Hakan Nesser - The Return

“We don’t know,” said Rooth. “We don’t have his head, his hands or his feet as yet. Somebody butchered him.”

“Oh my God,” said Bortschmaa, and Rooth had the

impression that his tan faded noticeably. “Don’t say this is what the papers have been writing about?”

“Yes, it is,” said Rooth.

“When do you think he died, then,” wondered Joppens.

“Quite a long time ago,” said Rooth. “He was dead for eight months before he was found.”

“Eight months?” Joppens exclaimed, frowning. “That must have been shortly after we released him?”

“The same day, we think.”

“You mean he was murdered the very same day?”

“It looks like it.”

“Hmm,” said Bortschmaa.

“Being locked up seems to mean being safe, at least,” said Joppens.

There was a pause, and Rooth was starting to feel hungry.

He wondered why on earth nobody had offered him anything to eat.

“Was he ever let out on parole?” he asked.

“Never wanted to be,” said Bortschmaa. “And we don’t

normally press people.”

Rooth nodded. What else should he ask about?

“And so you haven’t any suspicions at all,” he said as he thought feverishly, “no idea about who might have wanted to kill him?”

“Do you?” asked the welfare officer.

“No,” admitted Rooth.

“Nor do we,” said the governor. “Not the least idea. He didn’t have any contacts at all while he was in here. Good ones or bad ones. Somebody must have been lying in wait.”

Rooth sighed.

“Yes, that’s what it looks like.”

He thought for a moment.

“That woman,” he said, “the one who came to visit him. .

last year, or whenever it was. . Who was she?”

Bortschmaa turned to the welfare officer.

“I’ve no idea,” he said.

“Me neither,” said Joppens. “We’d better go and have a look at the record books, if you really want to know.”

“Why don’t we do that?” said Rooth.

It took some time for the two women in the archives to pin down the reference, but they eventually came up with the date.

June 5, 1992. A Friday.

Her name was Anna Schmidt.

“Address?” Rooth asked.

“We don’t have that,” said the older of the two women.

“It’s not required.”

“Only the name?”

“Yes.”

Rooth sighed.

“What did she look like?”

They both shrugged.

“You’d better ask the warder.”

“Is it possible to find out who was on duty then and who might have. . might have seen her?”

“Of course.”

That also took some time, but at least it gave Rooth the opportunity to visit the canteen and buy a couple of cheese sandwiches while the duty officers on the day in question were traced.

“You are Emmeline Weigers?”

“Yes.”

“And you were supervising the interview room on June fifth, 1992?”

“Yes, it seems so.”

“That was the day Leopold Verhaven had a visitor. That was most unusual, I gather.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Fairly well, yes.”

“But it’s almost two years ago.”

“I remember it because it was him. We talked about it among the staff. He was a bit. . special, we’d heard.”

“Did he often have visitors?”

“Never.”

“Can you describe the woman?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid. I can’t really remember. She was getting on a bit. About sixty, I’d say. A bit sickly, I think. Used a walking stick.”

“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

She thought for a while.

“No, I don’t think I would. No.”

“How long did they talk?”

“I’m not sure. Fifteen or twenty minutes, if I remember rightly. Not the full time anyway.”

“The full time?”

“The rules allow half an hour.”

“Is there anything special you remember, now that you think back about it? Any particular detail?”

She pondered for about ten seconds.

“No,” she said. “There was nothing.”

Rooth thanked her and stood up.

It took another hour to complete the formalities in the prison and then find Number 4 Ruitens Alle in the village of Ulmentahl itself. He parked outside the white house. Recited a silent prayer and walked up the paved drive. Rang the doorbell.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Chervouz?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Rooth. Detective Inspector Rooth. I was the one who phoned you not long ago.”

“Come in. Or would you prefer to sit in the garden? It’s quite nice weather.”

“Outdoors would be fine,” said Rooth.

“It’s pretty when the chestnuts are in blossom,” said Mr. Chervouz as he filled two tall glasses with beer.

“Yes,” said Rooth. “Very.”

They drank.

“What do you want to know about Verhaven?”

“You were on duty, so-called gate duty, on June fifth, 1992.

Verhaven had a visitor that day. I know it’s nearly two years ago now, but I wonder if you can remember anything about the woman you let in?”

Chervouz took another swig of beer.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you called. She came by cab, I think. An oldish woman. Had trouble walking, used a pair of walking sticks, in any case. But Christ, it’s just what I think I remember. I could be mixing her up with somebody quite different. I might be thinking of the wrong person.”

“Why do you remember the visit at all?”

“Because the visitor was for him, of course.”

“I see,” said Rooth. “Had you ever seen her before?”

“No.”

“Was there anything else you noticed?”

“No. . No, I don’t think so.”

“Were you still on duty when she left?”

“No, it must have been somebody else. I don’t remember her leaving, in any case.”

“Would you recognize her again?”

“No, certainly not.”

A few seconds passed. Then it came, and there was no mistaking the undertone of curiosity.

“What’s he done?”

“Nothing,” said Rooth. “He’s dead.”

He had a moderately exciting dinner at the railroad station restaurant, and it was already getting dusk when he returned to his car.

What a productive day this has been, he thought. Most impressive.

And when he started working out how much taxpayers’

money had been spent-and would continue to be spent in future-on this dodgy investigation, he could feel himself growing angry.

Especially when you consider what Leopold Verhaven had already cost the state. While he was still alive, that is.

He had murdered two women. Been at the center of two protracted trials and found guilty and spent almost a quarter of a century in jail. And now somebody had put a period behind him.

Wouldn’t it be as well for the police to do the same?

Period. Draw a line and act as if they’d never stumbled upon that butchered body wrapped up in a piece of carpet.

Who would benefit from the police putting vast amounts of time and energy into finding whoever it was that for whatever reason had decided to put an end to that solitary criminal’s existence?

Who the hell cared if Leopold Verhaven was dead?

Was there any single person?

Apart from the one who killed him, of course.

Rooth doubted it.

But somewhere deep down at the back of his mind he

could hear the echo of some guidelines, taken from the Rules and Regulations for Criminal Investigations, if he remembered rightly. He couldn’t recall the precise wording, but the meaning could be expressed just as well by one of Van Veeteren’s favorite sayings.

If the murderer is holed up in Timbuktu, stop the first cab that comes along and go there. We’re not a profit-making company, for Christ’s sake!