Hakan Nesser [Inspector Van Veeteren 03] The Return (pdf)

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Yes. He tried once after the second murder. Leo refused
to see him.
Did you write to him?
She shook her head.
But you looked after the house for him?
No, not at all. I just looked after the key. We went there
twice during the last twelve years. The second time was a
week before he was due for release. He sent me a postcard ask-
ing me to leave the key there for him.
And that was all? Jung asked.
Yes, she said, looking slightly embarrassed. That was
all, I m afraid.
Huh, Jung thought as he crossed the street a quarter of an
hour later. I must remember to phone my sister this evening.
This is not what ought to happen.
1 0 1
I d better call Maureen as well, come to that. About the
vocabulary book if for nothing else.
He had already driven a few miles before it occurred to
him that he d forgotten to ask about the testicle business; but
no matter how he looked at it, he couldn t see that it was sig-
nificant. In any case, it would be easier to deal with that detail
on the telephone.
And not to have to be so embarrassingly close, that is.
I suppose I m a bit of a prude really, he thought, switching
on the radio.
16
On the way to Ulmentahl, Inspector Rooth found himself sit-
ting at the wheel while thinking about various geographical
circumstances; in retrospect he realized that those thoughts
must have been triggered when he drove through Linzhuisen
and happened to see the place names Kaustin and Behren on
the same signpost.
Kaustin 10. Behren 23.
In different directions, of course. Kaustin to the northwest.
Behren almost due south. If his rudimentary knowledge of
geometry had not let him down, that should mean that the
distance between the two places was . . . thirty miles or more?
Why had the murderer chosen to place the dead body just
there?
In Behren. A little town with, perhaps, twenty-five thou-
sand inhabitants? No more than thirty, in any case.
Pure coincidence?
Very possible. If the murderer s intention had been no
more than to dump the body sufficiently far away from Kaus-
tin for the link with Verhaven not to strike anybody, then yes,
that was probably far enough. But on the other hand, a greater
distance would have been even better for his purpose.
They could take it as read that Verhaven had been killed in
his own house. Or could they? Nothing was absolutely certain
yet, one way or the other, and perhaps he could have left the
1 0 3
house without being seen by Mrs. Wilkerson s hawklike eyes?
Or anybody else s?
Of course he could. During the night, for instance. Or
through the forest. It was only that road down to the village
that had eyes. And the village itself.
So, yes, he probably could have gone to Behren. Or some-
where else. And met his killer there. No doubt about it.
He turned onto the freeway. Next question?
How? How, if that was what happened, could Verhaven
have found his way to Behren? (Or somewhere else, as stated.)
He didn t have a car of his own anymore. So bus or taxi,
that seemed to be the only . . . And if that was the case, it
ought not to be all that difficult to look into it.
Eventually, that is. So far they had managed to keep the
mass media at arm s length; that was a blessing, to be sure,
when it came to their working conditions and the atmosphere
in which the investigation was conducted, but sooner or later,
they would need help from the media. And obviously, it was
only a matter of time before the echo of jungle drums in
Kaustin was picked up a little farther away. Before long the
news would be broadcast all over the country, and they would
have to take the rough with the smooth. As usual.
Journalists are like cow shit, Reinhart used to say. I m not
especially keen on the stuff as such, but I understand that it
has its uses.
So if there was a cab driver, Rooth thought, or a bus con-
ductor who could recall a particular passenger setting out
from Kaustin one evening in August . . . Or early morning,
perhaps . . . To why not Behren? Well, yes indeed, that
would narrow things down quite a lot.
Concentrate minds a bit.
He increased speed and tapped his fingers on the steering
wheel.
As things were at the moment, you could ask as many
t h e r e t u r n
questions as you liked. And every damned question gave rise
to another three. Or even more.
Like that Greek monster, whatever its name is.
No, better to worry about something else instead, he
decided, and ran his hand through his beard.
No, not through. Over, rather.
What had deBries said? A dying hamster?
Whatever, another 130 miles to Ulmentahl. He would have
to put some life into this case before very long, that was
beyond discussion.
Mr. Bortschmaa s office was light and airy and pleasantly cozy
with framed sports certificates and crossed tennis racquets.
The prison governor himself was a powerfully built man in his
fifties, Rooth estimated, dressed in a light blue sports shirt,
with tanned forearms and youthful, flaxen hair.
The group of furniture where visitors were entertained by
the picture window looking out onto the barbed-wire top of
the prison wall and the peaceful flat countryside beyond
comprised thin steel chairs with eye-catching blue and yellow
upholstery and a table made of red plastic. On one of the
chairs sat an overweight man with receding hair and sweat
stains under his arms. He did not look happy.
Rooth and the governor sat down.
Meet Joppens, our welfare officer, said the latter.
Rooth, said Rooth, shaking hands.
The inspector would like to ask you some questions about
Leopold Verhaven, Bortschmaa explained in one direction. I
thought it a good idea for Joppens to be present, he explained
in the other. Please fire away, Inspector.
Thank you, said Rooth. Maybe you could describe him
briefly.
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Yes, said the welfare officer. If there is anybody who
can be described briefly, he s the one. You can have a com-
prehensive description in half a minute. Or on half a page
handwritten.
Really? said Rooth. What are you implying?
I had to do with him for eleven years, and I know as much
about him now as I did when I first met him.
A hermit, said Bortschmaa.
He had no contact at all with anybody, Joppens contin-
ued. No fellow prisoner, nobody outside prison, none of the
warders. Not with me and not with the chaplain either.
Sounds remarkable, said Rooth.
He might as well have spent all his sentence in solitary
confinement, said Bortschmaa. It wouldn t have made much
difference. An introspective type. Extremely introverted. But a
model prisoner, of course.
He never misbehaved? asked Rooth.
Never, said Joppens. Never smiled either.
Did he take part in any activities?
The welfare officer shook his head.
Went swimming once a week. Went to the library twice a
week. Read newspapers and borrowed a book occasionally. I
don t know if you would call that activities.
But you must have spoken with him, surely?
No, said the welfare officer.
Did he answer if you addressed him?
Oh yes. Good morning and good night and thank you.
Rooth thought that over. What the devil was the point of
sitting in a car all day just for this, he wondered. Might as well
carry on a bit longer, though. Seeing as he was here, after all.
No confidants in the whole prison?
No, said Joppins.
None at all, confirmed Bortschmaa.
t h e r e t u r n
Any letters? said Rooth.
The welfare officer thought that one over. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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