Hakan Nesser - The Return

Guilty!

But she knows even so.

She’s lying here in her big bed in the refurbished bedroom, and knows. Is more and more convinced of this black certainty. Chained to him and to her silence, that’s how it feels; more and more bitter, more and more strong, and clearer than ever during these ecstatic, sleepless hours in the early morning.

Him and her. Man and wife.

But never man and woman. Not since Andrea was born.

All these years they have never come together. She has closed her legs to him and left him outside; that’s what has happened.

Transformed this strong and healthy man into somebody who runs after whores. A married man who every month takes his car to town in order to satisfy his tortured urges with bought love.

That’s what I have turned him into.

And into a murderer.

Him and her. This unavoidable certainty. And the choice, has she ever had a choice?

No, she thinks, and swallows that as well. I have never had a choice.

She sits upright. Dries the cold sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. Tries to relax her shoulders and take slow, deep breaths while she looks out the window. The sky in the east is defined by the dark outline of the coniferous forest.

Oh God, she thinks. Can anybody understand?

Even You?

She clasps her hands, but the words of her prayer are locked inside her.

I will take the punishment, she thinks. Punish me for my silence!

Let me remain in my bed forever! Let me. . let me do just that. Let me cease once and for all staggering through this house, which is my home and my prison. Let me stay here.

May my wrecked pelvis split open forever!

She sinks back against the pillows and it dawns on her that this is how it must be. Exactly like this.

But may there be some kind of meaning, despite everything. At last the words find their way over her lips. May. . may my unfathomable darkness be my daughter’s light! she whispered out into the night. I do not beg for forgiveness! I do not beg for understanding! I ask for nothing! Punish me, oh God!

Then she closes her eyes, and almost as if she has been given an answer, she can feel the shaft of pain shooting up through her body.

The rain had been with him for most of the journey, but it started to ease off as he approached the coast. The setting sun broke through the clouds on the horizon, shooting jagged shafts of light over the choppy sea. The air smelled salt-laden and fresh when he got out of the car, and he paused for a few seconds to savor deep breaths of it. Seagulls were gliding over the water, filling the bay with their self-assured, drawn-out screams.

The sea, he thought once again.

People had ventured out onto the beach between the two piers after the rain-it was not a long beach, not much more than half a mile. Some dogs were chasing one another; a group of young people were playing volleyball; a fisherman was sorting out his nets. Van Veeteren couldn’t remember when he had last visited this rather old-fashioned seaside resort with its olde-worlde charm; its heyday, when the Casino and Spa Hotel flourished, came to an end at some point in the twenties, unless he was much mistaken-but he had been there several times even so. With Renate and with the children as well; perhaps it was only a couple of occasions, now that he came to think about it. . A few days each time, but Behrensee was small enough for him to remember where Florian’s was located.

Strictly speaking there wasn’t much more to the place than the elegant promenade, so he couldn’t very well have missed the guesthouse, in any case. But he had a clear memory of it.

A high, art nouveau facade at the southernmost end of a row of hotels and boutiques, squashed between a recently built supermarket and the slightly shabby Sea Horse hotel, where he had stayed during one of his short visits.

If he remembered rightly, that is.

And he did. It was a narrow building, five stories high, painted pink and white. The copper roof was still glowing faintly in the last rays of the setting sun, and the balconies were a deep wine red color. A little bit worse for wear here and there, but certainly not one of the cheaper establishments in this idyllic if crackled resort.

He went through the milky white glass doors. Placed his briefcase carefully on the floor and rang the bell on the reception desk. After half a minute a middle-aged woman appeared with a towel in her hands. It looked as if she had been busy drying dishes. She squinted at him over the edge of her gold-framed spectacles, and hid the towel away.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for Arnold Jahrens. If my information is correct, he is staying here.”

“Let’s have a look.”

She turned some pages of the ledger.

“Yes, that’s right. Room 53. It’s on the top floor. You can take the elevator.”

She stood on tiptoe and pointed over his shoulder.

“Is he in now?”

She checked the key rack.

“I think so. He hasn’t left his key here, in any case.”

“The top floor, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll just see to a few things first; then I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“As you wish,” said the woman, picking up the towel again.

He knocked twice, but there was no sign of life.

He tried the handle, and the door swung open.

An ordinary sort of room, he decided. But with a certain traditional charm. A wide bed with an iron frame. Quite high, dark wainscoting. A small desk. Two even smaller armchairs.

A wardrobe.

To the left, just inside the door, was the bathroom. As he could see the room was empty, he opened the door and switched on the light.

Empty here as well. There was no bath, only a modern

shower; there was no suitable place for somebody intending to commit suicide.

He entered the room. Put his briefcase on the desk and dug a toothpick from the supply in his breast pocket. Looked around.

“Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, I presume?”

The voice came from the balcony and had just the

restrained tone of mockery and self-confidence that Van Veeteren was dreading most of all.

“Mr. Jahrens,” he said, going out onto the balcony. “May I sit down?”

The powerfully built man nodded and indicated the empty basket chair on the other side of the table.

“I have to say that you seem to have a damn good imagination for a police officer. I really don’t understand how anybody could cook up a story like this one.”

Van Veeteren opened his briefcase.

“Whiskey or brandy?” he asked.

“If you think it will help if you make me drunk, you have another thought coming.”

“Not at all,” said Van Veeteren. “It’s just that I couldn’t find any beer.”

“All right.”

He fetched two glasses from inside the room, and Van

Veeteren poured.

“You don’t need to play around,” he said. “The fact is that I know you have three lives on your conscience, and I shall make sure that you don’t get away with it. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Jahrens. “And how do you think you are going to do that? I expect you have a little microphone or transmitter hidden away somewhere that’s linked to a tape recorder somewhere else, and you’re hoping that I’m going to get tipsy and let the cat out of the bag. Isn’t that a cheap trick?

Is that how you trap folks nowadays?”

“Not at all,” said Van Veeteren. “It wouldn’t hold up in court, anyway, but I’m sure you know that. No, I’m simply going to tell you how I see it. If you’re frightened of a tape recorder or something of the sort, you can nod or shake your head as you please. I think you need to run through it all, you as well.”