Hakan Nesser - The Return

A chord from the organ brought him back to his senses. Presumably it was intended to wake up a few other sheep dozing off in the flock inside the church. He opened his eyes and shook his head. The hymn singing gathered strength. With the vicar’s baritone, magnified by the microphone around his neck, leading the way, it floated out of the open windows and rose unshackled through the leaves of the trees, up into the heavens, where it was received and enjoyed, one can assume, by those already in residence to whom it was doubtless and unreservedly addressed.

Hallelujah, Munster thought, and yawned.

He sat up and checked his watch.

Twenty-seven minutes past. Time to act. He stood up, made his way through the graves and jumped over the wall next to where his car was parked. He had just opened the door and was about to get in when he clapped eyes on the chief inspector. He was strolling toward the churchyard, an unpleasant sight with his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and a garishly colored handkerchief knotted over his head. There were sweat stains under his arms, and his face was worryingly red; but amid all the wretchedness was a certain expression of satisfaction. A sort of restrained, contented grimace that could hardly be overlooked. Certainly not by somebody who had been around for as long as Munster had.

“There you are,” he said. “I was just going to get you.

How’s it gone?”

“OK, thanks,” said the chief inspector, removing the handkerchief from his head. “Damned hot, though.”

“You took your time, I reckon,” Munster ventured. “Was there really all that much to scratch around in up there?”

Van Veeteren shrugged.

“There was a bit,” he said. “I had a chat with the neighbors on the way down as well. Had a beer with the Czermaks. It was all go.”

He wiped his forehead. Munster waited, but the chief

inspector said nothing more.

“Did you get anywhere?” Munster asked eventually.

“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “I think so. Let’s be off, then.”

As usual, Munster thought, slumping down behind the

wheel. Just the same as ever.

“Where exactly did you get, then?” he asked once they had got under way, and the wind coming in through the windows had begun to restore the chief inspector’s usual facial color.

“I have an idea about who might have done it,” said Van Veeteren. “An idea, remember that, Inspector! I’m not claiming that I know anything.”

“Who?” asked Munster, but he knew that he was wasting his time.

Instead of answering, the chief inspector leaned back in his seat, stuck his elbow out the window and started to whistle Carmen.

Munster stepped on the gas and switched on the radio.

At least nobody would be able to say that she hadn’t been out in good time.

She started prowling around the Covered Market as early as half past eight. He didn’t usually finish until about a quarter past nine or even half past, but obviously, it was best to leave a safety margin. The stakes were high, and Renate had made it clear that she wasn’t prepared to wait any longer for her money.

A lousy two thousand guilders. A few years ago she’d have been able to cough up twice as much as that with no trouble at all. Simply dig down into her purse, pull out a bundle of notes and tell the dolled-up slut to shove the change up her ass.

It wouldn’t really matter if Renate didn’t get her money; she wasn’t dependent on her. But she was dependent on Raoul, and Renate happened to be Raoul’s woman. For the time being, at least. Without him she would soon be without an apartment and without any work, that was for sure. But what the hell, she could manage on her own account, of course she could, start again from scratch like she’d done before; but there was no denying that it was good to have everything taken care of and made easy for her. Certainly. She was living a pleasant life as middle age started to creep up on her. .

So it was worth making an effort to scrape together the money she owed. She hadn’t really understood how serious the situation was until last night, that was why she was a bit short of time now. Renate hadn’t sounded the same as usual on the telephone; she wouldn’t be able to get away with excuses this time, that had been very obvious.

Two thousand guilders. A quarter past ten at the Rote Moor. Otherwise, you’re in the shit.

That was her problem, basically.

She’d phoned three or four friends, but it had been a waste of time, needless to say. She could have got a few hundred, maybe more, if she’d kept going a bit longer, but it was nearly midnight, and there were limits.

And then there was Leo Verhaven. He’d struck her as a possibility-perhaps the best one-the moment she’d put the receiver down after Renate’s ultimatum.

Leo.

And he didn’t even have a telephone.

That was somehow typical.

She checked that the van was parked where it usually stood.

By the loading bay in Kreugerlaan. Then she wandered

through the market hall and across the square, but she didn’t see him anywhere. She wanted to bump into him as if by accident. A happy coincidence. Hover around like a cat faced with hot milk, perhaps.

Or would it be better to come straight to the point? Hard to say. Verhaven wasn’t exactly easy to handle.

She stationed herself next to the monument in Zwille, where she could keep an eye on both the van and the lower part of the square. Sat down on one of the benches under the statue of Torres, lit a cigarette and waited. The pale autumn sun had risen over the rooftops and was spraying jets of heat onto her back and her neck, giving her a feeling of hope and well-being, despite everything. Now she was a cat in the sun again, and when she noticed the furtive looks being given her by some of the passing men, she automatically started adjust-ing her clothing; she took off her scarf, unfastened a couple of buttons in her blouse, opened her legs the couple of inches every man worthy of the name noticed without being aware of it. .

This is me, she thought. I’m made for this, and I’m better at it than any other woman in the world.

That was an exaggeration; she knew it was, but just now she needed all the self-confidence she could talk herself into.

She checked her watch.

Twenty minutes to ten.

She had less than two hours left to live.

He turned up at a quarter to eleven.

She stood up immediately, crossed over the street and bumped into him just as he was coming round the corner.

“Leo!” she said, and thought she’d made it sound as much of a nice surprise as she’d intended.

He stopped. Nodded in that slightly surly way of his. As if she’d interrupted him in the middle of some important calculation or fascinating line of thought. He gave her what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Perhaps there was hope after all.

She moved closer to him and placed her hand on his arm.

Continued smiling. They’d had sex-she counted the occasions in a flash-six times. He was the hot type; no interest at all in foreplay or romantic stuff. Easy to start, hard to drive, as her friend Nellie usually said.

“Where are you going?” she said.

Verhaven shrugged. Nowhere, it seemed. Or at least, nowhere important.

“Could we get together, maybe?”

“Now?”

“Yes. I have to meet a friend of mine shortly, but after that if you like.”

He shrugged again. Not a good sign, she realized that, but she had no choice,

“I’ve got a little problem.”

“Really?” said Verhaven.

She hesitated. Looked rather worried as she stroked his arm.