Hakan Nesser - Mind's eye

“Let’s go and play badminton now!” He practiced a couple of smashes. “I have the feeling I’m going to wipe the floor with you today, Inspector!”

“But. .”

“No buts! Stick your snout round Hiller’s door and tell him we’re working our butts off with the arson case. Oh yes, we’ll have to pay a quick visit to my place first. I have to sort out that damned dog. .”

Munster sighed discreetly. When the chief inspector was in the mood to make jokes, it could mean almost anything-but one thing was certain: he didn’t want to be contradicted.

“What impression did you get of Andreas Berger?” Van Veeteren asked as Munster was trying to find his way out of the labyrinth that was the garage of police headquarters.

“Innocent, no doubt about it.”

“Why?”

“He has an alibi for the whole night. He lives right up in Karpatz, with a new wife and a couple of kids, and a third on the way. Very pleasant, and his wife as well. He tried to help Eva get back on track after the tragedy, wanted them to try again to make a go of it. She was the one who asked for a divorce.”

“Yes, I’m aware of all that. So there wasn’t anything rotten?”

“Rotten?”

“Yes, in the State of Denmark. He wasn’t trying to pull the wool over your eyes, I hope?”

Munster paused for a few seconds.

“Haven’t you listened to the recording?”

“Yes. . Yes, of course I have. I just wanted to make sure I’d got the right end of the stick. . ”

“So you can’t fill me in on why we’re still rooting around in this case? I thought you’d decided that Mitter had done it ages ago?”

“It’s only cows who never change their opinions, Munster.

It’s running on rails, the whole of this case; that’s the problem.

I don’t like trials that run on rails. For Christ’s sake, even the defense’s own witnesses managed to cast a shadow over him.

Weiss and. . what’s his name?”

“Sigurdsen.”

“Yes, Sigurdsen. And that pale-faced deputy head. They’ve been colleagues of his for fifteen years, and the best they can come up with is that they haven’t noticed any violent tendencies! What? We haven’t seen anything! With friends like that, who needs enemies? I’ll be damned if the teachers aren’t just as bad as the drips we had when we were at the same school.

Some of them are still there, of course.”

“What about Bendiksen, though?”

“A bit better, but even he doesn’t seem to exclude the possibility that Mitter did it. That’s the key, Munster. Every bastard, including Mitter himself, come to that, thinks that he did it.

But there’s barely a blemish on his record. A couple of slaps for his former wife, that she no doubt deserved, and some shitty little scapegoat fabrication from a schoolkids’ party. I’ll put money on your own history of criminal activity being ten times as bad, Munster!”

“Don’t say that, sir. At least I’ve never been arrested.”

Van Veeteren snorted.

“I should damn well think not! You’re a police officer, after all. Police officers don’t get arrested.”

He sat quietly for a while, busy with his toothpick.

“Anyway,” he said eventually, “there’s not a scrap of evidence to suggest that Mitter did it, and that means he’ll be found guilty. Then they can sit there and go on about the burden of proof here and the burden of proof there until mold comes creeping out of their mouths. It’s all irrelevant in this case. The prosecuting counsel hasn’t proved a thing. But Mitter will be found guilty even so.”

“Of murder?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Yes, I reckon that’s what the verdict will be. But even if they send him to the loony bin, it makes no difference. The poor devil has probably lost the plot for good. A pity-he seems to be an amusing bastard, in fact-

Stop! Why aren’t you driving straight ahead, Munster? We’re stopping off at my place first!”

“One-way street, sir.”

“Oh my God!” Van Veeteren groaned. “Your catalogue of sins isn’t much to boast about, I regret to say.”

Munster sighed and increased speed. The chief inspector was lost in thought. When they came to Keymer Church he produced a slim cigarillo from an inside pocket and glanced sideways at Munster as he lit it. He wasn’t really a smoker, but he knew that the acrid fumes from this black beauty would have more of an adverse effect on his opponent’s fitness than it would on his own. Especially if he avoided inhaling. If nothing else it was an important tactical move in the psychological warfare prior to the coming match.

Munster pulled up outside Klagenburg 4. Van Veeteren carefully balanced the smoldering cigarillo on the ashtray, and clambered out of the car.

“You can wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Munster switched off the engine and wound down the window. Watched the chief inspector jogging up the steps.

He’ll retire in ten years, he thought. Ten years. . How long can anybody keep on summoning up enough strength to carry on playing badminton?

He recalled seeing old men who must have been well over seventy strutting around in the sports hall. He preferred to think about other things instead.

About Synn, for instance. His beautiful wife who wanted them to take the kids with them on a real winter vacation this year. Two weeks in December, when prices were at rock bottom-that’s what she had in mind, if he’d understood her correctly. To some island or other, far away in a blue sea, with rustling palm trees and a bar on the beach.

And about the best way of pleading for leave with Hiller.

He had plenty of overtime in the bank-but two weeks?

“Two weeks?” Hiller would gasp, looking as if he’d been asked to pose naked in the police journal. “Two weeks?”

And now he was going to play badminton in working hours yet again.

Somebody had sent him a priest.

He didn’t know who. Ruger, or the chief of police, or that senile judge: hard to say. Perhaps he’d come of his own accord; as Mitter understood the situation, there didn’t need to be an intermediary. Just God the Father.

The priest smiled a watery smile. Needed to keep wiping his eyes. Blamed the dry air and the ventilation system.

“I spend a lot of time listening to the ventilation system,”

said Mitter. “I think it might be the voice of God.”

The priest nodded, and seemed interested.

“Really?”

“You are familiar with the voice of God, I take it?”

“Yes. .”

“It’s quite monotonous, don’t you think?”

“I suppose the voice of God sounds different in different people’s ears.”

“What kind of bloody relativism do you call that?” wondered Mitter aloud.

“Oh. . I was only. .”

“Are you suggesting that the good Lord is nothing more than a phenomenological manifestation? I think I’d better take a look at your ID, if you don’t mind.”

The priest smiled wanly. But a doubtful frown made an effort to establish itself on his shiny brow.

“If you are unable to present me with an ontological proof of the existence of God, I’ll have you thrown out without more ado!”

The priest wiped his eyes.

“Perhaps I’d better come back some other time. I see that my presence annoys you.”

Mitter rang for the warder, and two minutes later he was alone again.

He was also sent a social worker.

It was a woman in her thirties, and the warder stood on guard outside the door the whole time.

“Are you Danish?” Mitter asked.

She had blond hair and a long neck, so it was a reasonable question. She shook her head.

“My name’s Diotima,” she said. “Will you allow me to talk to you for a while?”