Hakan Nesser - The Return

“Hmm,” said Rooth. “Was that all?”

“Yes,” said Jahrens. “She woke up at about nine the next morning, but when I reminded her that she was going to call the police she turned all insolent and told me to mind my own business. And then she left. Didn’t even say thank you.”

“A well-brought-up lady,” said Rooth.

“Very,” said Jahrens. “Would you like some more cookies? I see they’re all gone.”

“No thanks,” said Rooth, and thought for a few seconds.

“I can’t really think of any more questions to ask you,” he said. “Is there anything else you can add, that might be of use to us?”

Jahrens leaned back on his chair and gazed up at the ceiling.

“No,” he said. “Not a thing.”

“But you think it was Verhaven who killed her?”

“Absolutely,” said Jahrens. “There are a lot of things in this life that I’m doubtful about, but not that.”

“No, when all’s said and done, it could well be as you say,”

said Rooth, getting to his feet. “Many thanks.”

We’re all mad, no doubt about it, he thought when he

emerged into the courtyard.

Who the hell was it who’d written that?

After another day in Kaustin, deBries and Moreno turned up at Kraus’s so late that they couldn’t find a quiet corner in the bar. DeBries tried to do a quick calculation of how much cash he had in his wallet-yet again cursing his obstinate refusal to get himself a credit card-and decided he wasn’t too badly off.

“Let’s go to the restaurant instead,” he suggested. “Can I treat you to a bite to eat?”

“All right,” said Moreno, taking another look around. “I don’t think we’d be able to do much in the way of chewing over our impressions in here. But if you treat me, I’ll treat you-that’s a condition.”

Excellent, thought deBries.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, opening the glass door leading to the more substantial area.

“Well,” said Moreno when they’d had their bite to eat and ordered another bottle and the cheese board. “What do you reckon about today, then?”

“Nice weather,” said deBries. “You look a bit more tanned, I think.”

“Every little bit helps,” said Moreno, taking her notebook from her purse. “Shall we take them in order? We ought to form some sort of judgments, after all.”

She looked at the names:

Uleczka Willmot

Katrina Berenskaya

Maria Hess

“Three old women,” said deBries. “With walking sticks. Well, I’d say the odds against were a thousand to one, roughly; but I suppose we can’t write any of them off until we’ve checked their alibis. Mind you, it’s a long way to Ulmentahl. That visitor must have taken all day to get there and back. If she came from Kaustin, that is.”

“If she did, yes.”

“Hard to say,” said deBries.

“Very,” said Moreno. “A thousand to one? Yes, I suppose that’s about right.”

The waiter brought the cheese board, and deBries topped up their glasses.

“What about a motive?” he said after a while. “Can you see any of these old dears having the slightest whiff of a motive? If there’s any point in all this, the visitor must have known the identity of the real murderer. I don’t think our three seemed to be particularly well informed on that matter.”

“I can’t understand why she should want to keep it to herself,” said Moreno. “If she really wanted to tell Verhaven who the murderer was, there’s surely no sensible reason for being unwilling to admit to it afterward. Or is there?”

“God only knows,” said deBries, polishing a grape on the tablecloth. “No, I can’t make head nor tail of this, swear to God.”

Moreno sighed.

“Nor can I,” she said. “It all seems a bit odd, as far as I can see. All we know for a fact is that Verhaven was visited by a woman calling herself Anna Schmidt on June fifth, 1992.

We’ve no idea who she really was or what they talked about.

We’re jumping to quite a few conclusions if we think along these lines: First we claim that the visit had to do with the murder. Then we say the reason was that she wanted to tell Verhaven who the real murderer was. Then we assume she lives in Kaustin. . There are some weak links in that chain.”

“Besides,” said deBries, “we’re not even a hundred percent certain that it’s Verhaven who’s dead. And we’re definitely not sure that he was actually innocent of the crimes he’s been in prison for. No, if we took this to the public prosecutor, he’d no doubt laugh us out of court.”

Moreno nodded.

“But it’s not our problem, of course,” said deBries. “We’re only obeying orders: Get over there and seek out all women who use a walking stick in that dump! Or all men with false teeth in Aarlach! All left-handed whores in Hamburg! Ask them what they were doing between three and four o’clock in the afternoon on the day before Christmas Eve 1973, and most important-write down every single word they say! It’s great fun, this sleuthing: This is exactly what I dreamed about when I made up my mind to become a detective.”

“I get the feeling you’re a little bit disillusioned this evening,” said Moreno with a benign smile.

“Not in the least,” said deBries. “You totally misjudge my motives. I would be more than happy to go to Spetsbergen and interview every damned penguin about their views on the greenhouse effect. . As long as I could do it alongside you. Cheers!”

“Cheers,” said Moreno. “But I don’t think there are any penguins at Spetsbergen. Anyway, I suppose we’ll be given new assignments tomorrow no matter what?”

DeBries nodded.

“I assume so,” he said. “Munster and Van Veeteren will be able to steer this ship home without our help. But they won’t find it all that easy, I suspect.”

“Probably not. What do you really think? Will they be able to solve this case, period?”

DeBries crunched away at the last cracker and thought for a while.

“I’ve no idea,” he said. “Strangely enough, I get the feeling that they will crack it eventually. VV will be in a hell of a bloodhound humor when they eventually let him out. He’s not easy to put up with now, according to Munster.”

“Is he ever?”

“No,” sighed deBries. “You’re right there, of course. I wouldn’t like to be married to him, I know that much.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” said deBries.

Moreno looked at her watch.

“Speaking of that, I suppose it’s time to call it a day.”

“You’re right,” said deBries. “Thank you for a very pleasant day. The bottle’s empty, I’m afraid. . Otherwise I’d propose a toast to you.”

“You’ve already done that twice,” Moreno pointed out.

“That’s quite enough. There’s a limit to the amount of flattery I can take.”

“Same here,” said deBries. “Time to go home.”

At first sight, for the first tenth of a second after opening the door, he had no idea where he was. The thought that he might have got the wrong room after twelve long days of absence did occur to him, but then he realized that it was the same old office as usual. Perhaps it was the strong afternoon sun slant-ing in through the dirty windows that confused him. The whole of the far wall, behind the desk, was bathed in generous but blinding sunlight. Dust was dancing. It was as hot as in an oven.

He opened the window. Lowered the blinds and succeeded in protecting himself to some extent from the early summer.

When he looked round, he found that the changes were not in fact as great as he had at first thought.

There were three of them, to be precise.

First of all, somebody had tidied up his desk. All his papers were in neat piles instead of being splayed out like a fan. Not a bad idea, he could see that immediately. Odd that it had never occurred to him before.