Hakan Nesser - The Return

The poem was called “January Night” and was only seven lines long.

Light unborn

Lines unknown

The law as yet unwritten

In the darkness the child

In the dancing shadows the rhythms

From the rules of Chaos for the handling of heartache And a little categorical imperative

He switched off the light, and the lines lingered on, both in the darkness of the room, or so it seemed, and in his own fading consciousness.

The inner and the outer darkness, he thought, just before succumbing to the infinite embrace of sleep.

Tomorrow at noon.

As he stood outside the door, his watch said 11:59, and he decided to wait for that one last minute. He had written noon, and perhaps there was a point in being precise with details.

Not neglecting the apparently insignificant.

He rang the bell.

Waited for a few seconds, listening for sounds from inside.

Put his finger on the button and pressed again. A long, angry ring. Then he leaned forward, listening with his ear pressed against the cool wooden door.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No human sounds.

He stood upright. Composed himself for a moment. Took a deep breath and tried the door handle.

Open.

He crossed the threshold. Left the door slightly ajar. It was the first time he had entered an apartment where he might expect to find a dead body-it was not a certainty, but there was something else this time. Something that felt both worrying and predictable at the same time.

The air was heavy in the dark, cramped hall. The kitchen was straight ahead. Sun could have been streaming in, but the blinds were drawn. On the right, a door to what looked as if it ought to be a bedroom was half open. On the left was a bathroom and double doors to the living room.

Two rooms and a kitchen, that was all. It was no bigger than that, as Munster has said.

He took the bedroom first. The bed ought to be the obvious place; that’s where he’d have chosen himself, if he’d found himself in this situation.

He carefully opened the door wide.

Empty. Bed made, everything neat and tidy. Blinds drawn here as well. As if he had gone away somewhere.

Then the living room. Just as tidy and boring. An ugly suite in some sort of grayish brown, durable synthetic material. A large television set, a bookcase with ornaments. Seascapes on the walls.

The same dreary cooped-up feeling in the kitchen. A calen-dar and garish landscapes on the walls. Washed dishes in the drying rack, covered with a tea towel. Refrigerator almost empty. A withered potted plant on the table.

Only the bathroom left. A possibility Van Veeteren might also have chosen. Slowly fading away in hot water. Like Seneca. Not Morat.

He switched on the light.

He could almost imagine the murderer’s smile, a lingering, half-ironic reflection in the shiny, dark blue tiles. As if he’d known that Van Veeteren would save this until last. As if he’d played with the idea of writing a message to this interfer-ing cop and leaving it here, but then decided not to because it was so obvious who would draw the longest straw in this pointless duel.

Van Veeteren sighed and briefly studied his face in the mirror over the sink. It was not a particularly uplifting sight-

something midway between Quasimodo and a mournful

bloodhound. As usual, in other words; possibly even a bit worse.

He switched off the light and went back into the hall.

Paused for a moment, checking that the letter basket on the inside of the door was empty. That had to suggest that he’d left not very long ago. Abandoned this gloomy but well-looked-after apartment about an hour ago, most likely.

It seemed impossible that he had just slipped out for a few minutes. Everything suggested that he had gone away. For a few days at the very least.

Forever? Perhaps that was a good sign, when all was said and done. A glimmer of hope twinkled once more. Why should he do it inside his home?

No reason at all, as far as Van Veeteren could see.

He left the apartment and closed the door behind him.

Why had he left it open?

So that Van Veeteren would be able to examine the apartment? If so, what was the point?

Or had he simply forgotten to lock it?

“Mr. Van Veeteren?”

He gave a start. He hadn’t noticed that one of the neighboring doors had been cautiously opened. A woman with red frizzy hair peeked out.

“You are Mr. Van Veeteren, aren’t you? He said you’d come at about this time.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“He asked me to tell you that he couldn’t meet you here, unfortunately, because he’d gone to the seaside.”

“To the seaside?”

“Yes. He left you a message as well. Here you are.”

She held out an envelope.

“Thank you very much,” said Van Veeteren. “Did he say anything else?”

She shook her head.

“No, what else was there for him to say? Excuse me, but I’ve got a cake in the oven.”

She closed the door.

Ah well, thought Van Veeteren, staring at the envelope.

He didn’t open it until he’d found a table at the outdoor cafe a bit farther down the same street. As he sat with it in his hand, waiting for the waitress, he thought back to what Mahler had said the previous evening.

Doing something at the right time is more important than what you actually do.

A bit exaggerated, of course, but perhaps it was true that timing was the most important part of all patterns? Of all actions, of every life. In any case, it wasn’t an idea to be sneered at, that was clear.

The beer arrived. He drank deeply then opened the envelope. Took out a sheet of paper folded twice and read: Florian’s Guesthouse

Behrensee.

He took another swig.

The sea? he thought. Yes, that was a possibility, of course.

Night once more.

Awake once more. Judgment was passed yesterday, and her last hope was blown out like a candle flame in a storm.

Guilty.

Verhaven guilty again. She fumbles for her glass. Sips at the lukewarm soda water and closes her eyes. Turns her thoughts inside and out. What is it behind this unbelievable turn of events? What is it forcing her to hang on despite everything? Instead of just letting everything go, dropping all her resistance?

Breaking this lunatic silence and sinking down into the darkness. What?

Andrea, of course.

Last time she was two years old; now she’s of marriage-able age. A mature woman. The woman her mother never

became; there is a progression in everything, an inexorable, black logic against which she has no defenses. A destiny, it seems to her.

Please, God, let her relationship with Juhanis come to something.

Please, God, make them make their minds up soon so that he can take her away from here.

Please, God.

When?

When did the first crystal-clear suspicion enter her mind this time?

The same day? That same rainy afternoon in September

when the body was discovered by Mr. Nimmerlet? As early as that?

Perhaps. Perhaps she knew right away. Suppressed it and slammed the door shut on it. Immediately hit upon her twisted excuse to escape and swallowed it hook, line and sinker; he hadn’t been in town that day. He’d driven to Ulming with the broken chain saw; she checked that herself in her diary. It must have been that very day. . He stopped by at the Morrisons on the way as well, even if they weren’t at home, it seems. He said that himself, and there had been nothing unusual about what he’d done or the way he’d acted. Nothing unusual.

They couldn’t do anything with the saw, but of course he had been there, and as it’s a long way between Ulming and Maardam, it can’t have been him. Not this time; this time it really is Verhaven; it must be Verhaven.