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Authors: Hakan Nesser

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BOOK: Mind's Eye
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16

“What is your full name, please?”

“Gudrun Elisabeth Traut.”

“Occupation?”

“Teacher of German and English at Bunge High School.”

“You are a colleague of Janek Mitter and Eva Ringmar, is that correct?”

“Well…I am a colleague of Mitter’s. I was a colleague of Eva Ringmar’s.”

“Of course. Are you…were you…closely acquainted with either of them?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been working at the school for about as long as Mitter, but we teach different subjects. We’ve never had much to do with each other.”

“And Eva Ringmar?”

“She joined the staff two years ago, when Mr. Monsen retired. We both worked in the modern languages department.”

“Were you close?”

“No, certainly not. We attended the same planning meetings, shared some examinations, stood in for one another when one of us was sick, the usual kind of thing in the languages department.”

“But you didn’t socialize in your spare time?”

“With Eva Ringmar?”

“Yes.”

“No, never.”

“Do you know if Eva Ringmar used to meet any of the other teachers—outside working hours, that is?”

“No, I don’t think anybody did—apart from Mitter, of course.”

“Naturally. Miss Traut, I’d like you to inform us about an incident you told the police about, that happened on September thirtieth, three days before Eva Ringmar was murdered.”

“You mean the episode in the staff workroom?”

“Yes.”

“By all means. It was after the last lesson of the day. I’d set a test in German for year two, and we’d overrun our time slightly. It was probably around a quarter past four when I got to the languages room, where we have our desks. I thought I’d be the last one there, but to my surprise I saw Eva Ringmar sitting at her desk. It’s not usual for either of us to stay on after the last lesson. You feel so tired after six or seven lessons that you simply don’t have the energy to do any work; it’s better to take home whatever needs marking and spend half the night on it. That’s the way it is for teachers….”

“I understand. But on that particular day, Eva Ringmar was still there?”

“Yes, but she wasn’t working. She was just sitting with her head in her hands, gazing out of the window.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Yes. I asked her if she wasn’t thinking of going home, of course.”

“What did she say?”

“At first she gave a start, as if she hadn’t noticed me coming into the room. Then she said…without looking at me…she just kept on staring out of the window…she said that she was scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“Can you recall her exact words?”

“Of course. She said: ‘Oh, it’s just you, is it, Miss Traut? Thank goodness. I’m so scared today, you see.’”

“You’re sure those were the very words she used?”

“Yes.”

“Did you say anything else?”

“Yes, I asked her if she was afraid to go home.”

“And how did she answer that?”

“She didn’t. She simply said, ‘No, it’s nothing.’ Then she took her bag and left.”

“Miss Traut, what conclusions did you draw from what she said? What was your first impression?”

“I don’t know…. Perhaps that she sounded more resigned than scared, in fact.”

“Did she seem to have been expecting to see somebody else rather than you? The way she expressed herself seems to have suggested that.”

“Yes, I think that’s right.”

“You interpreted it as meaning that she was pleased to see it was you, rather than one of her other colleagues?”

“Yes, it sounded like that.”

“Who might that have been?”

“Is there more than one possibility?”

“You are referring to the accused?”

“Yes.”

It was only now that Rüger made his objection.

“I insist that the last five questions and answers be erased from the proceedings! My learned friend is encouraging the witness to guess! To speculate on things she hasn’t the slightest idea about…”

“Objection overruled!” said Havel. “But members of the jury should bear in mind that the witness drew her own conclusions on the basis of meager observations. Does my learned friend have any more questions for this witness?”

“Two, My Lord. Do you know, Miss Traut, if Eva Ringmar had any relationship, apart from a purely professional one, with any of your male colleagues? With the exception of Janek Mitter, of course.”

“No.”

“Did you see, or hear, about any other man, apart from Mitter, in connection with Eva Ringmar, during the two years she was working alongside you?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Miss Traut. No more questions.”

         

Rüger didn’t even bother to stand up.

“Miss Traut, do you know anything at all about Eva Ringmar’s private life?”

“No, there was no…”

“Thank you. Do you know anything about the relationship between Ringmar and Mitter?”

“No.”

“If there were any other men in Eva Ringmar’s life, then, there is no reason, no reason at all, why you should know anything about it?”

“Er, no.”

“Thank you. No more questions.”

         

“Full name and occupation?”

“Beate Kristine Lingen. I work as a beautician at the Institut Mètre in Krowitz, but I live here in Maardam.”

“What was your relationship with the deceased, Eva Ringmar?”

“I suppose you could say I was a friend of hers, although we didn’t meet very often.”

“How did you get to know Eva Ringmar?”

“We were in the same class at high school. In Mühlboden. We graduated at the same time. Saw a bit of each other afterward as well.”

“And then?”

“Then we lost contact. We moved to different towns, got married, and so forth.”

“Are you married now?”

“No, I’ve been divorced for five years.”

“I see. When did you catch up with Eva Ringmar again?”

“Just after she moved here. That was two years ago, more or less. We bumped into each other in the street, and arranged to meet—we hadn’t seen each other for over fifteen years. Well, we met occasionally after that, but not all that much.”

“How often?”

“Well, I suppose we saw each other about once a month, perhaps. No, maybe not as often as that. Probably about ten or twelve times in all over the last two years.”

“What did you do?”

“When we met? Er, it varied. Sometimes we just sat together at her place or mine, sometimes we went out, to the movies or to a restaurant.”

“Did you go dancing?”

“No, never.”

“Were you, shall we say, on intimate terms?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. Maybe not completely, though.”

“Do you know if Eva Ringmar had any other women friends, or even one other woman friend, with whom she was on intimate terms?”

“No, I’m quite sure she didn’t. She liked to be on her own.”

“Why?”

“I think it had to do with what she’d been through. The accident involving her son—I suppose you know about that?”

“Yes. You mean that she chose to live a rather solitary life?”

“Maybe not solitary, but she didn’t seem to need to be together with other people. Er, she used to say something along those lines, in so many words.”

“What about her relations with men?”

“I don’t think she had any. Not before Mitter, that is.”

“You think?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“She never mentioned anybody?”

“No.”

“But you did talk about men?”

“Sometimes. There are more interesting topics, you know.”

“Really? Anyway…during the time you used to meet, those ten to twelve occasions, did you ever notice anything to suggest that she was having a relationship with a man?”

“No.”

“Do you think you would have noticed, if that had been the case?”

“Yes. And she’d have told me as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She told me about Mitter, after all.”

“When was that?”

“In May. Around the tenth, if I remember rightly. I rang her to ask if she wanted to go to the movies, but she said she didn’t have time. She’d met a man, she said.”

“Did she say who it was?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did you speak to her, or meet her again after that?”

“Yes. She phoned in the middle of September. Said she’d got married, and wondered if we could meet.”

“What did you decide?”

“I was about to leave for Linz—I was going on a course for two weeks—but I said I’d be in touch when I got back.”

“But it was too late by then?”

“Yes.”

“How did you think she sounded, when you spoke to her in September?”

“How she sounded?”

“Yes, did you notice anything special? Did she seem happy, or worried, or anything else?”

“No. I didn’t notice anything unusual.”

“Were you surprised that she’d got married?”

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

A brief pause. Ferrati leafed through his papers. The bluebottle woke up after having slept for four days. Buzzed around the courtroom but found nothing of interest and retired once more to the ceiling. The judge watched it for a while, as he wiped the back of his neck with a colorful handkerchief.

“Miss Lingen,” said Ferrati eventually, “during the two years you associated with Eva Ringmar, did you ever have any reason to suspect that she might be having a relationship with a man other than Janek Mitter?”

“No.”

“Did she have any…enemies?”

“Enemies? No, why on earth should she?”

“Thank you, Miss Lingen. No more questions.”

         

Rüger remained seated this time as well.

“Miss Lingen, does the name Eduard Caen mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“No, nothing at all.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Rüger stood up. Took a folded sheet of paper from out of his inside pocket and handed it to Havel.

“My Lord, may I present the court with this list of dates on which Eva Ringmar met Eduard Caen from October 15, 1990, to February 20, 1992. Fourteen meetings in all. The dates are in chronological order and confirmed by Mr. Caen himself. I have no further questions.”

17

He woke up at twenty past five.

Stayed in bed for a while and tried to go back to sleep, but that was impossible. Old images and memories of every possible occasion flooded into his consciousness, and after half an hour he got up. Put on a jumper and trousers over his pajamas and went to the kitchen. Looked out the window, saw that the newsstand in the square below hadn’t opened yet, and sat down at the table to wait.

When the shutters were removed, he was standing there, ready. There was no risk. The woman who ran the stand recognized him, but it wasn’t the first time he’d been there so early.

With
Neuwe Blatt
under his arm, he rushed up the stairs in a series of long leaps. Locked the door behind him and spread the newspaper out on the kitchen table. Started looking.

         

The report covered a whole page, and he read it twice. Folded the paper up, rested his head on his hands, and pondered.

Loss of memory?

Of all the possibilities he’d considered over the last few weeks, that was something that had never occurred to him.

Loss of memory?

After a while, he concluded that this was the only answer.

The only one, and the right one. Mitter had forgotten him. He’d been so drunk that he quite simply didn’t remember.

There was a twitching at the corners of his mouth, he could feel it. He felt drowsy now, after getting up so early. But surely this was an omen. Another sign that he was on the right path. He was free now, and strong. He only needed to look ahead. No need to fear anything. A lion.

Something was nagging deep down in his stomach.

Fear?

Was it possible that Mitter might remember?

He belched. A sour taste filled his mouth.

         

He took two tablets to calm down his stomach. Washed them down with soda water. Went back to bed.

The thought was already in his mind. He didn’t bother to examine it more closely. It wasn’t necessary yet. There was no hurry. He would surely be well advised to wait and see how things developed. The itch was there again, but he suppressed it. He had the strength and the determination, no doubt about that; but it was too soon. For the moment he could devote himself to other things. Other itches.

Liz. He stuck his hand down behind the waistband of his trousers. This is what he had to look forward to. The sick goings-on of the past were behind him now. On Wednesday, it would be Liz. His woman.

She was going to seduce him, he’d seen it in her eyes. And he would let her have her way. He’d let her do whatever she wanted until the very last moment, then he would force his way inside her and make her squeal in ecstasy. From behind and from in front and from the side.

Eva was gone. Now it was Liz. On Wednesday.

18

“Why the hell didn’t we know anything about this Caen?”

Van Veeteren started before Münster had time even to close the door. Münster flopped down on his usual chair between the filing cabinets and popped two throat tablets into his mouth.

“Well?”

“We were told we didn’t need to trawl through the whole of her past. I don’t understand why you are still persisting with this case. I’ve just been chatting to the chief of police downstairs in the canteen, and he said we must get down to serious work on those arson attacks now.”

“Münster, I couldn’t give a shit what Hiller thinks we ought to be doing. If it’s of any interest to you, your pyromaniac is called Garanin. He’s Russian, and it’ll be enough if we put a man on him from the twelfth onward.”

“Why?”

“He’s moonstruck. He only lights fires when there’s a full moon. I had a look at the material this morning. I’ve got his address as well, but it’ll be best to catch him in the act. Just now we’re concentrating on Caen. What have you found out?”

Münster cleared his throat.

“I haven’t spoken to him personally: I sent a fax this morning. We’ll presumably get a reply tonight—they don’t have the same time as we do down there.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And I also went to see Rüger. He didn’t want to say anything, of course, so I gave him a few tips in connection with the Henderson case.”

“Bravo, Münster! Go on!”

“Well, Caen was her therapist. He looked after her when she was in Rejmershus, and they stayed in contact after she’d been let out. Rüger doesn’t have much more than the dates of their meetings, in fact. His main intention was to clamp down on that witness who claimed she knew all there was to know about Eva Ringmar, he said.”

“Is that all?”

“He’s spoken to Caen on the telephone a couple of times, but he didn’t think it was relevant to the case. I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“Leave me to decide what’s important and what isn’t, Münster! What else do you know?”

“He moved to Australia in March this year. That was why they stopped meeting. He has a private clinic in Melbourne. His wife comes from there, so presumably that’s why…”

“What did he have to say about Eva Ringmar?”

“Not much, apparently; but I don’t think Rüger pressed him very hard.”

Van Veeteren scratched the back of his neck with a pencil and pondered.

“Rüger? No, probably not. What did you write in the fax?”

Münster fidgeted.

He’s gone and done something silly again, Van Veeteren thought. I’ll have his guts for garters if he’s made a mess of things!

“Er, I asked him to confirm the dates, and to be available for telephone contact—I said you would be speaking to him. If he answers the fax, you can call him tomorrow morning.”

Van Veeteren took out his toothpick and considered it for a few moments.

“Well done, Münster!” he said eventually.

Münster blushed.

A man who’s turned forty ought to have stopped blushing, Van Veeteren thought. Especially as he’s a police officer.

But never mind. Van Veeteren stood up.

“Let’s go and play badminton now!” He practiced a couple of smashes. “I have the feeling I’m going to wipe the floor with you today, Inspector!”

“But…”

“No buts! Stick your snout round Hiller’s door and tell him we’re working our butts off with the arson case. Oh yes, we’ll have to pay a quick visit to my place first. I have to sort out that damned dog…”

Münster sighed discreetly. When the chief inspector was in the mood to make jokes, it could mean almost anything—but one thing was certain: he didn’t want to be contradicted.

         

“What impression did you get of Andreas Berger?” Van Veeteren asked as Münster was trying to find his way out of the labyrinth that was the garage of police headquarters.

“Innocent, no doubt about it.”

“Why?”

“He has an alibi for the whole night. He lives right up in Karpatz, with a new wife and a couple of kids, and a third on the way. Very pleasant, and his wife as well. He tried to help Eva get back on track after the tragedy, wanted them to try again to make a go of it. She was the one who asked for a divorce.”

“Yes, I’m aware of all that. So there wasn’t anything rotten?”

“Rotten?”

“Yes, in the State of Denmark. He wasn’t trying to pull the wool over your eyes, I hope?”

Münster paused for a few seconds.

“Haven’t you listened to the recording?”

“Yes…. Yes, of course I have. I just wanted to make sure I’d got the right end of the stick….”

“So you can’t fill me in on why we’re still rooting around in this case? I thought you’d decided that Mitter had done it ages ago?”

“It’s only cows who never change their opinions, Münster. It’s running on rails, the whole of this case; that’s the problem. I don’t like trials that run on rails. For Christ’s sake, even the defense’s own witnesses managed to cast a shadow over him. Weiss and…what’s his name?”

“Sigurdsen.”

“Yes, Sigurdsen. And that pale-faced deputy head. They’ve been colleagues of his for fifteen years, and the best they can come up with is that they haven’t noticed any violent tendencies! What? We haven’t seen anything! With friends like that, who needs enemies? I’ll be damned if the teachers aren’t just as bad as the drips we had when we were at the same school. Some of them are still there, of course.”

“What about Bendiksen, though?”

“A bit better, but even he doesn’t seem to exclude the possibility that Mitter did it. That’s the key, Münster. Every bastard, including Mitter himself, come to that, thinks that he did it. But there’s barely a blemish on his record. A couple of slaps for his former wife, that she no doubt deserved, and some shitty little scapegoat fabrication from a schoolkids’ party. I’ll put money on your own history of criminal activity being ten times as bad, Münster!”

“Don’t say that, sir. At least I’ve never been arrested.”

Van Veeteren snorted.

“I should damn well think not! You’re a police officer, after all. Police officers don’t get arrested.”

He sat quietly for a while, busy with his toothpick.

“Anyway,” he said eventually, “there’s not a scrap of evidence to suggest that Mitter did it, and that means he’ll be found guilty. Then they can sit there and go on about the burden of proof here and the burden of proof there until mold comes creeping out of their mouths. It’s all irrelevant in this case. The prosecuting counsel hasn’t proved a thing. But Mitter will be found guilty even so.”

“Of murder?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Yes, I reckon that’s what the verdict will be. But even if they send him to the loony bin, it makes no difference. The poor devil has probably lost the plot for good. A pity—he seems to be an amusing bastard, in fact—Stop! Why aren’t you driving straight ahead, Münster? We’re stopping off at my place first!”

“One-way street, sir.”

“Oh my God!” Van Veeteren groaned. “Your catalogue of sins isn’t much to boast about, I regret to say.”

Münster sighed and increased speed. The chief inspector was lost in thought. When they came to Keymer Church he produced a slim cigarillo from an inside pocket and glanced sideways at Münster as he lit it. He wasn’t really a smoker, but he knew that the acrid fumes from this black beauty would have more of an adverse effect on his opponent’s fitness than it would on his own. Especially if he avoided inhaling. If nothing else it was an important tactical move in the psychological warfare prior to the coming match.

Münster pulled up outside Klagenburg 4. Van Veeteren carefully balanced the smoldering cigarillo on the ashtray, and clambered out of the car.

“You can wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Münster switched off the engine and wound down the window. Watched the chief inspector jogging up the steps.

He’ll retire in ten years, he thought. Ten years…. How long can anybody keep on summoning up enough strength to carry on playing badminton?

He recalled seeing old men who must have been well over seventy strutting around in the sports hall. He preferred to think about other things instead.

About Synn, for instance. His beautiful wife who wanted them to take the kids with them on a real winter vacation this year. Two weeks in December, when prices were at rock bottom—that’s what she had in mind, if he’d understood her correctly. To some island or other, far away in a blue sea, with rustling palm trees and a bar on the beach.

And about the best way of pleading for leave with Hiller. He had plenty of overtime in the bank—but two weeks?

“Two weeks?” Hiller would gasp, looking as if he’d been asked to pose naked in the police journal. “Two weeks?”

And now he was going to play badminton in working hours yet again.

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