Intrigo

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘I understand. If the imposter wants to get his hands on a share of this house . . . and a share of everything else . . . proving a blood relationship will never be an option, because neither one of us has left any trace in Tom. Have I properly understood?’

  Robert nodded again.

  ‘But if no one knows about it, surely that’s a good thing? Everyone believes you’re Tom’s father, so in actual fact, we can demand a paternity test. Can’t we?’

  ‘It’s not quite so simple. There’s a document.’

  ‘A document?’

  ‘Yes. With the authorities . . . the court, I think. It states that I’m not the real father.’

  ‘What . . . what does it say then?’

  ‘Father unknown.’

  ‘Father unknown?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? Why did you do that? If no one knew?’

  ‘Because . . . because I wanted it that way. Minna did too. It was stupid, but we were young.’

  ‘Idiotic.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that means that any Tom, Dick or Harry can come along and claim he’s Tom Bendler?’

  ‘There’s no genetic proof he’s wrong, at any rate.’

  ‘Who is the father then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know?’

  ‘No. Minna never told me and I didn’t want to know.’

  ‘And there’s . . . there’s nothing left of her?’

  ‘Ashes. In the sea. Thirty-seven years ago.’

  The next day, after a short morning walk with Django, she considered everything again. She sat at her desk with a cup of tea and mildly throbbing temples, trying to comprehend what was happening.

  And what Robert had told her.

  And what it meant for . . . for the man claiming to be Tom Bendler, their son; their erstwhile son, dead for more than twenty-two years.

  She felt beleaguered, not to say assaulted; both by what had been, and by what was currently taking place. Why hadn’t Robert told her before that he wasn’t Tom’s real father? Why now? Was it because he believed it really had some bearing . . . that it could make a difference? That there seriously could be an inheritance dispute after he had gone. A dispute that this bloody waiter could even win? That she would be forced to sell the house if she didn’t watch out. Watch out and take appropriate steps.

  It was absurd. Totally absurd, in the true meaning of the word.

  Or . . . or was it just because he was dying and wanted to get a secret off his chest before it was too late? Was that why he had chosen to break his silence?

  She glanced at the clock. Quarter past nine. Robert was still in bed asleep. It wasn’t like him, but perhaps he too had had a drop too much the night before. And maybe the illness was taking a firmer hold now he had relaxed, resigned to the fact that his days were numbered. He had dedicated most of the previous day to ringing people and explaining the situation, cancelling all his film commitments, present and future, with immediate effect.

  The reason: Death’s waiting room. He enjoyed using that expression.

  I’m sorry, Franz, but I’m sitting in Death’s waiting room so I’ll let this one go now.

  You know what, Clarice. In Death’s waiting room you have different priorities.

  On the other hand, she thought, on the other hand, we said everything that needed saying last night. I’ll let him sleep.

  But she very much wanted to speak to the imposter again. Today was Tuesday; the last call, after the visit to Cafe Intrigo, had been last Saturday.

  Three days. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry, anyway, but she could see no possibility of accelerating progress on her part. If that indeed was what she wanted.

  Progress, come to that. What progress?

  She sighed, picked up the telephone and dialled Herbert Knoll’s number.

  Four hours later she was sitting in his office again.

  The office was no bigger and the private detective no smaller. But he looked pleased with himself, even if he did try to disguise it under an outward appearance of professional gruffness. Perhaps so that she wouldn’t get the impression the assignment she had given him wasn’t big-league, that his fee could easily be reduced a little.

  ‘There are many details still outstanding,’ he began. ‘Nevertheless, we can present a picture of the subject in broad outline.’

  She wondered what lay behind the word we. An inflated ego or a partner? Or several? But she didn’t ask. It was of no consequence, obviously.

  ‘It seems he really is called Tom Bendler. At least that is the name he uses and the name on his passport. He has been in the country just two months and has been renting a one-room apartment on Armastenstraat since the first of October.’

  ‘A passport? It’s not possible.’

  ‘It could be false. We haven’t had time to investigate the circumstances yet.’

  ‘I understand.’

  But she didn’t. On the contrary, she was overwhelmed by the sense that the whole situation was beyond comprehension. She had thought that in hiring Herbert Knoll she would be rid of a nuisance, but now the nuisance was back with teeth bared.

  ‘It’s also correct that he worked at Cafe Intrigo for a month,’ the detective continued. ‘He’s worked as a waiter before and they needed a temporary replacement for a short period. They have no complaints about the way he carried out his duties and would consider employing him again, if he so wishes. Though probably not in the winter months, when business drops off a little.’

  ‘Where did he work as a waiter before?’

  ‘A few places. But all in New Zealand.’

  ‘New Zealand?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently he’s lived there for at least twenty years. But we need to check that too.’

  ‘How . . . how did you find this out?’

  Herbert Knoll pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead and placed a substantial forefinger over an equally substantial pair of lips.

  ‘That’s not a question you should ask. In the intelligence community we don’t reveal our sources, it’s part of our professional integrity. But you can probably work some of it out for yourself, if you think about it. There’s nothing strange in this case.’

  She did as he suggested and thought about it.

  ‘Intrigo, of course. And neighbours, maybe? I assume he doesn’t know that . . . that he’s being investigated?’

  Herbert Knoll shrugged. ‘We can only hope not. But if we don’t talk to people, it’s almost impossible to obtain evidence. I’m sure you realize?’

  ‘I dare say. But why did he arrange to meet me and then not come forward? I was there waiting, after all.’

  ‘What do you think yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know. It seems both strange and illogical . . . does he or does he not want to have any contact with me?’

  ‘A serious question. We can’t answer that one for the moment, but there is a possibility you might not have thought of.’

  ‘What possibility?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know what you look like. Now he does.’

  ‘Why would he . . .?’

  But she could find no words. The turmoil in her head obstructed them and it was impossible to formulate sensible questions or even absorb the information Detective Knoll was delivering: it seemed the waiter really was called Tom Bendler; he had a passport confirming that fact; he had lived in New Zealand.

  He might have arranged the meeting just so that he could get a closer look at her; it was so calculated it made her scared to think about it.

  She herself had confirmed that he was the right age, and how could they prove he wasn’t the person he said he was?

  ‘Hang on,’ she said as something occurred to her. ‘What country was the passport issued in?’

  ‘In New Zealand. By our embassy there . . . Wellington, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘So he’s a citizen of this country?’

  ‘Apparently. As long as the passport isn’t a forg
ery. But that’s a detail still to be confirmed, as I said.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  Herbert Knoll shrugged again. ‘Give me a few days.’

  She sat in silence for a moment, before standing up and thanking him. On her way out, the door already open, she thought of one more question.

  ‘By the way, what does he say about being in touch with me? What comment does he have on what he’s doing?’

  Herbert Knoll had also risen to his feet, with a certain degree of difficulty, as there was scarcely room for him between the desk, the chair and the wall.

  ‘Dear Mrs Bendler, we haven’t spoken to him yet. We’ve not been working on the case for more than twenty-four hours. But would you like an answer to that question? Would you really like us to confront him?’

  In a matter of seconds, she had thought it over and replied. ‘Yes, please. I would.’

  Without having made a deliberate decision to do so, she found herself heading towards the canal district and Armastenstraat. It wasn’t a great distance from Herbert Knoll’s office on Ruydersteeg, only a couple of kilometres, and for once the weather was fair, despite it being November, the most inclement and depressing of months. She wished she had Django by her side, but he wasn’t happy in the noise and commotion of the city; it was years since she had bothered to take him along when she had things to do in the centre.

  But she would have appreciated his calm, dependable company and she recalled that during the last of her two stays at Majorna there had been a dog in her unit. It was some kind of experiment; they wanted to establish what influence an animal’s presence had on patients, and as far as she could see the experiment had nothing but positive effects. She also remembered a play she and Robert had once seen, something about the Eye of the Horse, in which the message had been the same. In times of darkness and mental turbulence, we are well advised to focus our minds on an animal.

  Provided, of course, there is an animal available. A dog or a horse, or maybe a donkey.

  Am I being an ass? she asked herself. Am I behaving like one?

  Not really. A headless chicken was nearer the truth; and having arrived at this point in her self-analysis, she realized she had actually reached Armastenstraat. She came to a halt, her eyes following the row of buildings in search of the house numbers. Above the door where she had stopped was the number 8A; odd numbers were on the opposite side of the street, and she started to walk in the direction of increasing numbers.

  25A and 25B proved to be in a five-storey council-owned mansion block built at the beginning of the century, or perhaps the end of the last, like many others on Armastenstraat. Russet brick, rather down-at-heel, slightly shabby; a lot of graffiti that had clearly been there a few years. Further on towards Grote Graacht, west of Fourth of September Park, the housing stopped altogether, she knew; factories and warehouses took over completely and it was hardly an area where a woman walked alone after dark, as they used to say. But this was at the start of the long street; there were still a number of shops here, a post office and some fast-food places, and besides, it was still several hours before autumn darkness would descend over the city.

  She looked up at the row of windows above 25B. She counted twenty, but it was difficult to ascertain exactly where the dividing line was between 25A and 25B. In any event, he lived behind one of these silent rectangles – or perhaps behind a couple of them. But probably only one, she thought; Herbert Knoll had said he was renting a one-room apartment. There were no lights on in any of the windows above 25B, but, as she had already noted, there was still some moderate daylight and people didn’t want to pay unnecessarily high electricity bills.

  I could go in through that door, she thought, to see where a certain Mr Bendler lives . . . and confront him.

  Why leave that to a private detective? Provided he’s at home, I could be looking him right in the eye in less than a minute, she told herself.

  The chances of him being in the apartment were uncertain, but at least he didn’t have a job to go to. Unless he’d already found a new one?

  Why not? Why not take the bull by the horns and give it a try?

  But she knew this was hypothetical. A move like that required decisive action, and if there was anything beyond her current capabilities, it was decisive action. The little spate of energy that had brought her to the canal district was running out, and before the feeling of hopelessness could overwhelm her, she turned on her heels and began the weary walk back the way she had come.

  Back home, she thought. To the garden. Erasmus of Rotterdam. And safe with Django.

  After a couple of blocks, as she stood waiting for the green light at a crossing, she realized she hadn’t included Robert among the immediate objects of her anticipation.

  By accident or design? That was the question.

  ‘Why hasn’t he been in touch? It’s been four days, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Three. And I don’t know. How could I know?’

  They had gone to the Red Ruby, a local restaurant on one corner of Holte Markt, for dinner. According to his own account, Robert had slept half the day and he seemed brighter than on the previous evening. It was at his suggestion they were sitting here at their usual table, under a Piranesi print, waiting for their risotto. One seafood, one mushroom. The Ruby had opened at virtually the same time as they had moved into the house and they must have been to the simple but very pleasant restaurant at least a hundred times. She wondered whether she would ever come here after Robert had gone.

  ‘But it’s weird, isn’t it?’ he insisted. ‘Do you think he’s watching us somehow . . . or you? That he might be sitting here, for example?’

  She couldn’t help looking around. ‘No, he’s not in here.’

  ‘Sure? What did he look like?’

  ‘Like a normal forty-year-old.’

  ‘Dark? Fair?’

  ‘In between.’

  ‘Tall? Big?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘Don’t you want to talk about this?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I hope it’s over. That he won’t be in touch again.’

  ‘Do you think that’s the case?’

  ‘I said hope.’

  ‘OK. I understand. You’re furious because I never told you about Tom. That he isn’t my real son . . . wasn’t.’

  She gazed at him for a moment before she replied, wondering whether he really believed that just because he had brought it up, that was the end of the matter, there was no need to think about it.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Actually I don’t think you do understand. It doesn’t sound like it. Tom wasn’t my child and he wasn’t yours. He was produced by two completely different individuals and he’s been dead for more than twenty years. Now a horrible person appears, claiming to be your son and heir. Perhaps his aim is to take from me my last vestige of security, as you suggested yesterday. In a year’s time I’ll have no husband, no dog . . . and maybe no house. Why should I be furious?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Had I known Tom wasn’t your son, I would never have adopted him, it’s as simple as that. But I would still have chosen to live with you. Just so you know.’

  The breath was visibly knocked out of him and he didn’t answer. He refused to meet her gaze, his eyes darting between a young couple who had just come in through the door and his own hands resting on the edge of the table. He looked lost and suddenly she felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’m sorry. It probably wouldn’t have changed the inheritance situation, but it’s difficult for me to accept that you could keep something like this to yourself. How do I know you’re not harbouring more secrets?’

  ‘I . . .’

  But he fell silent.

  Why has he stopped? she thought. What did he intend to say?

  He cleared his throat and straightened his back. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m the one to be sorry. And we’ll do as you say, we won’t talk about th
is imposter any more . . . at least until we see how things develop. Now I can see our food on its way.’

  She nodded, realizing she was actually rather hungry.

  The fourth call came just after nine o’clock the following day, and this time she was ready. She knew it was Tom before the first ring had ended. Unknown number, as usual. She drew a deep breath, allowed another ring to sound and then picked up.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Judith Bendler?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Tom.’

  ‘I hear what you say. But you’re not Tom.’

  ‘Of course I’m Tom. What makes you doubt me?’

  ‘Everything. The way you’re behaving, for example.’

  He gave a laugh, short and hoarse.

  ‘The way I’m behaving. I don’t know what you’re getting at. All I want is to see my mother . . . and my father . . . again after such a long time. While you disown me and even put a private detective on my tail. If anyone needs to examine her behaviour, it’s you, dear Mother, not I.’

  Her heart missed a beat at the expression ‘dear Mother’. I’ve never been your mother, she thought, nor the real Tom’s mother either, even in those days. And the real Tom happens to be dead.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He paused a few seconds before answering.

  ‘First of all I want to prove to you that I am who I say I am. So I suggest we meet face to face. This time I don’t intend to be your waiter.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think much of you in that role. But it’s pointless anyway.’

  ‘You’ll change your mind.’

  ‘Rubbish. When and where? And it will only be this once.’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I suggest Intrigo again, if you don’t have any objection. How about three o’clock Friday?’

  Three days to wait, she thought.

  ‘Why not today or tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ve got things to do. But Saturday would suit me too.’

  ‘Friday at three o’clock will be fine,’ she said with decision. ‘Intrigo, right. That seems to be your home ground, not that it matters to me.’

  His rasping laugh again. ‘Excellent. But I think you should get rid of that gumshoe. He’s got nothing to do with you and me.’