Hakan Nesser - The Inspector and Silence

He slammed down the receiver and summoned Miss Miller. She appeared in the doorway half a minute later, just as cool and unruffled as ever.

‘Yes?’

‘Miss Miller, haven’t I told you not to put any old halfwitted idiot through to me? This was the third one today, and I have business to be getting on with that-’

‘I understand,’ said Miss Miller before he had made his point. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, that’s all,’ said Kluuge with a sigh. ‘Oh, hang on – do we have any soda water left in the fridge?’

‘I’ll go and check,’ she said, and returned half a minute later.

‘No, the fridge is empty,’ she reported casually, and left the room.

Like our heads, Kluuge thought, and started to take off his socks as well.

‘But what do you think has really happened?’ asked Przebuda, lighting his pipe. ‘If we could perhaps go over to reality for a change.’

Van Veeteren took a sip of wine and contemplated the remains of the meal that had occupied them for the past hour. It was Saturday evening, darkness had begun to fall, and Andrej Przebuda had just been upstairs to fetch a few candles whose flickering light now illuminated the table. Just for a moment the chief inspector had the feeling that his perception seemed to be crackling: all at once he was in the middle of a film. As his eyes roamed slowly over the contents of the room, their dark outlines and barely lit surfaces, he understood what it must be like to be the camera-man for a Kieslowski or a Tarkovskij. Or even to be the eye of the camera itself. Needless to say, the setting was not coincidental or haphazard. Przebuda was not the type to overlook details. They had been talking again about film – its means of expression and its prerequisites when it came to creating, and making invisible things visible. Or perceptible, at least. This special raster capable of transforming a simple two-dimensional screen into something that could make the multifaceted and irrational world into something perfectly clear and comprehensible. In the right hands, of course. There were so many bunglers as well – so incredibly many.

‘Reality?’ responded the chief inspector after blinking away the illusions. ‘Oh, that… I suppose I think far too much. There are too many oddities in this business, and it’s not easy to keep them at bay. Or too many oddities in that sect, to be more precise. All those damned idiotic practices and sick ideas tend to twist the whole perspective. Away from what is basic. I seem to remember we talked about this last time.’

‘And what exactly is basic?’ Przebuda asked, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke that momentarily turned the table and the remains of the meal into what looked like a miniature battlefield.

‘The basic fact,’ resumed the chief inspector when the smoke had dispersed, ‘is that a girl was murdered out at Waldingen last Sunday evening. If we can concentrate on that, and forget about all the other goings-on associated with the Pure Life – well, maybe we might get somewhere.’

‘I understand,’ said Przebuda. ‘Anyway reconstruct last Sunday afternoon for me and see where we get to. I’m all ears.’

‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I find it a bit difficult to accept that you serve me up this magnificent dinner, and then have to sit and get involved in my work as well.’

‘Nonsense,’ said his host. ‘Do you think I’m happy at the thought of a desperado prancing around in our forests? Besides, may I remind you that I run a little newspaper – so let’s not go on about whose work we’re getting involved in.’

The chief inspector conceded and took another cigarette. It was becoming a habit again. Hadn’t tasted pleasant for several days now, but once he got away from here, he would make a point of laying down strict and more precise limits. For several things.

‘All right,’ he said, sitting up straight. ‘If you insist. Harrumph! Sunday afternoon, we’ll start with Sunday afternoon. I spent a couple of hours out there. Talked to Yellinek, all three women and two of the girls. I won’t pretend that I pulled any punches, not much at least, and when I left at three o’clock I had the impression that I’d stirred things up a bit – set a few things in motion, but the question is: what exactly?’

He paused, but Przebuda continued to lean back in his chair on the other side of the table, observing him over the rim of his half-full glass. He looked studiously serious. Possibly with a touch of lenient indulgence. The chief inspector took a deep breath, and continued.

‘In any case, it had put the cat among the pigeons as far as the rest of the afternoon was concerned. The planned activities – some kind of group work based on the Commandments, it seems – were cancelled, and the girls were given a few hours off instead. They could do whatever they wanted, more or less, a most unusual circumstance as far as we can make out. The norm was to keep them occupied with sanctimonious prattling from morning till night. Hour after hour, non-stop. With no opportunity to pause and reflect, which was presumably the point. I’ve no idea what Yellinek and his fancy women got up to for the rest of that afternoon, but presumably the four of them were hiding away somewhere, holding hands. Discussing the situation, or something of the sort. Anyway, the evening meal was served at six o’clock as usual, apart from the fact that Yellinek wasn’t present. Soup with vegetables and noodles, bread and butter and cheese. A bit spartan, you might think, but nothing unusual.’

‘Yellinek?’ wondered Przebuda.

‘Wasn’t there for the meal, nor did he take part in the preprandial prayers. Nevertheless, he accompanied a quartet of girls to fetch fresh milk from Fingher’s between seven and a quarter to eight, or thereabouts. Then he turned up again shortly after nine, or so we’ve been led to believe. He took evening prayers as usual, but before that the girls had been informed by the women that the Pure Life had been attacked by the Devil, and that major and crucial things were under way.’

‘What the hell?’ said Przebuda, putting down his pipe. ‘They say things like that?’

Van Veeteren nodded.

‘Most certainly,’ he said. ‘But if we go back a bit and concentrate on the girls instead: they spent their hours of freedom in the late afternoon in various ways. Some went swimming in the lake, others lay down to read – indoors or outdoors – and needless to say, only the wishy-washy stuff available out there: lives of the saints, parish magazines and other such trash. Some of them went for walks in the woods, and four of them went to the place they call the bathing rock. I’d been talking to two of those girls a few hours previously: Belle Moulder and Clarissa Heerenmacht. All four of them went swimming, but shortly before half past five or thereabouts the other two made their own way back to the camp – it’s only about five hundred metres, no more. The two left were Belle and Clarissa, aged fourteen and twelve respectively.’

He paused briefly, but his host didn’t move a muscle.

‘Half an hour later the elder girl was in the dining room, saying grace. The younger one, Clarissa… well, she was probably still alive, but was presumably together with her murderer. In any case, she hadn’t many hours to live.’

‘Ugh,’ said Przebuda, taking off his glasses. ‘No, I don’t want to exchange jobs with you. Sorry, I hope you’ll forgive me. But what did that Belle have to say? Wasn’t that her name?’

The chief inspector nodded.

‘Belle Moulder. And that’s our problem. At first she didn’t say much at all. Of all of them, she’s the one who held out longest. She’s evidently some kind of leader for the whole group – and not particularly good at it, if I’ve interpreted the indications correctly. And when she eventually did come out with something, I think she was lying. She claimed that she wanted to go back to the camp from the rock with Clarissa, but that Clarissa wanted to be alone for a while in order to think something over. So she left her there.’