Hakan Nesser - The Inspector and Silence

Reinhart closed his eyes and Munster studied his fingernails. DeBries left for the lavatory.

‘Satan’s shit,’ said Rooth.

‘Okay,’ said Reinhart twenty minutes later, stirring his coffee gloomily. ‘I’ll take care of it. I’ll have Jung and Rooth to help me in any case. And Munster, to start with at least.’

‘Good,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You’ll soon sort it all out.’

Reinhart snorted.

‘What did the gardener have for you? I heard a rumour.’

Van Veeteren shrugged.

‘Dunno.’

‘Dunno?’

‘No. I thought I’d have lunch before confronting him.’

‘Lunch?’ said Reinhart. ‘What’s that?’

Van Veeteren examined a chewed-up toothpick and dropped it into the empty plastic mug.

‘Do you know Major Greubner?’

Reinhart thought that one over.

‘No. Should I?’

‘I play him at chess occasionally. Sensible fellow. It might be an idea to pick his brains.’

‘About this madman, you mean?’

Van Veeteren nodded.

‘There’s only one regiment based in this town, after all. I don’t think they’ve started selling hand grenades in the supermarkets yet.’

Reinhart stared at the dregs in his coffee mug for a while.

‘But perhaps I’ve got that wrong?’

‘You never know,’ said Reinhart. ‘Do you have his number?’

Van Veeteren looked it up and wrote it down on a scrap of paper.

‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, duty calls. Do have a pleasant lunch.’

‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Come in,’ said Hiller.

‘I’m in already,’ said Van Veeteren, sitting down.

‘Please take a seat. I take it it’s generally agreed that Reinhart looks after this lunatic?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Hmm. You’re going on holiday at the end of this month, aren’t you?’

Van Veeteren nodded. Hiller fanned himself with a memorandum from the Interior Ministry.

‘And then what? You can’t really be serious?’

Van Veeteren said nothing.

‘You’ve had your doubts before. Why should I believe you’ll actually do it this time?’

‘We shall see,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You’ll get my final decision in August, but it looks like coming off this time. I just thought I’d better inform you. You like being informed, after all.’

‘Hmm,’ said the chief of police.

‘What did you want me for?’ asked Van Veeteren.

‘Ah yes, there was something.’

‘That’s what Reinhart said.’

‘A chief of police called from Sorbinowo.’

‘Sorbinowo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Malijsen?’

‘No, I think it’s his stand-in while he’s on holiday…’

Hiller took a sheet of paper from a folder.

‘… Kluuge. He sounded a bit inexperienced, and he’s evidently been saddled with a disappearance.’

‘A disappearance?’

‘Yes.’

‘But surely there must be help available closer to home?’

Hiller leaned over his desk and tried to frown.

‘No doubt. But this Kluuge chappie has evidently been instructed to turn to us if anything should crop up. By the real chief of police, that is. Before he went on holiday. A Wilfred Malijsen. Is he somebody you know?’

Van Veeteren hesitated.

‘I have come across him, yes.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Hiller, leaning back in his chair. ‘Because he mentioned you specifically as the man he wants to go there and help out. To be honest… to tell you the truth, I have the feeling there’s something fishy behind this, but as you’ve evidently talked Reinhart into taking on the other business, you might just as well go there.’

Van Veeteren said nothing. Snapped a toothpick in two and stared at his superior.

‘Just to find out what’s going on, of course,’ said Hiller. ‘One day, or two at most.’

‘A disappearance?’ muttered the chief inspector.

‘Yes,’ said Hiller. ‘A little girl, if I’ve understood it rightly. Come on now, what more can you ask for, dammit all? There can’t be a more idyllic place to be in than Sorbinowo at this time of year…’

‘What did you mean by something fishy behind this?’

For a brief moment it looked as if the chief of police blushed.

But it’s probably just his daily cerebral haemorrhage, Van Veeteren thought, then realized that was an expression he’d borrowed from Reinhart. He stood up.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d better go there and see what’s happening.’

Hiller handed over the sheet of paper with the details. Van Veeteren glanced at it for two seconds, then put it in his pocket.

‘That hortensia’s looking a bit miserable,’ he said.

The chief of police sighed.

‘It’s not a hortensia,’ he explained. ‘It’s an aspidistra. It ought to be coping well with the heat, but it obviously isn’t.’

‘Then there must be something else it can’t cope with,’ said Van Veeteren, turning his back on the chief of police.

Among the information on the sheet Hiller had given him was Sergeant Kluuge’s private telephone number. The chief inspector waited until he’d got home before ringing it. A young woman answered promptly, and announced that the acting chief of police was in the shower at the moment, but perhaps the caller could try again a little later. Van Veeteren explained who he was, and suggested that instead the sergeant should call him as soon as possible, if he really did have something of importance to discuss.

Kluuge called three minutes later and they had a short conversation. Van Veeteren had always been allergic to telephones, and once he had established that there might be a grain of truth in the story, they arranged to meet the following day.

If nothing else, it might be an idea to check out the alleged idyllic nature of the location.

‘I’ll come by car,’ he said. ‘Arriving about noon. You can fill me in over lunch.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ said Kluuge. ‘Thank you for agreeing to help.’

‘No problem,’ said Van Veeteren, and hung up.

Then he sat for a while, wondering what to do next. Decided eventually to stay at home rather than eat out; took out bread, beer, sausages, cheese and olives and sat down on the balcony under the awning. Stood up again after the first swig of beer and went back inside. Hesitated again before picking out an Erik Satie CD. Put on the Gymnopedies and went back outside into the summer evening.

Wilfred Malijsen, he thought. That damned crackpot.

As he sat there enjoying the scent of the blossoming lime trees drifting in over the balcony railings and watching the sun set over the tiled roof of the Kroelsch Brewery, his mind wandered back to the only occasion he had met this colleague he hardly knew.

He reckoned it must have been nearly twenty years ago now, but it might be worth fishing up the details from the muddy waters of his memory.

1978, he thought. Or possibly 1979.

Anyway, a one-week course for high-ranking police officers and detectives. Time: late autumn, October or November. Place: a tourist hotel, one or two stars, by the sea in Lejnice. Purpose: lost in the murky depths of time.

The incident, the thing that made this week more memorable than similar lugubrious jamborees, had taken place – if his memory served him correctly – on the Wednesday after three or four days of lectures by bearded psychologists in sandals, and pointless group sessions, and later and later evenings in bars and pubs. A young desperado who was staying at the same hotel as the police contingent barricaded himself into his room with a young woman he had abducted at gunpoint.

It soon transpired that this weapon was a Kalashnikov, and the young man’s demand was that the police should bring his ex-girlfriend to his room together with a million guilders, otherwise he would turn his blonde hostage (who was three weeks pregnant, to make matters worse) and anybody else who was foolhardy enough to come anywhere near him into minced meat.