Hakan Nesser - Mind's eye

Van Veeteren paused.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“Yes, please.”

Van Veeteren took a pack out of his pocket and shook out a cigarette. Stuck it into his mouth and lit it.

“You’re not going to get a cigarette. I’ve had enough of you.”

He stood up and turned his back on Ferger. Ferger looked up for the first time. It was only for a brief moment, but even so, Munster had time to register the expression in his eyes. He was scared. Completely and absolutely scared stiff.

“Just one more thing,” said Van Veeteren, turning to look at Ferger again. “What does it feel like, drowning a child? He must have put up a bit of resistance. How long did it take?

What do you imagine he was thinking while it happened?”

Ferger was clasping his hands tightly now, and his head was shaking slightly. He said nothing, but Munster wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d broken down at that very moment.

Flung himself on the floor, or overturned the table, or simply bellowed and howled.

“He’s in your hands now,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll be away for three hours. He mustn’t leave this room, he’s not to have anything to eat or drink. He’s not allowed to smoke. Ask him questions if you like. It’s up to you.”

Then he nodded at Reinhart and Munster, and left the room.

The closer he came, the slower he drove.

With only a couple of kilometers to go, he stopped in a parking lot. Got out of the car. Stood with his back to the squally wind and smoked a cigarette. He’d almost got used to it now, smoking. He couldn’t recall any other case that had induced him to smoke so many cigarettes. Not in recent years, at least.

No doubt there were reasons. But it was all over now, more or less. Just this final dotting of the i. The final pitch-black brush-stroke to complete this repulsive painting.

He wondered about how necessary it was. He’d been wondering ever since he set off. Tried to think of ways of getting around it, of avoiding this final step.

Sparing both himself and her this final degradation.

Maybe him as well?

Yes, perhaps even him as well.

But it was all in vain, of course. It was no more than the usual, familiar reluctance that he was always forced to deal with when he rang the bell and had to inform the wife that unfortunately, her husband. . Yes, sad to say, he had no choice, he would have to tell her. .

There was no escape.

No extenuating circumstance.

No way of easing the pain.

He tossed his cigarette into a pool of water and clambered back into the car.

She opened the door almost immediately. She’d been expecting him.

“Good morning,” he said. “Well, here I am.”

She nodded.

“I take it you’ve been following the news these last few days?”

“Yes.”

She looked around, as if to check that she hadn’t forgotten anything: watering the flowers, or switching off the cooker.

“Are you ready to come with me?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

Her voice was just as he remembered it. Firm and clear, but flat.

“Can I ask you something?” he said. “Did you know what the real situation was? Did you know about it, even then?”

“Perhaps we should leave now, Chief Inspector?”

She took her overcoat from a coat hanger, and he helped her on with it. She wrapped a silk shawl around her head, picked up her purse and gloves from the basket chair, and turned to face him.

“I’m ready,” she said.

The journey back was much faster. All the time she sat erect and immobile in the front passenger seat beside him. Hands crossed over her purse. Staring straight ahead.

She didn’t say a word, nor did he. As everything was absolutely clear now, all done and dusted, there was nothing more to say. He understood this, and the silence was never awkward.

Even so, he might have preferred to ask her a question, make an accusation: but he recognized that it would have been impossible.

Don’t you see, he’d have liked to ask her, don’t you see, that if only you’d told me everything that first time, we could have saved a life? Possibly two.

But he couldn’t ask that of her.

Not that she would answer him now, anyway.

Nor that she should have done so then.

When they entered the room, nothing had changed.

Reinhart and Munster were sitting on their chairs, on either side of the door. The murderer was hunched over his table in front of the opposite wall. The air felt heavy, possibly slightly sweet: Van Veeteren wondered if a single word had been exchanged here either.

She took three strides toward him. Stopped behind the chief inspector’s chair and rested her hands on the back.

He looked up. His lower jaw started to tremble.

“Rolf?” she said.

There was a trace of happy surprise in her voice, but it was crushed immediately and brutally by the facts of the situation.

Rolf Ringmar collapsed slowly over the table.

“I’ll be damned if this whole affair isn’t a genuine Greek tragedy,” said Van Veeteren, closing the car door. “There’s an inevitability about it from the very beginning. As you know, incest was regarded as one of the worst sins you can possibly commit. Nothing less than a crime against the gods.”

Munster nodded. Backed out of the parking lot.

“Just imagine it,” said Van Veeteren. “You’re thirteen, fourteen years old. The early stages of puberty. You’re sensitive and as vulnerable as an open wound. A boy on the way to becoming a man. The first tentative steps. What’s the first thing you identify with?”

“Your father,” said Munster. He’s been through this himself, he thought.

“Right. And what does your father do? He drinks like a fish and demeans himself. He hits you. He really beats you up, not just once, but night after night, perhaps. He tortures you, he insults you. Your mother is too weak to intervene. She’s as scared of him as you are. You pretend it isn’t happening. You keep quiet and let it carry on, keeping it inside the family. You are defenseless. You have no rights: he’s your parent and he’s fully within his rights. You’ve nowhere to turn to, nowhere to find consolation-apart from one person. There’s only one person who can comfort you. . ”

“Your sister.”

“Who also gets beaten sometimes, but not nearly so often.

She is there, she’s a bit stronger than you are, a little less wounded. She’s there in the room you share when you finally get away from him. Let’s say you’re fourteen years old, both of you. You lie in bed together, and she consoles you. You snuggle up to her and she protects you. She places her healing hands on your body. . you’re fourteen years old. . you hold tightly on to each other, you feel safe in each other’s arms, and you can hear him ranting and raving. He sets on your mother instead, demands his conjugal rights. . Hell and damnation, Munster!”

Munster coughed tentatively.

“It’s night now and you are naked. You’re fourteen, you’re brother and sister. There’s nothing wrong in what you do, Munster-who the hell is going to blame them for it? Who apart from the gods has the right to condemn these two children for the way things turn out? For becoming lovers? Who, Munster? Who?”

“I don’t know,” said Munster.

“Can you understand what she gave him?” said Van

Veeteren, taking a deep breath. “To be able to come to a woman when you are beaten and degraded and worthless. .

To a woman who is your lover, your mother, and your sister.

All at the same time. Is there any love that could be stronger than that, Munster? Just imagine being in love for the first time, and everything is perfect from the very start. . That love, that relationship is so strong that it must be more durable than anything else you will ever experience in the rest of your life. . Hell and damnation, Munster, what chance did he have?”