Hakan Nesser - Mind's eye

The smoke was hot and nauseating in his throat, and it wasn’t long before they started talking. And then the visitor leaned forward and flicked the ash off his cigarette, and Mitter saw who it was.

He opened his eyes and myriad stars came meandering into his consciousness, making him feel dizzy.

I shall forget this again, he thought. It came to me for just a moment, but tomorrow it will have gone.

He fumbled for the pencil lying on the bedside table.

Heard it fall on the floor. Leaned tentatively over the side of the bed and groped around in the dark over the cold flag-stones, and eventually found it.

Where? he thought. Where?

Then he took the Bible out of the drawer in the bedside table. Thumbed through as far as Mark or thereabouts, and wrote down the visitor’s name.

Closed the Bible. Put it back in its place and closed the drawer. Fell back exhausted on his pillows, and felt. . felt something starting to tremble inside him.

It was a flame. A pitifully small candle flame that somebody had lit, and that was no doubt well worth looking after.

Keeping alight.

He was mad, but at least he understood the implications of this memory.

And thanks to the power of that pale candlelight, he gave himself the task of coming to terms with it all when dawn came.

Writing a letter to the visitor.

Just a line.

He fell asleep. But woke up again.

Perhaps he should also make a phone call.

To that unpleasant person. . whose name escaped him for the moment.

As long as the flame doesn’t go out.

The telephone call was put through from the switchboard to the duty officer only minutes before he was due to be relieved.

In fact, he ought to have been relieved several hours previously, but Widmar Krause’s young wife had started to feel labor pains in the early hours of the morning, and it was her first pregnancy. Erich Klempje had no alternative but to stay on duty. He’d started his shift as early as nine p.m. the previous night, but isn’t that what colleagues are for?

He was only staying on until the emergency was over.

There was no question of her giving birth already, but getting to the hospital and waiting and then the examination followed by getting back home again all took time.

He noted it down automatically in the black folder.

11:56 Incoming call from Majorna.

“Police. Sergeant Klempje. How can I help you?”

At that very moment the doors were flung open and in marched two constables, Joensuu and Kellerman, dragging with them a whore from V-Square high on drugs.

“You can only have me one at a time!” she yelled. “And it’s double price for bleeding police bastards!”

Although the whore was small, and the combined weight of Joensuu and Kellerman must have been upwards of 450 pounds, they were obviously having trouble in propelling her to the cells. Blood was pouring from scratches on one of Kellerman’s cheeks, and Klempje suspected that the whore would not be totally unmarked if they could get her into a dark corner.

“Kiss my ass! But brush your teeth first!” she screeched, landing a well-directed knee between Joensuu’s legs.

Joensuu cursed and bent double. Klempje sighed and put his hand over the receiver.

Two probationers who had been writing reports came to assist, and before long the whole group was out of earshot.

For Christ’s sake, Klempje thought. If I don’t get some sleep soon I shall start crying.

He returned to the telephone call.

“Yes, what do you want?”

“This is J.M. from Majorna. This is J.M. from Majorna.”

Oh no! Klempje thought.

“Yes, I’ve made a note of that. What’s it about?”

“I’d like to speak to. . I’d like to speak to. .”

Silence. Klempje shook his head. The voice was monotonous, but tense. It sounded as if he was reading out something he’d learned by heart.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to speak to. .”

“Who do you want to speak to? This is the police here.”

“I know that,” said the voice. “I want to talk to the unpleasant one.”

“The unpleasant one?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the unpleasant one? This place is teeming with unpleasant police officers,” said Klempje, suffering from an attack of disloyalty to his colleagues.

“The worst of them all. . He’s big and his face is purple and he swears. I want to speak to him.”

“Okay, I’ll make a note of that.”

“Is he there now?”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

The caller hung up. Klempje sat for a few seconds with the receiver in his hand. Then he also hung up and went back to his crossword.

Two minutes later Krause appeared.

“Thank God for that,” groaned Klempje. “Well?”

“Nothing,” said Krause. “False alarm.”

“If it hurts, it hurts, I suppose.”

“Klempje, when it comes to pregnant women you are a greenhorn.”

“You can call me a buffalo if you like, as long as I can get some sleep now.”

“Anything special?”

Klempje thought for a moment.

“No. Some madman or other rang from Majorna just a

couple of minutes ago and wanted to talk to what he called the unpleasant one. Funny, eh? Who do you think he could have meant?”

“V.V.?”

“Who else?”

“What was it about?”

“No idea. He hung up. And Joensuu and Kellerman are down in the cells wrestling with a whore on cloud nine. Holy shit, but what a glamorous life we lead!”

Klempje staggered out and Krause took his place in the glass booth.

The unpleasant one? he thought. Majorna?

He thought for a moment, then called the fourth floor.

No answer.

He tried Munster.

No answer there either.

Oh, what the hell? he thought and took a paperback out of his inside pocket. Parenting.

The letter arrived in the afternoon mail.

Without giving it a second thought he put it in his pocket; he had a number of things to do that couldn’t wait, and he might just as well read it when he got home. He might have wondered in passing what it could be: he didn’t often receive mail at work, and this letter seemed to be private.

He then forgot all about it, of course, and it wasn’t until he was feeling around in his jacket pockets for laundry tokens that he discovered it. He used a mechanical pencil to split it open and took out a sheet of paper folded twice.

It was only one single line. But it was clear enough.

The first few seconds, his mind was a complete blank. He stood there motionless, leaning over the desk, his eyes nailed to the words.

Then his brain started working. Slowly and methodically.

Yet again he was surprised by how he could be so worked up and yet so calm at the same time. How he could simultane-ously feel his blood seething and also let his thoughts coldly and objectively glean the reality behind this letter.

He examined the postmark. Yesterday’s date.

Looked more closely. A few letters were illegible, but it must be Willemsburg.

That fitted. That’s where he was incarcerated. Everybody knew that. A few had even been to visit him.

He stretched out on the bed and switched off the light. Felt the prickling sensation in his gut, but was able to keep it under control without difficulty. The question was. .?

The question was so easy to formulate that it was almost embarrassing.

Were there any more letters?

Were there any more letters?

He went to the kitchen and opened a beer. Sat by the window. Drank a few long swigs and blinked away the tears that beer always gave him.

With the certainty of a sleepwalker he produced the answer.

No, there were no more letters.