Mind's eye

43

Munster would never have recognized him.

To be honest, he didn’t have a clear recollection of him from the interviews at Bunge, but this shrunken specimen of humanity bore virtually no resemblance to the picture that had been broadcast on television and promulgated in the press.

In a way, he looked younger. His totally bald and rounded head gave a dubious impression of innocence. Of naivete. Or perhaps something quite different: advanced senility.

A combination of the two?

He was sitting next to the wall, his hands clasped in front of him on the rickety table. His gaze was lowered. He was probably closing his eyes now and then.

Reinhart and Munster were sitting in front of the opposite wall in the oblong-shaped room. On either side of the door.

The chief inspector’s chair appeared to have been placed meticulously in the geometrical center. All Munster could see of Van Veeteren was his back: he was as static as a sphinx for the whole of the interrogation. His questions were spat out tonelessly and contemptuously, as if he knew all the answers in advance, and as if he had no interest at all in the proceedings.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask if you were guilty. I asked if you knew why you’re here. An appeal for information about you has been 2 6 3

featured on radio and television, and in sixty-eight different newspapers, together with your name and a picture. And despite that, you claim that you don’t know why you are here.

Are you thinking of pleading that you are an idiot, or that you can’t read?”

“No. I know why I’m here.”

The voice was faint, but with no trace of unsteadiness.

“Let me make it clear from the very beginning that I have nothing but contempt for you, Mr. Ferger. The sight of you arouses no reaction in me but utter disgust. In different circumstances, in a less civilized society than the one we live in, I would have no hesitation in executing you on the spot. Have you understood?”

Ferger swallowed.

“I’m convinced that my feelings are shared not only by my colleagues, but also by more or less everybody who knows what you have done.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Shut up, Mr. Ferger. You are sitting here because you are a murderer. You will be charged with the murder of Eva Ringmar on October third, of Janek Mitter on November twentieth, and of Elizabeth Hennan on November twenty-eighth.

You also killed a four-year-old child on May thirty-first, 1986, but we haven’t yet finished accumulating the necessary proof for that murder.”

“It’s not true.”

That was a whisper, so faint that Munster could barely hear it. Van Veeteren ignored it.

“If you think that the answers you give will make the slightest difference, let me relieve you of that illusion. You will be found guilty, and you will spend the rest of your life in prison. I must warn you that there is a possibility that you will be executed. . ”

“What the hell are you saying?”

He was still talking to the table rather than to Van Veeteren.

“Not as a result of due process of law, of course, but by one of your fellow prisoners. There is a deep-seated contempt for scum like you even inside our prisons. Some very nasty things can happen. I want you to be aware of that, so that you can take whatever precautions might be necessary.”

Ferger squirmed on his chair.

“Nobody will lift a finger to help you. Why don’t you want a lawyer?”

“That’s my business.”

“There are no volunteers to defend you, of course; but even so, you have a legal right to a lawyer if you want one. The law applies even to the likes of you, Mr. Ferger. Why did you kill Liz Hennan?”

“I’ve never set eyes on her.”

“Was it because you couldn’t satisfy her?”

“I’ve never set eyes on her.”

“Was it because she mocked you for being such an inadequate lover?”

No response.

“Are you frightened of women? Do you think Liz Hennan was a tart?”

Ferger muttered something.

“Was that a ‘yes’?”

“I’ve never set eyes on her.”

“Why did she have a photograph of you, then?”

“I’ve never given her a photograph.”

“But you had a photograph of her.”

“No. . It. . You’re lying.”

“I’m sorry. I meant to say that you had a photograph of Eva Ringmar. Is that true?”

“Maybe. . I don’t remember.”

“We found it in your apartment. Did you have a relationship with Eva Ringmar?”

No response.

“Was Eva Ringmar a tart as well?”

“No. I’ve no desire to answer any more questions.”

“I’ve no desire to ask you any, either. Why did you go to the home of Janek Mitter and Eva Ringmar on October second?”

No response.

“You went there in the evening, but you went back in the early hours of the morning and murdered Eva Ringmar by drowning her in the bath.”

No response.

“Do you think we don’t know who you are?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What’s your alibi for the murder of Janek Mitter?”

“I was at a pizzeria. . ”

“Between eleven and twelve o’clock, yes. But Mitter was murdered after that, in the early hours of the morning. Don’t you have a better alibi than that?”

“I returned home and went to sleep. I thought. .”

“What did you think?”

“Nothing. I’m not going to answer any more of your questions.”

“Why do you think Eva preferred Mitter to you?”

Ferger lowered his head even farther and stared down at the table.

“Why did she prefer Andreas Berger?”

He waited for a few seconds.

“Even if you are a shit, Mr. Ferger, surely there’s no reason for you to be such a stupid shit? You claim that you are innocent, and that you had nothing to do with the murders of Eva Ringmar, Janek Mitter, and Liz Hennan. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you shave off all your hair, make yourself up, and go into hiding if you are innocent?”

“I hid myself away because I gathered the police were looking for me.”

“The first wanted message wasn’t broadcast until noon yesterday. You’d already gone into hiding several hours before then.”

“No, I had problems with the car. I’d gone away for the weekend, but I couldn’t get back.”

“Where were you?”

“Up north.”

“Where did you spend the night?”

“In a motel.”

“Name and location.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Why didn’t you let the school know?”

“I tried to ring, but I couldn’t get through.”

“If you can’t produce better answers than that, Mr. Ferger, I suggest that you’d be better off holding your tongue. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

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.