities. He noticed the outline of The See Warf on the other side of the graves, and decided to take the most direct route.
He threaded his way through the graveyard, zigzagging along the raked gravel paths. As he passed the gravestones, he read a year here, a name there; but it was not until he’d passed through them all and was about to open the gate and leave the cemetery from the other side that he noticed him: Chief Inspector Bausen’s burly figure, head bowed, standing by one of the memorial stones.
What had he said? Two years ago?
He couldn’t be sure if the chief of police was actually praying. He found that hard to believe; but in any case, there was something solemn and spiritual about his expression—serene, even—and for a brief moment he felt a pang of envy. He decided on the spur of the moment not to announce his presence. To leave the chief inspector in peace by his grave.
How on earth can I envy a man who is mourning the death of his wife? he thought as he passed through the gate. Sometimes I don’t even understand myself.
Back in his hotel room he lay down on his bed with his feet on the footboard. Lay there and stared up at the ceiling with nothing more in mind than smoking and giving free rein to his thoughts.
He was back in the habit: smoking, as usual, when work was getting on top of him. When an investigation was not flowing along the channels he’d dug out, or wished he had. When everything came up against a brick wall, when the breakthrough never came.
Nevertheless, that’s not really how it felt.
He thought about Bausen’s two-week rule. If it was right, they had five days left. He’d spent a week in Kaalbringen by this time, and when he tried to sum up his input into the investigation so far, he got no further than the uncomfortably round number of zero.
Zero, zilch.
I can’t stand hanging around here another five days, he thought. I’m going home on Sunday! Hiller will just have to send somebody else—Rooth or deBries or any other bastard he feels like. Nobody gains by my hanging around here any longer!
Living out of a suitcase in a hotel. Drinking the chief of police’s wine, and being beaten at chess! The renowned Chief Inspector Van Veeteren!
The only thing that could change matters, he told himself, was the possibility Bausen had floated a few days back.
If he struck again. The Axman.
Not much chance of that, according to the experts they’d called in. If he strikes again, we’ll get him!
But there again . . . At the same time, he had this remarkable feeling that all they needed to do was wait. To hang in there. That this remarkable case would be solved, or solve itself, in some way that thumbed a nose at all the rules, and that neither he nor anybody else would be able to stop or influence . . .
After thinking these rambling thoughts and smoking four (or was it five?) cigarettes, Van Veeteren went to stretch out in the bathtub. He spent an hour pondering how to develop a Russian or Nimzo-Indian opening. Much more tangible, of course, but he didn’t reach any conclusions on this either.
15
When Beatrice Linckx had parked and locked her car in Leisner Allé, the clock in the Bunges church tower struck eleven p.m. She’d been on the road since four in the afternoon, having skipped the final evaluation session of the conference, and now there were only three things she was longing for.
A glass of red wine, a hot bath, and Maurice.
She glanced up at their apartment on the third floor, saw that the light was on in the kitchen, and concluded that he was waiting up for her. It was true that she hadn’t been able to get through to him when she’d tried to phone on the way home, but he knew she was due back tonight. No doubt he’d opened a bottle of something, and maybe he’d have some toasted sandwiches up his sleeve as well. Onion rings, mushrooms, fresh basil and cheese . . . She took her bags out of the trunk and crossed the street, stiff after the long journey but looking forward to what lay ahead . . . keen to get into the apartment. To come home.
What Beatrice Linckx hadn’t the slightest inkling of was that the kitchen light had been on for more than twenty-four hours and that although Maurice was in fact up there, he was by no means in the state she’d expected. Nor were there any toasted sandwiches, and nobody had opened a bottle of wine to breathe—and she wouldn’t be able to snuggle down into that hot bath for many hours yet. When she eventually did so, it would be in a neighbor’s bathtub, and in a state that she would never have been able to foresee.
The door was unlocked. She pressed down the handle and went in.
Afterward, a lot of people wondered about her behavior. She did as well. Given the circumstances, pretty well anything might b
e regarded as normal; but even so, you had to ask questions.
She switched on the light in the hall. Stared at Maurice for a few seconds, then picked up her bag again and backed out through the door. Closed it and went back downstairs. Hesitated for a moment when she emerged onto the sidewalk, then crossed the road and sat in her car again.
Sat there hugging the steering wheel and trying to heave the heavy stone of forgetfulness over the opening to her consciousness. Trying to rewind time, just a few hours . . . back to when she was happy and unaware . . . the hours before, the unsullied normality . . . the road, the cars, the oncoming headlights, the Waldstein Sonata over her loudspeakers, the rain on the windshield, the mint pastilles in the bag on the empty seat beside her . . . looking forward to coming home.
She hadn’t seen anything. Still hadn’t gone up to the apartment. She sat in the car and rested for a while before going up to see Maurice . . . to the sandwiches and the wine; her warm red dressing gown; the sofa and the plaid throws; Heyman’s String Quintet; candles in the designer candlestick . . . sitting here waiting . . .
Nearly two hours later she wound down the window. The evening air and a veil of drizzle crept in and brought her back to reality. For the second time, she picked up her bags and crossed the street. Didn’t look up at the apartment now. Knew that all she could expect to find in store for her was Maurice, and at ten minutes past one she had calmed down sufficiently to phone the police and inform them that the Axman had dispatched another victim.
II
September 10–24
16
“It’s the bishop that’s in the wrong place,” said Bausen.
