Hakan Nesser - Mind's eye

“That’s a beautiful and unusual name,” said Mitter. “You may stay as long as you like.”

“You are going to have to undergo a mental examination,”

said Diotima. “Irrespective of the verdict.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Mitter. “Mind you, I hadn’t intended to start teaching again right away.”

Diotima nodded. She had her hair in a ponytail, which swayed back and forth slightly whenever she moved her head.

Mitter would have loved to step forward and put his hand on the back of her neck, but he didn’t feel clean enough. Diotima had an air of virginal purity that was unmistakable; he concealed his hands between his knees and tried to think about something else.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

He thought it over, but failed to come up with a good answer.

“It’s been very trying. .,” she said, lowering her voice at the end, and he couldn’t decide if it had been a question or a statement. If it referred to him, or to herself.

“This isn’t exactly a place to be if you want to get healthy again,” she said.

He smiled.

“Do you know how long you’ve been in here?”

He nodded.

“What day is it today?”

“Wednesday.”

“Yes. Your verdict will be announced this afternoon. Why have you chosen not to be present?”

He shrugged.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“Yes, please.”

She produced a pack from her briefcase. Placed it on the table between them. He released his right hand. Took a cigarette and lit it. It was a weak menthol thing, typical woman’s tobacco, but he was grateful for the opportunity to smoke it right down to the filter.

Somehow or other, smoking a cigarette like that required greater concentration than usual, and he wasn’t at all clear about what questions she asked him while he was busy with it.

In any case, he made no replies.

When he stubbed out the cigarette in the washbasin, she stood up and he realized she was about to leave. He had a lump in his throat; it blended most unpleasantly with the vapid taste of cold smoke. Perhaps she noticed his discomfort, for she took two steps toward him and put her hand on his arm for a moment.

“I’ll be back, Mr. Mitter,” she said. “And no matter what happens, you won’t need to stay locked up in here.”

“Janek,” he said. “My name’s Janek. I don’t want you to call me Mr. Mitter.”

“Thank you. My name’s Diotima.”

“I know. You’ve already told me.”

She smiled. Her teeth were pure white, and immaculate.

He sighed.

“Are you sure you’re not Danish?”

“My grandmother came from Copenhagen.”

“There you are, you see! I could tell!”

“Farewell, Janek.”

“Farewell, Diotima.”

Ruger turned up an hour after dinner to inform Mitter about the verdict. He seemed to be even more hunched than usual, and blew his nose twice before speaking.

“We didn’t make it,” he said.

“Really?” said Mitter. “We didn’t make it.”

“No. But they settled for manslaughter. The jury was unanimous. Six years.”

“Six years?”

“Yes. With good conduct you could be out after five.”

“I’d have nothing against that,” said Mitter.

Ruger paused.

Then he said: “You’ll have to undergo a little mental examination. Unfortunately, it’s all to do with your present state of mental health. Perhaps we should have taken another line, but nobody thinks you were not responsible for your actions at the time of the crime.”

“I see,” said Mitter. He was beginning to feel really tired now. “Please say what you have to say as briefly as possible. I think I need to catch up on some sleep.”

“If they find you competent, it will be the state prison. If not, it will be the secure institution in Greifen or Majorna.”

“Majorna?”

“Yes, in Willemsburg. Do you know the place? It’s an old lunatic asylum from the nineteenth century. Perhaps Greifen would be better.”

“Hmm. I don’t think it makes any difference to me.”

“If you recover your mental health while in the institution, you will be transferred immediately to a prison-but your time spent in the institution will count toward the length of your sentence. Anyway, that’s the way it looks. Are you tired?”

Mitter nodded.

“You’ll be moved from here tomorrow. I hope you get a good night’s sleep in any case.”

He held out his hand. Mitter shook it.

“I’m sorry we didn’t make it. Really sorry. .”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mitter. “Please leave me alone now. No doubt we’ll have an opportunity to talk some other time.”

“I’m sure we shall,” said Ruger, blowing his nose one final time. “Farewell, and good luck tomorrow, Mr. Mitter.”

“Farewell.”

The man has verbal diarrhea, he thought as the door closed behind his lawyer. I must make sure I can keep him brief and to the point another time.

“Well,” said Munster, “so that’s that, then.”

“Really?” said Van Veeteren.

“Where have they sent him?”

Van Veeteren snorted.

“Majorna. Hasn’t Caen answered yet?”

“No, but we have lots of other things to see to.”

“Oh yes? What, for example?”

“This, to start with,” said Munster, passing him the newspaper.

The case of the black street girl who was discovered nailed to a cross in the fashionable suburb of Dikken kept Van Veeteren and Munster busy for thirty-six hours without a break. Then a neo-Nazi organization claimed responsibility and the whole business was handed over to the national antiterrorist squad.

Munster went home and slept for sixteen hours, and Van Veeteren would have done the same had it not been for Bismarck. The dog was now in such a bad way that the only option left was to have it put down. He phoned Jess and explained the situation, whereupon his daughter was suddenly afflicted by an attack of sentimentality and begged him to keep the dog alive for two more days, so that she could be present at the end.

It was her dog, after all.

Van Veeteren spent those two days half crazy with exhaustion, shoveling gruel into one end of the bitch, and wiping her clean at the other end with a wet towel. By the time Jess finally turned up, he was so purple with anger and fatigue that she felt obliged to remind him of the fifth Commandment.

“Oh, Daddy,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Might it not be just as well to take you, too, while we’re at it?”

This induced from Van Veeteren a bellow so loud that Mrs.

Loewe, a widow who lived in the apartment below, felt it incumbent upon her to ring the police. The duty officer, a young and promising constable by the name of Widmar Krause, recognized the address and had a fair idea of the circumstances. On his own authority, he canceled the police response he had promised the complainant.

Jess took over Bismarck, drove her to the vet’s, and a few hours later the dog breathed her last in Jess’s lap.

Van Veeteren took a shower, then chased down Munster on the telephone with unusual enthusiasm.

“Has Caen replied?” he roared into the receiver.

“No,” said Munster.

“Why the hell not?”

“How’s Bismarck?” enquired Munster, refreshed after his rest.

“Hold your tongue!” yelled Van Veeteren. “Answer my question!”

“I’ve no idea. What do you believe the reason might be?”

“Belief is something you have in church, and God is dead!

Give me his telephone number this instant, and shove the fax up Hiller’s ass!”

Munster looked up the number, and half an hour later, Van Veeteren got through to Caen.

“Caen.”

“Eduard Caen?”