The Inspector and Silence (9 page)

In its early years the Pure Life had evidently led a quite anonymous existence. Nobody had a word to say against it; the number of proselytes seemed to be upwards of thirty souls (there were no reliable figures), most of them women – a characteristic that continued into the future. Meetings and services were held in various different locations, which often seemed to be rented for just a week or so, and sometimes for only one occasion.

As time went by, however, the movement began to develop a more populist profile. Together with a former fellow student, Werner Wassmann (who later left the movement after an internal schism), Yellinek began to arrange open-air meetings and to appear in more or less public places.

The message was simple, the tone attractive:

Leave the sinful, materialistic world! Come to us! Live in purity and harmony in contact with the only true God!

Membership increased, quite a lot of money was donated, and in 1988 the Pure Life’s first church was opened. It was later extended to accommodate various school activities, and eventually became competent enough to teach years one to six in accordance with official education regulations.

From the start there had been rumours circulating about Yellinek’s movement, and letters were sent to the editors of local newspapers and calls made to local radio programmes. Accusations varied from brainwashing and fascism to contempt for women and sexism, and in 1989 the mother of a member who had left the sect – a seventeen-year-old girl – brought an action against Yellinek for indecent assault and sexual abuse.

The case attracted a lot of attention, and had undeniable appeal for the mass media. Speaking in tongues. Compulsory mortification of the flesh. Big meetings at which all participants were naked, and Yellinek exorcized the devil collectively from the whole congregation. Girls being spanked on their bare bottoms. And a number of other activities with marked sexual undertones. Or overtones. The Pure Life was sometimes described in newspapers as the sex-sect, sometimes as devil-worshippers, and the eventual outcome was that Yellinek was sentenced to six months in prison for mild indecency and illegal compulsion.

Mild indecency? the chief inspector thought, fanning himself with an old newspaper. Was there really such an offence? He couldn’t remember ever having come across it before, that was for sure.

Paradoxically, the sentence and Yellinek’s time behind bars seemed to result in a slight change in public opinion, according to Münster’s documents. The imprisoned priest achieved a certain martyrdom, and the reputation of the Pure Life seemed – temporarily at least – to rise out of the dirt. While waiting for their spiritual leader’s return, most members went to ground; but the sect was not wound up, and surprisingly few left.

After half a year of diaspora, the shepherd returned to his flock, and as far as one could tell, activities began again on the same basis as before. There were no obvious changes, except perhaps a more marked tendency to remain aloof from the everyday world and discourage interest from outside, be it from journalists or anybody else. Even so the membership continued to expand slowly but surely, and by the middle of the nineties it appeared to be about a thousand souls. Oscar Yellinek’s position as the sole spiritual leader had probably never been stronger.

The view of other communions when it came to the Pure Life was more or less one hundred per cent critical; there had never been room for any interest in fellowship and ecumenical matters in Yellinek’s teachings, and serious commentators obviously regarded the sect as a rather promiscuous and generally dodgy phenomenon.

Among Kluuge’s information from the police in Stamberg were also several indications of the so-called defector syndrome, which meant that former members had been harassed in various ways after leaving the sect. Such incidents were by no means unknown in similar circumstances, but as far as the Pure Life was concerned it seemed to be mainly rumours and occasional notices in the local press. There had been no cases leading to police intervention or any other kind of reaction from the authorities.

But there was no doubt at all that there were a lot of critical voices complaining about Oscar Yellinek and his flock. Nevertheless, the general opinion seemed to be that they were pretty harmless – a collection of vulnerable and confused melancholics who could be left to get on with whatever kept them happy, so long as they left ordinary honest people in peace.

Which is what they had evidently been doing since Yellinek’s release from prison. No public meetings. No ads in newspapers or anywhere else. No missionary activities. Any recruitment was obviously carried out by members on a private basis.

It could hardly be said that there was any reliable information available regarding the Pure Life’s activities and ideas, however.

Neither Münster’s nor Kluuge’s informants could provide any such thing.

So that was that. Van Veeteren slid the papers to one side and mopped his brow. Looked to see if there was anything drinkable around, but it was clear that it was not part of Chief of Police Malijsen’s routine to offer unexpected visitors a drink. Or perhaps he had locked the stuff away in some secure hiding place, safe from the grasp of stand-ins or any other possible spongers.

‘All very fishy,’ muttered the chief inspector.

He wasn’t sure if that comment was aimed at Yellinek or Malijsen. Probably at both of them. He sighed. Lifted the telephone receiver and started to ring Kluuge’s home number, but then stopped. Better to let him devote his energy to his family, he decided.

Better – moreover – to give himself the opportunity of discussing the situation with himself over a cold beer in the garden of the City Arms Hotel.

In so far as a run-through was called for now, that is.

And – in so far as it was called for now – two beers. The City Arms Hotel’s garden wasn’t a bad place to be on a day like this; he’d gathered that when he passed it on his way to the police station earlier in the day. Not bad at all.

He stood up. Purity? he thought – for the fiftieth time since he had taken his leave of Yellinek out at Waldingen. It didn’t inspire any good associations this morning either.

I suppose I’ve been living among the dregs for too long, Chief Inspector Van Veeteren thought.

The two men were busy clearing brushwood from the edge of the road. The chief inspector braked and got out of the car.

‘Good afternoon. A bit on the warm side today.’

The elder of the men switched off his saw and gestured to his companion to do the same.

‘A bit on the warm side today,’ the chief inspector repeated, as he realized they would have been unable to hear a word of his first greeting.

‘You can say that again,’ said the man, putting down his saw.

‘My name’s Van Veeteren. Police. I’m a detective. Would you mind answering a few questions?’

‘Eh? Er . . . yes, of course.’

He stood up straight and beckoned to the younger man, indicating that he should come closer.

‘Mathias Fingher. This is my son, Wim.’

Both of them shook hands, after first wiping theirs on their trousers.

‘What’s it all about?’

Van Veeteren cleared his throat.

‘Harrumph. The Pure Life.’

If the Finghers were surprised, they showed no sign of it.

‘Okay.’

‘Do you have any contact with them? You’re their next-door neighbours after all – as it were.’

‘Well,’ said Mathias Fingher, tilting his cap over the back of his neck. ‘What do you mean?’

He was evidently the one expected to conduct the conversation. His son stood a couple of paces behind, eyeing the chief inspector, and chewing gum.

‘Do you ever meet any of them?’

Fingher nodded.

‘Yes, of course. They buy potatoes and milk from us. Eggs and carrots, and a few greens sometimes. They come every evening to collect it.’

Aha, Van Veeteren thought. A close contact at last.

‘Who actually comes?’

‘It varies.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Always four of them. Plus Yellinek, of course.’

‘Four girls every evening?’

‘And Yellinek. I suppose the girls take it in turns.’

Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

‘Do you usually speak to them?’

‘Well, not really. We don’t usually say much. Why do you ask?’

The chief inspector put a finger to his lips, and that seemed to be a sufficient explanation. As usual. Even if respect for officers of the law might vary, people seemed to accept that this secrecy business was something you just didn’t question; it was an observation he’d made many times.

Stupidity is best clad in secrecy as Reinhart used to say.

‘Do you ever talk to the girls?’

Fingher thought for a moment, then shook his head.

‘No, they . . . they always stay in the background, sort of.’

‘The background?’

‘Yes, they always wait by the wagon until Yellinek tells me what they want. Very quiet little girls, they seem a bit . . .’

‘A bit what?’

‘Hmm, I don’t really know. You sometimes wonder what they get up to over there.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, I don’t want to accuse anybody of anything. People have a right to think whatever they like, and they always pay up, no problem – which is more than you could say about some folk.’

Van Veeteren wondered who the some folk might be.

‘What’s your own opinion of them? There are all kinds of rumours going round . . .’ It was worth a try.

Fingher scratched the back of his head, and dropped his cap. Picked it up and stuffed it into his back pocket.

‘God knows. I wouldn’t trust any of my kids with them, that’s for sure. But they don’t do me any harm. As I said.’

‘What about Oscar Yellinek?’

Fingher suddenly seemed embarrassed.

‘I know nothing about him. Nothing at all.’

‘But you know what some people say?’

It was obvious that Fingher was unsure of what to say about his unholy alliance.

‘Hmm,’ he said eventually. ‘That he lives with his three women, I suppose.’

Aha, the chief inspector thought again. We’re getting somewhere at last.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘What about the girls?’

Fingher shrugged.

‘No idea. But they bathe naked, and I expect they get up to all sorts of things as well . . .’

‘Really?’

‘According to what you hear, that is. But I know nothing . . . No, best to leave them alone and mind one’s own business.’

Maybe you’re right, Van Veeteren thought. But as I’ve come all this way . . .

‘How many of them are there?’ he asked.

Fingher looked as if he were counting.

‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘Ten, fifteen perhaps. I really don’t know.’

‘Do you go to Waldingen sometimes?’

Fingher shook his head.

‘Hardly ever. Only if they need help with something. They had some problems with the pump, and we were there a couple of afternoons a few weeks ago. But it’s usually them who come here.’

Van Veeteren took out his pack of cigarettes and offered it to them, but both father and son shook their heads. He considered taking one himself, but thought better of it and went for a toothpick instead.

‘How often do their parents come to visit?’

‘Never,’ said Fingher. ‘I’ve never seen an adult there – apart from that Yellinek and his three women. But they don’t do us any harm, as I said. They haven’t been up to something, have they?’

Van Veeteren didn’t respond. Wondered if he ought to continue firing questions at them just in case, or whether it would be more sensible to save them for another occasion later on. If that should become necessary.

‘I might well get back to you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for talking to me, Mr Fingher.’

Fingher and son nodded and took their hands out of their pockets. All four of them. Van Veeteren eased himself into the car and continued his journey along the narrow forest track. By the time he turned the first bend, he could hear the sound of the chainsaws again.

Well I’ll be damned, he thought. Three of them?

Shouldn’t he have realized that right away?

But the bottom line was that the range of his sexual imagination had shrunk somewhat as the years passed.

What could be more natural? he asked himself in a flash of depressing honesty.

No, enough of fantasies! Time for the lion’s den.

Or was it a snake pit?

I’m still on a roll when it comes to stringing words together! he thought as he parked between the same pine trees as last time. Every cloud has a silver lining. If the Krantze thing fell through, maybe he could start writing his memoirs instead. The main thing was that he had alternative moves to fall back on . . . if it turned out that he had to choose between check or a knight gambit.

Alternative moves?

A length of bleached cotton was approaching, and he did his best to put a hasty stop to the flow of imagery.