Hakan Nesser - The Return

“Rubbish,” said Jahrens, sipping his whiskey. “Sure as hell, you’ve made me curious. It’s not every day you get an opportunity to study a police officer with a screw loose at close quarters.”

He smiled and shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table in front of him.

“Would you like one?”

“Yes, please.”

Van Veeteren accepted both the cigarette and a light before he got under way.

“Tell me about Leopold Verhaven!”

Arnold Jahrens smiled again and drew on his cigarette.

Looked up and gazed out to sea. A few seconds passed.

“It’ll be fine weather tomorrow, don’t you think, Chief Inspector? Will you be staying here for some days?”

“As you like,” said Van Veeteren, leaning forward over the table. “I’ll tell you what happened, and you can interrupt me if anything is unclear. . You have murdered three people. Beatrice Holden, Marlene Nietsch and Leopold Verhaven. Verhaven has been in jail for twenty-four years, thanks to you. You are a bastard; don’t be misled by my friendly tone.”

Jahrens’s cheek muscle twitched several times, but he said nothing.

“The only thing I’m not a hundred percent certain of is the motive. Although I’m pretty sure about that in outline even so. Correct me if I’m wrong, as I said. On April sixth, 1962, a Saturday, you go up to Verhaven’s house in the woods because you know Beatrice Holden is alone there. Presumably you’ve waited until the electrician finished what he was doing, and when you’ve seen him walking back home to the village, you set off. You are horny. Less than a week ago you’ve had Beatrice lying on your sofa, naked under a blanket, and that’s more than you can cope with. You’ve probably peeked at her under the blanket, maybe touched her as well, while she was sleeping off her intoxication and your semi-invalid wife is upstairs in the bedroom with no idea of what’s going on. Your two-year-old daughter as well. Maybe you put your hands between her legs. . between Beatrice Holden’s legs; that’s where you’re itching to be. A hot-blooded, sexy, good-looking woman-unlike your wife, lying upstairs as cold as ice, who never lets you in.”

Arnold took a sip of his drink, but his expression didn’t change.

“You arrive at The Big Shadow, and there she is. All on her own. Verhaven is in Maardam and isn’t expected home for several hours. She’s there for the taking. All you need to do is to go up to her, whisper a few fancy words, pull off her panties and get cracking. Why didn’t she want to, Mr. Jahrens? Tell me that. Why weren’t you allowed in between Beatrice Holden’s legs-she was generally so keen? Hadn’t she already half-promised you a reward that night when you took her in? Or was it just that you’d misunderstood it?”

Jahrens coughed.

“What an imagination,” he said and emptied his glass.

“You’re the one who’s perverted, Chief Inspector, not me.”

“It was scandalous, wasn’t it? Isn’t that how it felt?”

“What was?”

“That you weren’t allowed to screw Beatrice Holden. That the wretched Leopold Verhaven could have her, but not you.

That stupid lump of shit that you’d looked down on ever since you’d been at school together. Leopold Verhaven! The cheat!

The egg seller in The Big Shadow! A pathetic creature you’ve despised all your life. . And here he is, living with this desirable woman, while you, you’ve married a highly desirable farm, one of the richest in the whole of Kaustin, but at what price! The price is your worn-out wife who’ll never let you have her, and now you’re here, this particular Saturday afternoon, and Beatrice Holden won’t let you have her either.

Maybe she laughs at you-yes, damn it all, I think she laughs at you, and says she’ll tell Verhaven when he comes home what a useless old goat you are.”

He paused briefly. Jahrens stubbed out his cigarette and gazed out to sea again.

“Would you mind telling me if there are any details in my reconstruction that are not correct?” said Van Veeteren, leaning back in his chair.

Jahrens said nothing. Sat there without moving, but

showed no sign of nervous tension or irritation.

“So I was right from start to finish? I thought as much,”

said Van Veeteren with a satisfied smile. “Maybe you’d like to continue yourself, nevertheless? How you raped her and strangled her. Or was it the other way round?”

“I shall be informing your superiors about this conversation,” said Jahrens after a few seconds. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent,” said Van Veeteren. “A drop more whiskey?”

Without a word, Jahrens picked up the bottle and refilled his glass. Van Veeteren raised his glass as if to toast him, but his host wasn’t even looking at him. They drank in silence.

“Number two,” said Van Veeteren. “Marlene Nietsch.”

Jahrens raised his hand.

“No, thank you,” he said. “You’ve gone far enough. You can go to hell with your damned fantasies. I’ve better things to do than to. .”

“That would never occur to me,” Van Veeteren cut him

short. “I’m staying where I am.”

Jahrens snorted and for the first time looked to be of two minds. About time, Van Veeteren thought.

“All right. Either you give me your word that you’ll be out of here in half an hour at the most, or I’ll call the police right now.”

“I am the police,” said Van Veeteren. “Wouldn’t it be better if you tried to contact a lawyer? A good lawyer? You still wouldn’t have a chance, but it generally feels better if you’ve done everything in your power, believe you me.”

Jahrens lit another cigarette, but made no move to head for the telephone. Van Veeteren stood up and looked out to sea.

The sun had sunk below the horizon some considerable time ago, and blue twilight hovered over the town. He stood there for about a minute with his hands on the low railing, waiting for Jahrens to make a move. But he didn’t.

Just sat there in the basket chair. Took a sip of whiskey now and again, apparently unconcerned by the presence of Van Veeteren.

Perhaps he had never been worried? Not even for one

moment?

Better press on, thought Van Veeteren, sitting down opposite him once more.

He poured out the last drops from the whiskey bottle and held it out over the table.

“It doesn’t go very far,” he said, and Jahrens gave a laugh.

It was dark now. The little lamp in the corner of the balcony was not strong enough to reach very far either. For the last half hour Arnold Jahrens had been little more than a motionless outline. A dark silhouette, with his face in shadow, making it impossible for Van Veeteren to see what effect his words and all his efforts were having. Assuming they had any at all.

“So you’re not going to tell me where you interred his head? That’s a little shameful, don’t you think? I fear you will not end up very high in Dante’s inferno, I suppose you’re aware of that?”

He was expressing himself rather more formally; hard to say why, perhaps it was to do with the alcohol and the darkness.

Jahrens said nothing.

“How do you think your daughter is going to react?”

“What to? To your laughable insinuations?”

“Laughable? Do you really think she’ll laugh?”

Jahrens burst out laughing again, as if he wanted to be the one who judged what was an appropriate reaction.

“Your wife was able to refrain from laughter, in any case.”

Jahrens snorted instead. There was a distinct trace of tipsiness in it, Van Veeteren thought, and he decided to pin his faith on that judgment and that circumstance. Now’s the moment, he thought. Make or break. He was beginning to feel less than clear in the head himself, in fact; they had certainly drunk a great deal, and there was a limit to the time available.