Hakan Nesser - The Inspector and Silence

Never mind that Yellinek is mad. Never mind the Pure Life’s obscure teachings. Never mind the murder. It was an inner landscape that somebody was intending to crush, and dammit all, safety nets were going to be needed.

When all these misguided individuals woke up. For surely they would eventually wake up?

Perhaps what is written between the lines really is best.

Things were a bit different with regard to the locked-up women. He would have nothing against giving them a bit of a grilling. It wasn’t impossible that he might have a chance to do so that evening – Servinus and Suijderbeck had agreed to spend the day interrogating them, and the fewer rests the women had, the better, presumably.

An even more attractive thought, of course, was the possibility of coming face to face again with Yellinek himself. But on Van Veeteren’s own terms this time. On home ground, as it were. Sitting at a rickety table in the filthiest and smelliest cell he could find. Looking him in the eye and giving him a really hard time.

But there was nothing he could do about that. Yellinek wasn’t around. All they had was fourteen witnesses who refused to say a word. No openings. No threads.

But no matter what, he would have liked to spend some time wandering around that inner landscape. It could have taught him a great deal.

People are unfathomable, he thought.

That’s why we can understand them, he added after a few seconds’ paddling.

When the chief inspector berthed skilfully and elegantly at the jetty close to Grimm’s Hotel, he had been away for over seven hours, and as far as the basic questions were concerned – Who? and Why? – he was more or less back where he started.

But he had made up his mind to follow a particular line. Or to hold a particular series of meetings, rather – there were people he would like to exchange words with and ask a few specific questions.

Always assuming it was possible to get hold of people at this time of year. That was something that couldn’t be taken for granted.

The youth with the crew cut had changed into a green tracksuit, unless it was a different person altogether. The chief inspector stepped ashore without getting his feet wet, and declared himself satisfied with both the canoe and the trip as a whole. He then walked straight to the cafe and ordered a dark beer.

I don’t want to feel thirty years younger than I did this morning, he thought, and so bought a pack of West as well.

Miss Wandermeijk – young Mr Grimm’s fiancee, if he’d understood the situation rightly – brought him his beer, and also a message from Kluuge. It had arrived only ten minutes ago, and suggested that a little breakthrough had taken place.

It wasn’t possible to be more specific than that. Kluuge had evidently learned to be a bit more reticent in his correspondence, which of course – like several other things – had to be seen as a step in the right direction. The chief inspector tucked the fax into his back pocket, but chose to enjoy both his beer and a cigarette before calling the police station.

‘Kluuge.’

‘It’s me,’ the chief inspector explained. ‘Well?’

‘One of the girls has started talking,’ said Kluuge.

‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What does she have to say?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Kluuge. ‘She’s on her way here now, with Inspector Lauremaa.’

‘Brilliant,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I’ll be there in a moment. Don’t lose her.’

When Van Veeteren entered the chief of police’s office, the car from Waldingen still hadn’t arrived. Kluuge was sitting at his desk, his bronzed arms contrasting with his light blue tennis shirt, but the chief inspector noticed that he looked both older and more tired.

‘A hard day?’ he asked as he flopped down on the sofa.

Kluuge nodded.

‘It’s sheer chaos out there,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to do something about those psychologists. They act like defence lawyers and bodyguards as soon as we get near any of the girls. Makes you wonder whose side they’re on.’

‘I recognize the phenomenon,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What about the parents? Have they started rolling up?’

‘No, they haven’t in fact.’ Kluuge stood up and started wiping his brow with a wet wipe. ‘Not yet. Four have been in touch, but we told them that the situation is under control and that we would like to keep the girls here for a few more days at least. Besides, they don’t want to go home.’

‘Really?’

‘It seems to be a part of their holy oath, or whatever the hell it is they’ve sworn, that they should stay on. I don’t know, but I suppose we might find out now that one of them has started talking.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered the chief inspector, examining a toothpick. ‘What’s she called?’

Kluuge threw the wipe into the waste bin and consulted a sheet of paper.

‘Marieke Bergson. I wasn’t there; it was Lauremaa who called. About an hour ago.’

He looked at the clock.

‘I don’t understand what’s holding them up.’

‘You don’t know what she’s said, then?’

Kluuge shook his head.

‘No idea. Shall we have a cup of coffee?’

‘I think so,’ said the chief inspector. ‘It might be an idea if you could conjure up some Coca-Cola and that sort of stuff as well. Whatever else the Other World has to offer…’

Kluuge nodded and left the room in order to delegate the food question to Miss Miller. Van Veeteren inserted the toothpick and waited.

The girl’s name was Marieke Bergson. She looked pale, and her eyes were red with weeping.

When she came into the office with Inspector Elaine Lauremaa from the Haaldam police – and also a grim-looking but well-dressed child psychologist with her name, Hertha Baumgartner, taped to her chest – the chief inspector had a fleeting impression of a shoplifter who had just been caught red-handed.

Perhaps that was more or less what Marieke Bergson felt like. She sat down sheepishly on the edge of the chair she was allocated, clasped her hands in her lap and stared hard at her red gym shoes.

Lauremaa sat down next to Van Veeteren. The psychologist stood behind the girl with her hands on the back of the chair, looking at all those present in turn with a sceptical expression on her face, clenching her teeth so that her mouth became no more than a narrow stripe.

Kluuge cleared his throat twice, and introduced all present. That took ten seconds. Then there was silence for another five.

Somebody ought to say something, Van Veeteren thought – but instead there was a knock on the door and Miss Miller appeared with a tray of coffee, soft drinks, crisps and various other refreshments.

‘I’d like you to think carefully about what you say,’ said the psychologist when Miss Miller had withdrawn.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Marieke has made a difficult decision, she is under a lot of pressure and I don’t really think she ought to be exposed to cross-examination. I think that ought to be said.’

Lauremaa sighed. She was a rather sturdily built woman in her fifties, and the chief inspector immediately felt a degree of sympathy for her. Probably a woman with three children of her own and plenty of common sense, he thought. But perhaps not much of a diplomat.

Kluuge had no children as yet, but even so managed to serve up coffee and gave the impression of having reacquired some of his earlier irresolution.

It’s up to me, Van Veeteren thought. Just as well, I suppose.

‘Perhaps it might be easier if there weren’t so many of us,’ he suggested.

‘I’m not shifting from Marieke’s side,’ said the psychologist.

Lauremaa and Kluuge exchanged looks. Then Kluuge nodded in agreement and stood up.