Hakan Nesser - Mind's eye

Wanted by the police.

He checked his watch. Only a quarter past twelve. Was that message he’d heard the first one, or had there been several more, earlier? Better keep the radio on, so that he didn’t miss anything.

He switched it on, and lit a cigarette. Hardly any of those left, either.

Fill up and buy cigarettes, that was the most urgent thing.

Then?

The radio? he thought. What about the television? Newspapers? Had they published a photo of him?

Would he be as easily recognized as the president the moment he entered the gas station kiosk?

The telly wasn’t such a problem, he thought. Nobody sat gaping at the box in the mornings. The newspapers were worse.

But the morning papers hadn’t carried anything-not the one he’d bought earlier on, at least. They’d reported the murder, of course; but not a word about Carl Ferger in a blue Fiat.

It would be in the evening papers, naturally. A photo on the billboards, perhaps. Like when a government minister had been murdered a few years ago.

He couldn’t help smiling. When did the first edition generally hit the streets?

Two? Half past?

Before then he needed to have become somebody else.

It was as easy as that. He must get to a decent-sized town as soon as possible, and fix some kind of disguise. A pity that he’d dumped the wig-although they’d know about that, no doubt. What else?

The car.

Get rid of it and hire another?

He didn’t like that idea. It would involve obvious risks. He decided to take a chance and carry on in the Fiat. As long as he was careful to park somewhere out of the way, he should be okay. Spread a lot of shit over the number plates, perhaps.

There must be thousands of blue Fiats all over the country.

But then what?

The question grabbed hold of him, and kept him trapped in its iron grip for several seconds. Threatened to choke him.

What the hell should he do after that?

This evening? Tonight? Tomorrow?

He swallowed and stepped even harder on the gas. Suppressed the question. He needed to take things one at a time.

First his appearance, then he could make decisions as things developed. That was his strength, after all. His instinctive ability to make the right decision at the critical moment. Money, for instance. He’d emptied his account as early as the previous Saturday. They’d have frozen it by now, of course, but so what? He had enough to last him for a few weeks, at least.

Don’t do anything rash. Everything was under control.

They wouldn’t catch him this time, either, the bastards. The thought of lounging around in some obscure little hotel for a few days made him smile again. Reading about the hunt in the newspapers, sitting in the communal television room every evening, hearing about how the hunt for him was going. .

Next exit Malbork, 1,000 meters, he read on the signs.

Excellent.

He signaled he was about to turn off, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What’s the time?” growled Van Veeteren. “What the hell is that great detective the general public playing about at? Why haven’t they found him?”

“Half past eight,” said Munster. “I expect he’s gone into hiding.”

“You don’t say?”

“He can hardly have avoided discovering that the police are after him. There’ll be another appeal on the TV at nine, incidentally.”

“I’m not an idiot,” said Van Veeteren. “But why has nobody replied to our faxes? Could you kindly explain that as well, Inspector?”

“The immigration office’s computers have been down, but they were running again this morning. The other lot are in a different time zone, of course. Their reply could come as late as midnight, even one in the morning.”

Van Veeteren contemplated his toothpick.

“Can I ask you something?” Munster ventured.

“Fire away,” said Van Veeteren. “But I don’t promise to answer it.”

“Who exactly is this Carl Ferger?”

“Haven’t you caught on yet, Munster?”

Munster blushed and cleared his throat.

“How could I when I’m not given all the information?” he asked. “To be honest, I can’t see the point of you withholding important details, sir. Information vital to the case, that is.”

He blushed again, this time at his own audacity. But the chief inspector didn’t react. Merely sat motionless on his desk chair, resting his chin on his hands. Narrowed his eyes to form two slits as he stared at Munster. Making no attempt to respond quickly.

“Munster,” he said eventually. “Your sense of timing is hopeless. If you listen to me, I shall explain a few things for your benefit. I don’t suppose you’ll understand much of what I’m talking about, but even so, I’m prepared to spare you a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you,” said Munster. “That’s very kind of you.”

“You must understand, Munster, that things are inter-linked. There are certain laws that apply, and certain patterns.

We are swimming around inside those patterns, we move about, we think, we live in accordance with those rules. It boils down to the subtleties-they are not easy to identify, but we have to listen for them, look for them, we have to be wide awake and keep our eyes skinned for the right turnings. Do you know what the determinant is?”

“The determinant?”

“Yes.”

“No idea,” said Munster.

“Nor have I,” said Van Veeteren. “But I’m on its heels.

That’s what is telling us where to go, Munster; that’s what is pointing out the path we have to follow, what to do next, which turnings to take. I take it you agree that there has to be a plot in a novel?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That there has to be a story, or at the very least a sort of connecting thread that runs through a film or a play and links all the episodes together?”

“Yes. .”

“A novel, a film, or a play, Munster-they are nothing but stuffed life. Life that has been captured and stuffed like a taxi-dermist stuffs a dead animal. They are created so that we can reasonably easily examine it. Clamber out of current reality and look at it from a distance. Are you with me?”

“Yes,” said Munster. “I think so. .”

“Anyway, if there have to be plots and connecting threads ensuring that stuffed life, the artificial version, hangs together, then of course the same thing must apply to the genuine article, to real life. That’s the point.”

“The point?”

“Yes, the point. Obviously, you can choose to live a point-less life if you want to-watch the film backwards, for Christ’s sake, or hold the book upside down as you read it. But don’t kid yourself that if you do, you’ve understood anything. You see, there’s not just one, but thousands of points, whole series of points. . patterns. . rules. . determinants. I’m off to Australia on Thursday, Munster, and I can sure as hell assure you that it’s not mere chance. It’s exactly the right thing to do.

Don’t you think so?”

Just for a moment Munster had visions of his own ideal lagoon. . Synn and the children and two weeks by the blue sea. .

“If we were a movie, you and me,” said Van Veeteren, snapping a toothpick, “or a book, then of course it would be unforgivable of me to tell you certain things at this point in time. It would be a kick in the teeth for cinemagoers, an insult to the genre as such. Perhaps also an underestimate of your talents, Munster. Are you with me?”

“No,” said Munster.

“A crime against the determinant,” said Van Veeteren, looking just for a second as if he might smile. “If we don’t have a religion, the least we can do is to try to live as if we were a book or a film. These are the only hints you are going to get, Munster.”