Hakan Nesser - The Inspector and Silence

The first report from more or less all the experts at the scene was ready by shortly after one p.m. and confirmed that the dead child was Katarina Emilie Schwartz, thirteen years old, resident in Stamberg. She had been raped (no trace of sperm) and strangled, suffered pretty much the same type of injuries as the other victim, Clarissa Heerenmacht, and had probably met her killer somewhere between twelve and sixteen days earlier. No clothes – nor indeed any trace of clothes – had been found at or in the vicinity of the place where the body was discovered, and it was considered to be highly likely that the girl had been killed at some other location. The press communique issued later in the afternoon contained all known details of the tragic discovery – apart from the fact that the police had known about the girl’s disappearance for quite a while.

At the same time the police issued two Wanted notices.

One was a repeat of the appeal for information about Oscar Yellinek.

The other was new and aimed at tracing the girl’s parents.

By coincidence, a little later that same afternoon a fax arrived from the French police: Mr and Mrs Schwartz had been traced to a so-called gite on a farm in Brittany. Before the sun had set over Sorbinowo that long Sunday, the unfortunate couple had set off on the journey home in order to be confronted as soon as possible by the earthly remains of their daughter.

And when old Mrs Grimm – the hotel’s owner who was at bottom indifferent to anything not connected with royalty or Bohemian porcelain – checked through the hotel ledger even later that evening, she found that not only was every room taken, but that the number of guests who had given their occupation as ‘journalist’ or something similar was strikingly large.

As for Mr Van Veeteren (watchmaker and horologist), who had been staying in room number 22 for the last ten days, by midnight he still hadn’t returned from the excursion he had set out on that morning.

But as he seemed to have left most of his belongings in his room, she was not particularly worried that he might have run off with no intention of returning to pay his bill.

After all, he had given the impression of being an honest man, on the whole.

For the first fifteen kilometres or so he felt almost like a successful fugitive.

Only very slightly guilty. A bit like when he was at school, he recalled, on one of those early summer days when he skipped French or Physics and instead cycled with a like-minded friend down to the canal to watch some girls swimming. Or rode out to Oudenzee to lie back on the beach and do some surreptitious smoking.

Playing truant, in other words. There was no doubt he had left Kluuge and the others in the lurch. And hence there was no doubt either that Krantze’s was quite a satisfactory alternative, all things considered.

Nevertheless, it was rather remarkable that he was able to keep the whole business at a distance. That’s how it felt, at least, as he sat behind the wheel in the sparse morning traffic. Servinus had informed him about the new discovery by telephone at about eight o’clock. The body of the second little girl. After overcoming his initial feelings of disgust and repugnance, he had spoken in turn to Kluuge, Lauremaa and Suijderbeck several times during the course of the morning, but he had not cancelled his plans.

He hadn’t driven out to Waldingen to see the circumstances for himself, and didn’t feel guilty about that – or only very slightly so, as already stated. But he had been aware of a feeling of weariness swelling inside him, and it was essential to keep that at bay – that bank of clouds spreading across the landscape of his soul and casting over it a shadow of death, the dark skies of tiredness and loathing. .. and once again he was struck by this attack of poetic eloquence. He had known that this was going to happen, of course. He’d been waiting for this selfsame discovery all these days, and now confirmation had arrived.

So perhaps this eagerness to keep things at a distance was no more than a defence against impotence, when all was said and done. Prepared in advance and defendable, in a way. After all, he wasn’t a young beginner any more. He’d been through this kind of thing before.

Rather too often.

‘I have a few possible leads,’ he had explained. ‘Probably nothing of importance, but I think it’s best if I follow them up. You can manage on your own. I mean, this is what we’ve been expecting, isn’t it?’

Kluuge hadn’t dared to protest. He’d indicated that further reinforcements were being sent, and hoped that the chief inspector would soon be back.

‘We shall see,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘If I find I’m not getting anywhere, I might even be back by this evening.’

That was a blatant lie, of course. He was intending to spend at least two nights in Stamberg, and it was only for the sake of appearances that he hadn’t checked out of Grimm’s altogether.

Still, rather a bill for four nights instead of two – something bound to raise an eyebrow in the accounts department – than having to cope with the sight of another abused little girl.

Or having to explain why he couldn’t face up to that prospect. That was simply the way it was. His decision was not negotiable.

And now, as he analysed and contemplated these thoughts and decisions in more detail – as the kilometres rolled past and Boccherini oozed out of the speakers – he was a bit surprised: but it was surprise tinged with resigned weariness. Even these thoughts were affected. Nothing to get excited about, and there was nothing he could do about it.

I’ve had enough, he thought. I don’t want to stand gaping at yet another dead thirteen-year-old. I’ve reached a full stop, at last. Everything is clear now, I’ve caught up with myself.

The decision is made.

He stopped about halfway – after eighty kilometres or more – at a service area not far from Aarlach. Clouds had been building up all morning, quite a strong north-westerly wind was blowing over the open fields, and his guess was that it would be raining before nightfall. Nevertheless, he sat down at one of the outside tables with a cup of coffee, a bottle of mineral water and the early editions of the evening newspapers. Both Den Poost and Neuwe Gazett.

There was nothing there about the second murder in Waldingen, not yet; but needless to say, it wouldn’t be long before he was confronted by the headlines. It wasn’t all that hard to work out the likely wording. Nor was it difficult to imagine the tension to which the investigation team was subjected.

Nor the hunger of the hordes of reporters who were at this very moment flocking to the Sorbinowo forests in order to sink their teeth into the fresh corpse of another little girl.

Well, no – not all that fresh. It would be a couple of weeks old by now.

That hardly made the situation any better.

He shuddered in disgust, and drained the bottle of mineral water.

Then he lit a cigarette and tried instead to concentrate on what lay in store for him in Stamberg. Enough of all those thoughts about running away.

His discussions with Inspector Puttemans took about an hour, and all the time he sat watching the progress of raindrops trickling slowly down the uneven surface of the windowpanes. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something about those thin, irregular trickles that appealed to him, and that he was unwilling to lose contact with. He didn’t want to miss the moment when one of all those raindrops suddenly felt that enough was enough, and decided to trickle upwards instead. Yes, something of the sort was no doubt what fascinated him. Something to do with rebellion and spiritual affinity.