The Inspector and Silence (23 page)

Although it would have been fun to try. No doubt about that.

‘Mrs Kuijpers?’ he asked instead.

‘And who the devil are you?’

‘Suijderbeck. Police,’ said Suijderbeck, walking up the steps with his hand outstretched politely to greet her.

‘ID,’ said the woman, instead of shaking hands.

Suijderbeck fished it out of his inside pocket. When he held it up ten centimetres in front of the woman’s face, he could smell the strong drink on her breath. He decided to remove his silk gloves.

‘I have a few questions to ask you,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come with me in the car, or can we sort it out here?’

‘What the hell?’ said the woman. ‘Coming here and—’

‘It’s about the murder at the summer camp,’ snapped Suijderbeck, interrupting her and gesturing with his hand towards the forest and the road he’d just come driving along. ‘I assume you’ve heard what’s happened.’

‘Of course.’ She immediately seemed rather more tractable, he noticed. ‘Er, please sit down.’

She sat down on one of the plastic chairs on the patio, and Suijderbeck sat down opposite her.

‘But we haven’t done anything,’ she said without being prompted. ‘I mean, Henry came out last spring, and since then we’ve lived like angels out here.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Suijderbeck.

‘Who the hell is it?’ a gruff-sounding man’s voice enquired from inside the house.

‘The police!’ shouted the woman in a tone pitched somewhere between hope and despair.

The man appeared in the doorway. A copy of his wife, in fact, Suijderbeck noted. Big, powerful, the worse for wear. Approaching fifty it seemed.

Mind you, only the woman sported bleached hair and a nose ring.

‘Kuijpers,’ said the man, extending a hairy hand. ‘I’m as innocent as a newly wed virgin.’

The wheezing splutter was presumably laughter. Suijderbeck lit a cigarette. What a pair of idiots, he thought. If I just hold my tongue, they’ll have confessed to illicit distilling and receiving stolen goods within a quarter of an hour.

‘Anyway,’ said Kuijpers. ‘I gather it’s about that poor girl.’

‘Yes,’ said Suijderbeck. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

They both shook their heads. The woman hiccuped and put her hand over her mouth.

‘What a bloody mess,’ said Kuijpers. ‘No, we’ve had no contact with them. As for that creeping Jesus on the run . . . No, I’m at a loss for words.’

‘There was another police officer here a few days ago,’ said the woman.

‘I know,’ said Suijderbeck. ‘I just want to check a few things.’

‘Well?’ said the man, scratching at his crotch.

Suijderbeck took out his notebook and thumbed through a few pages.

‘We know nothing about it,’ said the woman nervously.

‘Don’t harp on about it,’ said the man.

‘Hmm,’ said Suijderbeck. ‘So you haven’t spoken to any of them? Not to the girls nor to the leaders? Not at all during the summer? The camp is less than two kilometres away from here.’

The man shook his head again.

‘A little group of them came here once or twice,’ said the woman. ‘Picking blueberries or something, but the dogs kept most of them away, you could say.’

She nodded her head at where the German shepherds were prowling around restlessly.

‘Most of them,’ she said again, to be on the safe side.

‘All we’ve done is drive past the summer camp on our way to town,’ said the man. ‘As for talking to ’em? No thank you . . . I can’t say I’m surprised at what’s happened, hell no. Randy old buggers like that fucking priest – there’s no saying what they can get up to.’

Suijderbeck began to draw a fat priest in his notebook.

‘What were you doing last Sunday night?’ he asked. ‘I’m referring to Sunday last week, the night the girl was murdered.’

‘What?’ said the man. ‘All night? I was at home of course. As usual.’

‘You didn’t have any visitors?’

Kuijpers shook his head, and looked enquiringly at his wife.

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘We were on our own here.’

‘Do you remember hearing anybody drive past during the night?’

‘No,’ said the man. ‘That other cop asked that as well, but we didn’t hear a thing. Mind you, we were asleep.’

‘I don’t suppose many cars come past your house?’ Suijderbeck asked, looking for somewhere to stub out his cigarette. He eventually hit upon a shrivelled pot plant standing next to his wooden leg.

‘Two or three a week,’ said the man, flashing his teeth. Presumably it was a smile.

‘But you don’t remember anything from that night?’

‘Not a bloody thing,’ said the man.

‘Do you have any children?’

‘Eh?’ said the man.

‘We have a daughter,’ said the woman. ‘Her name’s Ewa, and she moved out, er, how long ago is it now?’

‘Four years ago,’ said the man. ‘She’s twenty-four now. She was twenty when she buggered off.’

‘With a foreigner,’ added his wife.

‘I’m not her real father,’ said Kuijpers.

Suijderbeck noted it all down.

‘I see,’ he said, and thought for a while. ‘And there’s nothing else you could tell us that you think might be of use to us?’

Kuijpers frowned and his wife pulled anxiously at her nose ring.

‘No . . . No, I can’t think of anything at all.’

‘What do you do for a living?’

‘I’m off sick,’ said the man, holding his back.

‘Ceramics,’ said the woman. ‘He has a little pottery. And he paints a bit as well.’

Suijderbeck nodded and put away his notebook. Squinted up at the sky.

‘It’s hot,’ he said. ‘It must be an advantage to live so close to the lake. I suppose you have a boat, do you?’

‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘We do a bit of fishing as well, but that used to be better than it is now. What with all the effluents and the rest of the bloody shit . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Suijderbeck, ‘there’s a lot of shit around nowadays. No, I mustn’t impose upon you any longer.’

He stood up.

‘Anyway, many thanks,’ he said. ‘What were you inside for, by the way?’

‘Bank robbery,’ said the man, scratching at his stubble. ‘But I’ve served my time. It’s the straight and narrow for me now.’

‘I should hope so,’ said Suijderbeck ‘Otherwise I’ll have to pay you another visit.’

‘Ha ha,’ said the man, but his smile didn’t stick fast this time either.

‘Thank you for your visit,’ said the woman.

‘Bye for now,’ said Suijderbeck.

The moment he left the patio, the dogs disappeared under a corrugated iron roof at the gable end of the house. Lickspittle, Suijderbeck thought. Like owners, like dogs.

He could scarcely claim that this had been an hour well spent.

But that could be said about lots of other things in connection with this bloody case, there was no denying that. Lots of other things.

‘Where are you calling from?’ asked Kluuge.

‘Stamberg,’ said the man. ‘As I’ve already said.’

‘Okay,’ said Kluuge, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘What do you want?’

‘I told the girl on the switchboard.’

‘Could be, but now you’re talking to me. Let’s hear it one more time.’

‘All right,’ said the man. ‘My name’s Tomasz Banx, and I think I can help you.’

‘With what?’

He made a note of the name.

‘With the murder, of course. The Waldingen murder. I assume you are the man in charge, so I don’t need to explain about that all over again?’

‘Yes, I’m in charge,’ Kluuge admitted.

‘Good. Anyway . . .’ Kluuge could almost hear him straightening his back and bracing himself. ‘I think I know what happened – the fact is that I . . .’

Silence.

‘Well?’ said Kluuge.

‘Do you believe in Providence, Chief Inspector?’

‘I’m not a chief inspector yet, but never mind that. What do you mean by providence?’

‘You mean you don’t know what Providence is? It’s what guides and governs our lives, of course. What brings about justice, and something we can rely on without hesitation, irrespective of what—’

‘I understand,’ said Kluuge. ‘Will you come to the point now, Mr . . .’ He checked his notebook. ‘Mr Banx. We are very busy and time is short.’

‘Yes, harrumph, I’m sure it is. Anyway, I can explain how this murder came about, and what its purpose was.’

‘Purpose?’

‘Yes, purpose. The Lord moves in a mysterious way as far as we normal, simple people are concerned, but there is always a purpose – a plan and a meaning. In everything, Chief Inspector, and I really do mean everything.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Kluuge. ‘Would you mind coming to the point instead of rambling on about all sorts of other things, or I shall hang up on you.’

‘I’ve had a vision,’ the man explained. ‘And in that vision I saw how everything took place and how it all hangs together.’

‘Hang on,’ said Kluuge, ‘hang on a minute! What’s your religion, Mr Banx, can you tell me that?’

‘I believe in the only one true God.’

‘Are you a member of the Pure Life?’

‘From the start,’ said Tomasz Banx excitedly. ‘From the very beginning.’

Kluuge groaned and kicked off his shoes under his desk. These damned blockheads! he thought.

‘Do you know who murdered Clarissa Heerenmacht?’ he asked.

Mr Banx cleared his throat solemnly.

‘Nobody murdered Clarissa Heerenmacht,’ he stated in a serious tone. ‘Nobody at all. She was taken home by the Lord. It was a promise and a punishment combined into one – and an amazing grace.’

‘Many thanks, Mr Banx,’ said Kluuge, and realized that what he had just said sounded like an idiotic rhyme from a children’s book or some such thing. ‘I’ve made a note of everything you’ve said.’

He slammed down the receiver and summoned Miss Miller. She appeared in the doorway half a minute later, just as cool and unruffled as ever.

‘Yes?’

‘Miss Miller, haven’t I told you not to put any old halfwitted idiot through to me? This was the third one today, and I have business to be getting on with that—’

‘I understand,’ said Miss Miller before he had made his point. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, that’s all,’ said Kluuge with a sigh. ‘Oh, hang on – do we have any soda water left in the fridge?’

‘I’ll go and check,’ she said, and returned half a minute later.

‘No, the fridge is empty,’ she reported casually, and left the room.

Like our heads, Kluuge thought, and started to take off his socks as well.

‘But what do you think has really happened?’ asked Przebuda, lighting his pipe. ‘If we could perhaps go over to reality for a change.’

Van Veeteren took a sip of wine and contemplated the remains of the meal that had occupied them for the past hour. It was Saturday evening, darkness had begun to fall, and Andrej Przebuda had just been upstairs to fetch a few candles whose flickering light now illuminated the table. Just for a moment the chief inspector had the feeling that his perception seemed to be crackling: all at once he was in the middle of a film. As his eyes roamed slowly over the contents of the room, their dark outlines and barely lit surfaces, he understood what it must be like to be the camera-man for a Kieslowski or a Tarkovskij. Or even to be the eye of the camera itself. Needless to say, the setting was not coincidental or haphazard. Przebuda was not the type to overlook details. They had been talking again about film – its means of expression and its prerequisites when it came to creating, and making invisible things visible. Or perceptible, at least. This special raster capable of transforming a simple two-dimensional screen into something that could make the multifaceted and irrational world into something perfectly clear and comprehensible. In the right hands, of course. There were so many bunglers as well – so incredibly many.

‘Reality?’ responded the chief inspector after blinking away the illusions. ‘Oh, that . . . I suppose I think far too much. There are too many oddities in this business, and it’s not easy to keep them at bay. Or too many oddities in that sect, to be more precise. All those damned idiotic practices and sick ideas tend to twist the whole perspective. Away from what is basic. I seem to remember we talked about this last time.’

‘And what exactly is basic?’ Przebuda asked, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke that momentarily turned the table and the remains of the meal into what looked like a miniature battlefield.

‘The basic fact,’ resumed the chief inspector when the smoke had dispersed, ‘is that a girl was murdered out at Waldingen last Sunday evening. If we can concentrate on that, and forget about all the other goings-on associated with the Pure Life – well, maybe we might get somewhere.’

‘I understand,’ said Przebuda. ‘Anyway reconstruct last Sunday afternoon for me and see where we get to. I’m all ears.’