Hakan Nesser - The Return

When, Munster thought. Not if.

“I’d better find a corner where I can get stuck first,” he said.

“Has Rooth checked missing persons yet?”

Van Veeteren switched on the intercom and five minutes later Detective Inspector Rooth appeared with a sheaf of computer printouts in his hand. He flopped down onto the empty chair and scratched his beard. It was straggly and recent and made him look like a homeless dosser, it seemed to Munster.

But so what? It could be an advantage to have colleagues who couldn’t be picked out as the filth from a hundred yards away.

“Thirty-two missing persons reported in our area over the last couple of years,” he announced. “Who haven’t been found, that is. Sixteen locals. I’ve been weeding them out a bit.

If we assume that he’s been lying out there for at least six months and at most a year, he ought to have been reported as missing between April and December last year. We’ll have to see if that’s right when we get Meusse’s report, of course. . ”

“How can as many people as that go missing?” wondered Munster. “Can that really be right?”

Rooth shrugged.

“Most of them go abroad. Mainly young people. I doubt if there’s any kind of crime involved in more than fifteen or twenty percent of the cases. That’s what Stauff claims, anyway, and he knows what he’s talking about. I assume he’s not including minor misdemeanors. Quite a lot of druggies go missing. Clear off to Thailand and India and places like that.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“How many candidates does that leave you with?”

Rooth thumbed through the lists. Munster could see that he had circled round some names, put a question mark against others, crossed some out, but there didn’t seem to be many hot tips.

“Not a lot,” said Rooth. “If we’re looking for a man in his fifties, about five feet ten, including his head and his feet-

well, I reckon there are only a couple to choose from. Maybe three.”

Van Veeteren studied his toothpick.

“One will be enough,” he said. “As long as it’s the right one.”

“He doesn’t need to be a local either,” said Munster.

“There’s nothing to suggest that he was killed in the Behren area. It could have been anywhere, as far as I can see.”

Rooth nodded.

“If we consider the list from the country as a whole, we’ve got seven or eight to choose from. In any case, I suppose we’d better wait for the postmortem report before we start looking for possible widows?”

“Yes indeed,” said Van Veeteren. “The fewer that need to look at him, the better.”

“OK,” said Munster after a pause, “what do we do in the meantime, then?”

Van Veeteren leaned back, making his desk chair creak.

“I suggest you two clear off somewhere and draw up an outline plan. I’ll tell Hiller you’re sorting everything out. But as I say, I’m at your disposal.”

“Well then,” said Rooth when they had settled down in the canteen with their mugs of coffee. “Do you reckon we can sort this out within a week?”

“I hope so,” said Munster. “When does Meusse expect to be ready?”

Rooth checked his watch.

“In about an hour, I think. We’d better go and see him together, don’t you think?”

Munster agreed.

“What about a response from the general public?” he

asked. “There’s been quite a bit in the papers.”

Rooth shook his head as he washed down half a Danish pastry.

“Nothing that makes sense so far. Krause is keeping an eye on that side of things. There’ll be an appeal on the news tonight, both on the telly and on radio. But I’ll be damned if it isn’t one of these.”

He tapped the computer printouts with his spoon. Mun-

ster picked up the lists and considered Rooth’s notes. He’d drawn a double circle round three of the names: They seemed to be the hottest candidates.

Candidates for having been murdered, mutilated and dumped in an overgrown ditch just outside Behren, that is. He ran through them:

Claus Menhevern

Drouhtens vej 4, Blochberg

born 1937

reported missing 6/1/1993

Pierre Kohler

Armastenstraat 42, Maardam

born 1936

reported missing 8/27/1993

Piit Choulenz

Hagmerlaan 11, Maardam

born 1945

reported missing 10/16/1993

“Yep,” he said, sliding the lists back over the table. “It’s got to be one of them.”

“Sure,” said Rooth. “In that case, we’ll crack it within a week. I can feel it in my bones. . ”

He left the police station an hour earlier than usual and drove straight home. The letter was still where he’d left it, on the bookshelf in the hall. He opened it and read it once more. The text was still the same:

We are pleased to inform you herewith that a time has been reserved for the operation on your Cancer

Adenocarcinoma Coli on Tuesday, May 5.

You are requested to confirm this date by mail or

telephone by April 25 at the latest, and to present yourself at Ward 46B no later than 9 p.m. on Wednesday, May 4.

After the operation a further two to three weeks in the hospital will probably be necessary; we mention this in order to assist you in planning your domestic and working life accordingly.

Yours faithfully,

Marike Fischer, Appointments Secretary,

Gemejnte Hospitaal, Maardam

Oh, hell! he thought. Then he checked the data at the bottom of the page, dialed the number and waited.

A young girl’s voice answered. Twenty-five at most, he decided. Like his own daughter, more or less.

“I suppose I’d better turn up then,” he said.

“Excuse me? Who’s that speaking?” she asked.

“Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, of course. I have cancer of the large intestine, and I’m going to let this Dr.

Moewenroedhe cut it out, and. .”

“One moment.”

He waited. She picked the phone up again.

“May fifth, that’s right. I’ll make a note. We look forward to seeing you the day before. I’ll reserve a bed for you in Ward forty-six B. Have you got any questions?”

Will it hurt? he thought. Will I survive? What percentage never come around from the anesthetic?

“No,” he said. “I’ll get back to you if I change my mind.”

He could hear the surprise in her silence.

“Why should you change your mind?”

“I might be busy with something else. You never know.”

She hesitated.

“Are you worried about the operation, Mr. Van Veeteren?”

“Worried? Me?”

He tried to laugh, but even he could hear that it sounded more like a dying dog. He had some experience of dying dogs.

“That’s all right, then,” she said cheerfully. “I can assure you that Dr. Moewenroedhe is one of our most skillful surgeons, and it’s not all that complicated an operation after all.”

No, but it’s my stomach, Van Veeteren thought. And my intestine. I’ve had it for a long time and I’ve grown quite fond of it.

“You’re welcome to call and ask questions if you like,” she added. “We’re here to help.”

“Thank you very much,” he said with a sigh. “OK, I’ll probably call you beforehand, in any case. Good-bye very much.”

“We look forward to seeing you, Mr. Van Veeteren.”

He stood for a few seconds with the letter in his hand.

Then he tore it into four pieces and threw it into the waste-paper basket.

Less than an hour later he had eaten two bratwurst sausages with potato salad on his balcony. Drunk a glass of dark beer with it and started to wonder if he ought to go to the corner shop and buy a pack of cigarettes. He had run out of toothpicks and it was a pleasant evening.

I’m going to die, in any case, he thought.