The Inspector and Silence (17 page)

The murderer?

He slowed down; contented himself with just an occasional stroke of the paddle to prevent himself from drifting backwards between the wooded banks. This was countryside, not an urban area. Nothing but coniferous forest teeming with brushwood, and a scent of alder and aspen. The trees leaned over the water: roots and branches reached out across the narrow river, bridges were few and far between. After no more than an hour, he found himself in the midst of what could almost be termed a wilderness – and he understood even more clearly the attraction the Sorbinowo region must have for all categories of outdoor types.

But enough of forest air and bucolic romanticism! The case. Concentration.

He started with the previous day. Forced his thoughts back to the press conference, which he had to admit Kluuge had conducted admirably. The connection between the murder and the Pure Life had been toned down to a minimum – Clarissa Heerenmacht was one of the girls who had been staying at the camp, she had left the site in unknown circumstances, and then been found dead in the forest. That was all.

No tracks. No clues. Not a word about anonymous telephone calls.

And no indications or theories to follow up. So far. But all available officers had been put on the case, and they were doing whatever could be done. No doubt the gentlemen of the press would understand that the police had to be careful about what they made public in these early stages? Excuse me, and the ladies of the press as well, of course.

And so on. It had lasted for over twenty-five minutes, and the chief inspector had only needed to speak on two occasions. Another good mark for Kluuge, no doubt about it, especially as both Servinus and Suijderbeck had been too tired even to open their mouths. Except when they needed to yawn.

Before setting out he had glanced through the two newspapers he had with him in his briefcase. Naturally space was given to the murder – the link between summer and murder and a young girl had an obvious appeal for headline writers, but even so there was considerable restraint. They were holding back, simple as that. No doubt the evening tabloids would make a meal of it, but Van Veeteren didn’t think he could have made a better job of the press conference than Kluuge had managed.

And most important of all, presumably: not a word about the disappearance of Yellinek, the women who refused to speak and the silent confirmands – for the simple reason that Kluuge hadn’t mentioned any of that. Obviously it was only a matter of time before these details became known; but the important thing was to make use of as many hours – preferably days – as possible before that happened.

And best of all: to break through the silence before the newspapers realized that it existed.

When he came to think about it, he noted that he wasn’t at all sure why those thoughts were so important – this business of shielding that damned prophet and his silent congregation from the eyes of the world.

Why?

No reasonably plausible answer occurred to him. Only an intuitively demanding call of duty which of course wasn’t remotely like what he really thought should happen to that damned circus, but nevertheless he recognized its existence.

A sort of tipping point probably, he thought. Not unlike the dilemma the police found themselves in whenever it came to protecting Nazi thugs from counter-demonstrators. It was obviously not a good advertisement for the police if the skinheads were manhandled and perhaps even killed while the police hid round a corner, cleaning their nails.

Or?

Anyway, he didn’t like thinking about the Pure Life. The moment he began to reflect on that self-denial and purity lark, and the innocent young girls, he was filled with disgust, and only wanted to forget about it all. Didn’t want to know.

So why not let the press pack loose on them? Why not put the sanctimonious prats in the pillory?

All right, he thought. It must be my motherly instinct being triumphant once again.

Or was it simply a certainty that if the general public and the media started poking around in this religious backwater, things would become intolerable? From both a moral point of view, and that of investigating the case. Perhaps that was a more likely explanation after all.

After these humanistic musings – and feeling empowered by the almost clinical systematic he had employed so far – he decided to concentrate his attention on the main problem.

Who had murdered Clarissa Heerenmacht? And why?

The image of her dead body suddenly loomed in his mind’s eye. The spotlight in the dark forest. Her pale skin. The marbling and the blood. He recalled that she hadn’t even made it to her thirteenth birthday, and he could sense the feeling of impotence coming on once more.

Oh shit! he thought, rinsing his face with clear, cold water. I shouldn’t have bothered to look at her. I should have refused. My quota of suffering – other people’s suffering – is already filled.

Perhaps it’s time to lie low for a while, he decided, in order to dispel the gloom. I don’t need to enter the heart of darkness.

After a few problems he managed to tether his Canadian canoe by wedging it underneath a projecting root. It swayed a little in the current, but seemed to be comparatively secure even so. He opened his umbrella to shield him from the worst of the sun. Drank half a bottle of mineral water and ate a bun. Adjusted the cushions and settled down. Then waited for a minute or so until a fairly precise and developable premise occurred to him, but the only thing in his mind was the same old question:

What the hell is all this about?

Not especially precise, he was the first to admit that.

Let’s take it in chronological order, anyway:

First: An unknown woman calls and reports a missing person. When she thinks the police reaction has not been good enough, she calls again.

Question: Who is she?

Another question: Why does she call?

He lay still for quite a while without moving so much as a finger, allowing these questions to wander back and forth in his mind. Especially the second one – what the devil was her motive for telephoning the police? But in the end he gave up. No trace of an answer occurred to him, and no unexpected reflections cropped up.

Secondly: Four days later the same woman calls again. Gives detailed instructions as to where to find a murdered girl. Sergeant Kluuge follows the directions and discovers poor Clarissa Heerenmacht, not quite thirteen years old, taking part in the Waldingen camp . . . Raped, strangled, dead. (But still alive as recently as the previous day – on the Sunday afternoon – when he himself had questioned her about goings-on in the sect, the Pure Life.)

Conclusion one: If the unknown woman had been telling the truth on the first two occasions, she couldn’t have been referring to Clarissa Heerenmacht.

Conclusion two: It seemed not totally improbable that there could be another dead girl in the forest around Waldingen.

Oh hell! the chief inspector thought and took a tomato. He must keep all this at arm’s length. Next?

Let’s see . . . Thirdly: Oscar Yellinek – prophet and spiritual shepherd of the infernal Pure Life sect – goes up in smoke in connection with the death of Clarissa Heerenmacht, having first instructed the whole of his flock – ewes as well as lambs – to remain silent. Conclusion?

Conclusion? Van Veeteren thought. Yes, what the hell can one conclude?

He closed his eyes and tried once again to open his mind to any thoughts that might occur; but the only thing to arrive was a question mark.

But eventually two – ridiculously simplified – alternatives.

Number one: Oscar Yellinek had raped and murdered Clarissa Heerenmacht (and perhaps also another or others of his young confirmands), and then done a runner in order to escape justice and the day of reckoning.

Number two: Yellinek had nothing to do with the girl’s death, but had chosen to go to earth rather than expose himself to all the cross-examinations and harassment he knew would be the inevitable consequence of the situation.

Commentary on number two: Yellinek was a cowardly bastard. That corresponded with earlier observations.

Necessary corollary of number two: Yellinek must have known about the murder of Clarissa Heerenmacht before the police did!

The chief inspector closed his eyes. Wrong, he thought. It might just be that he knew she had disappeared.

But no doubt the whole line of argument was a ridiculous oversimplification, as already said. About as thin and tenable as a soap bubble, you could say. He sighed. Decided to change track. Systematics are all very well, but it might be time for a spot of less logical thinking.

But before the chief inspector could turn his attention to that, he realized that he would soon be confronted by a very different kind of problem.

How? he thought. How – in this the best of all worlds – can a bloke manage to pee from a canoe? A curse on that damned mineral water!

For the rest of the day – especially on the journey back – Chief Inspector Van Veeteren spent most of the time thinking about that inner landscape.

What could it be that was going on behind the neutral and expressionless faces of Madeleine Zander, Ulrich Fischer and Mathilde Ubrecht? And what was simmering away inside the grim-faced teenaged girls?

Not to mention how long they’d be able to keep it up.

Yesterday evening he’d visited both the camp and the psychiatric clinic where the women were locked up in isolation. He hadn’t bothered to attack the wall of silence himself, merely sat and watched as Kluuge and the detectives from Rembork tried to break through. It wasn’t exactly an unmissable event, but the sergeant was obviously right in suggesting that one of the girls would crack first.

But it was difficult to ignore the unethical aspect of the situation. Or at least, he had difficulty in doing so. The whole business stank of dodgy and dirty goings-on. As far as the young girls were concerned, that is. Of course it was the role of the police to get stuck into whatever turned up – but to subject youngsters to ruthless interrogations with the aim of making them betray a sacred promise – and in other words betray their faith – well, that was pushing things a bit.

Never mind that Yellinek is mad. Never mind the Pure Life’s obscure teachings. Never mind the murder. It was an inner landscape that somebody was intending to crush, and dammit all, safety nets were going to be needed.

When all these misguided individuals woke up. For surely they would eventually wake up?

Perhaps what is written between the lines really is best.

Things were a bit different with regard to the locked-up women. He would have nothing against giving them a bit of a grilling. It wasn’t impossible that he might have a chance to do so that evening – Servinus and Suijderbeck had agreed to spend the day interrogating them, and the fewer rests the women had, the better, presumably.

An even more attractive thought, of course, was the possibility of coming face to face again with Yellinek himself. But on Van Veeteren’s own terms this time. On home ground, as it were. Sitting at a rickety table in the filthiest and smelliest cell he could find. Looking him in the eye and giving him a really hard time.

But there was nothing he could do about that. Yellinek wasn’t around. All they had was fourteen witnesses who refused to say a word. No openings. No threads.

But no matter what, he would have liked to spend some time wandering around that inner landscape. It could have taught him a great deal.

People are unfathomable, he thought.

That’s why we can understand them, he added after a few seconds’ paddling.

When the chief inspector berthed skilfully and elegantly at the jetty close to Grimm’s Hotel, he had been away for over seven hours, and as far as the basic questions were concerned – Who? and Why? – he was more or less back where he started.

But he had made up his mind to follow a particular line. Or to hold a particular series of meetings, rather – there were people he would like to exchange words with and ask a few specific questions.

Always assuming it was possible to get hold of people at this time of year. That was something that couldn’t be taken for granted.

The youth with the crew cut had changed into a green tracksuit, unless it was a different person altogether. The chief inspector stepped ashore without getting his feet wet, and declared himself satisfied with both the canoe and the trip as a whole. He then walked straight to the cafe and ordered a dark beer.

I don’t want to feel thirty years younger than I did this morning, he thought, and so bought a pack of West as well.

Miss Wandermeijk – young Mr Grimm’s fiancée, if he’d understood the situation rightly – brought him his beer, and also a message from Kluuge. It had arrived only ten minutes ago, and suggested that a little breakthrough had taken place.

It wasn’t possible to be more specific than that. Kluuge had evidently learned to be a bit more reticent in his correspondence, which of course – like several other things – had to be seen as a step in the right direction. The chief inspector tucked the fax into his back pocket, but chose to enjoy both his beer and a cigarette before calling the police station.

‘Kluuge.’

‘It’s me,’ the chief inspector explained. ‘Well?’