The Return

16

On the way to Ulmentahl, Inspector Rooth found himself sitting at the wheel while thinking about various geographical circumstances; in retrospect he realized that those thoughts must have been triggered when he drove through Linzhuisen and happened to see the place names Kaustin and Behren on the same signpost.

Kaustin 10. Behren 23.

In different directions, of course. Kaustin to the northwest. Behren almost due south. If his rudimentary knowledge of geometry had not let him down, that should mean that the distance between the two places was…thirty miles or more?

Why had the murderer chosen to place the dead body just there?

In Behren. A little town with, perhaps, twenty-five thousand inhabitants? No more than thirty, in any case.

Pure coincidence?

Very possible. If the murderer’s intention had been no more than to dump the body sufficiently far away from Kaustin for the link with Verhaven not to strike anybody, then yes, that was probably far enough. But on the other hand, a greater distance would have been even better for his purpose.

They could take it as read that Verhaven had been killed in his own house. Or could they? Nothing was absolutely certain yet, one way or the other, and perhaps he could have left the house without being seen by Mrs. Wilkerson’s hawklike eyes? Or anybody else’s?

Of course he could. During the night, for instance. Or through the forest. It was only that road down to the village that had eyes. And the village itself.

So, yes, he probably could have gone to Behren. Or somewhere else. And met his killer there. No doubt about it.

He turned onto the freeway. Next question?

How? How, if that was what happened, could Verhaven have found his way to Behren? (Or somewhere else, as stated.)

He didn’t have a car of his own anymore. So bus or taxi, that seemed to be the only…And if that was the case, it ought not to be all that difficult to look into it.

Eventually, that is. So far they had managed to keep the mass media at arm’s length; that was a blessing, to be sure, when it came to their working conditions and the atmosphere in which the investigation was conducted, but sooner or later, they would need help from the media. And obviously, it was only a matter of time before the echo of jungle drums in Kaustin was picked up a little farther away. Before long the news would be broadcast all over the country, and they would have to take the rough with the smooth. As usual.

Journalists are like cow shit, Reinhart used to say. I’m not especially keen on the stuff as such, but I understand that it has its uses.

So if there was a cab driver, Rooth thought, or a bus conductor who could recall a particular passenger setting out from Kaustin one evening in August…Or early morning, perhaps…To—why not Behren? Well, yes indeed, that would narrow things down quite a lot.

Concentrate minds a bit.

He increased speed and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

As things were at the moment, you could ask as many questions as you liked. And every damned question gave rise to another three. Or even more.

Like that Greek monster, whatever its name is.

No, better to worry about something else instead, he decided, and ran his hand through his beard.

No, not through. Over, rather.

What had deBries said? A dying hamster?

Whatever, another 130 miles to Ulmentahl. He would have to put some life into this case before very long, that was beyond discussion.

Mr. Bortschmaa’s office was light and airy and pleasantly cozy with framed sports certificates and crossed tennis racquets. The prison governor himself was a powerfully built man in his fifties, Rooth estimated, dressed in a light blue sports shirt, with tanned forearms and youthful, flaxen hair.

The group of furniture where visitors were entertained by the picture window—looking out onto the barbed-wire top of the prison wall and the peaceful flat countryside beyond—comprised thin steel chairs with eye-catching blue and yellow upholstery and a table made of red plastic. On one of the chairs sat an overweight man with receding hair and sweat stains under his arms. He did not look happy.

Rooth and the governor sat down.

“Meet Joppens, our welfare officer,” said the latter.

“Rooth,” said Rooth, shaking hands.

“The inspector would like to ask you some questions about Leopold Verhaven,” Bortschmaa explained in one direction. “I thought it a good idea for Joppens to be present,” he explained in the other. “Please fire away, Inspector.”

“Thank you,” said Rooth. “Maybe you could describe him briefly.”

“Yes,” said the welfare officer. “If there is anybody who can be described briefly, he’s the one. You can have a comprehensive description in half a minute. Or on half a page handwritten.”

“Really?” said Rooth. “What are you implying?”

“I had to do with him for eleven years, and I know as much about him now as I did when I first met him.”

“A hermit,” said Bortschmaa.

“He had no contact at all with anybody,” Joppens continued. “No fellow prisoner, nobody outside prison, none of the warders. Not with me and not with the chaplain either.”

“Sounds remarkable,” said Rooth.

“He might as well have spent all his sentence in solitary confinement,” said Bortschmaa. “It wouldn’t have made much difference. An introspective type. Extremely introverted. But a model prisoner, of course.”

“He never misbehaved?” asked Rooth.

“Never,” said Joppens. “Never smiled either.”

“Did he take part in any activities?”

The welfare officer shook his head.

“Went swimming once a week. Went to the library twice a week. Read newspapers and borrowed a book occasionally. I don’t know if you would call that activities.”

“But you must have spoken with him, surely?”

“No,” said the welfare officer.

“Did he answer if you addressed him?”

“Oh yes. Good morning and good night and thank you.”

Rooth thought that over. What the devil was the point of sitting in a car all day just for this, he wondered. Might as well carry on a bit longer, though. Seeing as he was here, after all.

“No confidants in the whole prison?”

“No,” said Joppins.

“None at all,” confirmed Bortschmaa.

“Any letters?” said Rooth.

The welfare officer thought that one over.

“He received two. Relatives, I think. And he sent a postcard a few weeks before he was released.”

“And he was inside for twelve years?”

“Yes. The card was to his sister.”

“Any visits at all?”

“Two,” said Joppens. “His brother came once, right at the start. Verhaven refused to meet him. Wouldn’t even go to the interview room…I hadn’t taken up my appointment then, but my predecessor told me about it. The brother sat waiting for him for a whole day….”

“And the other?” said Rooth.

“Excuse me?”

“The other visit. You said he had two.”

“A woman,” said Joppins. “Last year, I think…No, it must have been the year before.”

“Who was the woman?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“But he received her?”

“Yes.”

Rooth contemplated the diplomas and tennis racquets for a while.

“That all sounds a bit odd to me,” he said. “Have you many prisoners like that?”

“None,” said the governor. “I’ve never come across anything like it before.”

“Formidable self-control,” said the welfare officer. “I’ve talked to my colleagues about him and everybody agrees. About what he was like on the surface, that is. What was underneath is a mystery, of course.”

Rooth nodded.

“Why are you so interested in him?” the governor wondered. “Or is that classified information?”

“No,” said Rooth. “It will come out sooner or later. We’ve found him murdered.”

The silence that fell in the room felt almost like a power cut, it seemed to Rooth.

“That really is…,” said the welfare officer.

“But what the…,” said the prison governor.

“You don’t need to tell all and sundry about this,” said Rooth. “We’d be grateful to have a few days of peace and quiet before the newspapers get on our backs.”

“Of course,” said Bortschmaa. “How did he die?”

“We don’t know,” said Rooth. “We don’t have his head, his hands or his feet as yet. Somebody butchered him.”

“Oh my God,” said Bortschmaa, and Rooth had the impression that his tan faded noticeably. “Don’t say this is what the papers have been writing about?”

“Yes, it is,” said Rooth.

“When do you think he died, then,” wondered Joppens.

“Quite a long time ago,” said Rooth. “He was dead for eight months before he was found.”

“Eight months?” Joppens exclaimed, frowning. “That must have been shortly after we released him?”

“The same day, we think.”

“You mean he was murdered the very same day?”

“It looks like it.”

“Hmm,” said Bortschmaa.

“Being locked up seems to mean being safe, at least,” said Joppens.

There was a pause, and Rooth was starting to feel hungry. He wondered why on earth nobody had offered him anything to eat.

“Was he ever let out on parole?” he asked.

“Never wanted to be,” said Bortschmaa. “And we don’t normally press people.”

Rooth nodded. What else should he ask about?

“And so you haven’t any suspicions at all,” he said as he thought feverishly, “no idea about who might have wanted to kill him?”

“Do you?” asked the welfare officer.

“No,” admitted Rooth.

“Nor do we,” said the governor. “Not the least idea. He didn’t have any contacts at all while he was in here. Good ones or bad ones. Somebody must have been lying in wait.”

Rooth sighed.

“Yes, that’s what it looks like.”

He thought for a moment.

“That woman,” he said, “the one who came to visit him…last year, or whenever it was…Who was she?”

Bortschmaa turned to the welfare officer.

“I’ve no idea,” he said.

“Me neither,” said Joppens. “We’d better go and have a look at the record books, if you really want to know.”

“Why don’t we do that?” said Rooth.

It took some time for the two women in the archives to pin down the reference, but they eventually came up with the date.

June 5, 1992. A Friday.

Her name was Anna Schmidt.

“Address?” Rooth asked.

“We don’t have that,” said the older of the two women. “It’s not required.”

“Only the name?”

“Yes.”

Rooth sighed.

“What did she look like?”

They both shrugged.

“You’d better ask the warder.”

“Is it possible to find out who was on duty then and who might have…might have seen her?”

“Of course.”

That also took some time, but at least it gave Rooth the opportunity to visit the canteen and buy a couple of cheese sandwiches while the duty officers on the day in question were traced.

“You are Emmeline Weigers?”

“Yes.”

“And you were supervising the interview room on June fifth, 1992?”

“Yes, it seems so.”

“That was the day Leopold Verhaven had a visitor. That was most unusual, I gather.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Fairly well, yes.”

“But it’s almost two years ago.”

“I remember it because it was him. We talked about it among the staff. He was a bit…special, we’d heard.”

“Did he often have visitors?”

“Never.”

“Can you describe the woman?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid. I can’t really remember. She was getting on a bit. About sixty, I’d say. A bit sickly, I think. Used a walking stick.”

“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

She thought for a while.

“No, I don’t think I would. No.”

“How long did they talk?”

“I’m not sure. Fifteen or twenty minutes, if I remember rightly. Not the full time anyway.”

“The full time?”

“The rules allow half an hour.”

“Is there anything special you remember, now that you think back about it? Any particular detail?”

She pondered for about ten seconds.

“No,” she said. “There was nothing.”

Rooth thanked her and stood up.

It took another hour to complete the formalities in the prison and then find Number 4 Ruitens Allé in the village of Ulmentahl itself. He parked outside the white house. Recited a silent prayer and walked up the paved drive. Rang the doorbell.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Chervouz?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Rooth. Detective Inspector Rooth. I was the one who phoned you not long ago.”

“Come in. Or would you prefer to sit in the garden? It’s quite nice weather.”

“Outdoors would be fine,” said Rooth.

“It’s pretty when the chestnuts are in blossom,” said Mr. Chervouz as he filled two tall glasses with beer.

“Yes,” said Rooth. “Very.”

They drank.

“What do you want to know about Verhaven?”

“You were on duty, so-called gate duty, on June fifth, 1992. Verhaven had a visitor that day. I know it’s nearly two years ago now, but I wonder if you can remember anything about the woman you let in?”

Chervouz took another swig of beer.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you called. She came by cab, I think. An oldish woman. Had trouble walking, used a pair of walking sticks, in any case. But Christ, it’s just what I think I remember. I could be mixing her up with somebody quite different. I might be thinking of the wrong person.”

“Why do you remember the visit at all?”

“Because the visitor was for him, of course.”

“I see,” said Rooth. “Had you ever seen her before?”

“No.”

“Was there anything else you noticed?”

“No…No, I don’t think so.”

“Were you still on duty when she left?”

“No, it must have been somebody else. I don’t remember her leaving, in any case.”

“Would you recognize her again?”

“No, certainly not.”

A few seconds passed. Then it came, and there was no mistaking the undertone of curiosity.

“What’s he done?”

“Nothing,” said Rooth. “He’s dead.”

He had a moderately exciting dinner at the railroad station restaurant, and it was already getting dusk when he returned to his car.

What a productive day this has been, he thought. Most impressive.

And when he started working out how much taxpayers’ money had been spent—and would continue to be spent in future—on this dodgy investigation, he could feel himself growing angry.

Especially when you consider what Leopold Verhaven had already cost the state. While he was still alive, that is.

He had murdered two women. Been at the center of two protracted trials and found guilty and spent almost a quarter of a century in jail. And now somebody had put a period behind him.

Wouldn’t it be as well for the police to do the same?

Period. Draw a line and act as if they’d never stumbled upon that butchered body wrapped up in a piece of carpet. Who would benefit from the police putting vast amounts of time and energy into finding whoever it was that for whatever reason had decided to put an end to that solitary criminal’s existence?

Who the hell cared if Leopold Verhaven was dead?

Was there any single person?

Apart from the one who killed him, of course.

Rooth doubted it.

But somewhere deep down at the back of his mind he could hear the echo of some guidelines, taken from the Rules and Regulations for Criminal Investigations, if he remembered rightly. He couldn’t recall the precise wording, but the meaning could be expressed just as well by one of Van Veeteren’s favorite sayings.

If the murderer is holed up in Timbuktu, stop the first cab that comes along and go there. We’re not a profit-making company, for Christ’s sake!

“Where is Timbuktu?” somebody had asked.

“The cab driver will know,” Van Veeteren had replied.

Better stick with that spirit, I suppose, Rooth thought. It’s hard to judge the consequences of any other approach.