Mind's Eye (14 page)

30

Rooth met Bendiksen in the Roman section of the Central Bathhouse. It was Bendiksen’s suggestion: he always spent a few hours of Monday evening in the bathhouse, and after yet another day spent at Majorna, Rooth had nothing against it.

It transpired that Bendiksen lived a life governed by strictly observed regular activities. Being a bachelor of many years’ standing, he adhered to a disciplined regimen as befitted a gentleman of good character. He bathed on Mondays, played bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and attended meetings of the local history society on Wednesdays. He went jogging on the weekend, and socialized with friends; the movies on Fridays, the pub on Saturdays. On Sunday he generally made an excursion, did the cleaning, and finished reading the historical novel he’d taken home the previous Monday from the library, where he’d been working for sixteen years.

He explained all this to Rooth during their first five minutes in the sauna.

When do you manage to fit in a shit? wondered Rooth, who was also a bachelor.

“What did you think of Eva Ringmar?” Rooth asked when they’d progressed as far as the cold bath.

“I know nothing about women,” said Bendiksen, “but I know quite a lot about Greek and Hellenic culture; and I also know my Culbertson, and I can play a decent hand of bridge.”

“Good for you,” said Rooth. “How often did you meet her?”

“Hard to say,” said Bendiksen. “Three or four times, maybe; but only in passing.”

“In passing?”

“Yes, amidst the madding crowd, as you might say. We bumped into each other in town, at the library once. That was about it, really.”

“I thought you were a close friend of Mitter’s?”

“Yes, you could say that. We met at high school, and we’ve been meeting occasionally ever since. Only now and then, I should say.”

“How?”

“What do you mean by ‘how,’ Inspector?”

“What did you do when you met?”

“We sometimes had a glass or two together, and a chat, occasionally something else—I think it’s time to start beating each other with birch twigs now, Inspector.”

“What else did you do, Mr. Bendiksen?”

“Call me Klaus.”

No fear, Rooth thought.

“We made a few trips together—after Janek’s divorce, of course. We did some fishing. What are you getting at?”

The sauna was empty. Empty and scalding hot. Rooth sighed and slumped down on the lowest bench.

“Nothing special,” he said. “It’s just that we’re looking for a murderer. Who do you think it was that stabbed Mitter to death?”

“The same person as drowned his wife.”

Rooth nodded.

“That’s what we think as well. So you don’t have anything to say that could help to put us on the right track?”

Bendiksen scratched away at his armpits.

“You have to understand that I hardly met the man after he started going with Miss Ringmar. We were both at a meeting of old friends down at Freddy’s one night in June. Seven or eight of us, but I didn’t speak much with Janek. And then we were both at a meeting of the local history club around the beginning of August….”

“What was he like then?”

“As ever. But we didn’t have much to say. We exchanged a few ideas about megalithic cultures, if I remember rightly. That was the theme for the evening.”

“So you didn’t meet very much after Eva Ringmar entered the stage. Why was that?”

“Why? Well, I suppose that’s the way it goes.”

“Meaning what?”

“With women. You should have friends, or a woman, according to Pliny. If you don’t have any friends, you might as well get married. Don’t you think, Inspector?”

“Maybe,” said Rooth. “But let’s get down to some details…. Am I right in thinking that you’d arranged to go fishing the Sunday after Eva Ringmar’s murder?”

“You’re right, yes. We always used to drive out to Verhoven’s cottage—he’s another good friend of ours—one Sunday in October. It’s on the banks of Lake Sojmen, on the eastern side. There’s lots of perch and grayling, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can catch the odd arctic char and whitefish. Anyway, Verhoven and I and Langemaar—the fire-brigade boss, I don’t know if you’re familiar with him—the three of us went there, but Janek had a few problems that prevented him from joining us, of course. I must say, it’s a shithouse of a setup, Inspector. Do you think you’re going to catch him? The murderer, I mean, of course.”

“Definitely,” said Rooth. “Incidentally, what were you doing last Thursday evening?”

“Me? Thursday? Bridge club, of course. Surely you don’t imagine for one second that I…”

“I don’t imagine anything at all,” said Rooth. “Can’t we go and have a beer now?”

“Now?” said Bendiksen. “Of course not. We have to take a swim now, and then we need to go back into the sauna for a few minutes before having a good sweat. That’s when we can indulge ourselves in a beer. Have you never had a sauna before, Inspector?”

Rooth sighed. He had spent two whole days trying to squeeze information out of God knows how many maniacs, catatonics, and schizophrenics, and now he had ended up in this sauna with the librarian, Bendiksen.

Why the hell did I become a cop? he asked himself. Why didn’t I become a concert pianist, like my mom wanted me to be? Or a priest? Or a fighter pilot?

I shall report in sick tomorrow, he decided. It’s my day off, but I shall report in sick even so.

To be on the safe side.

31

“Sankta Katarina is a school for girls, Chief Inspector. Our teachers are women, our house matrons are women, our school janitors, our gardener, our kitchen staff—all of them are women. I’m the headmistress and I’m a woman. That’s the way it’s been since the very start, in 1882: exclusively women. We think it is a strength, Chief Inspector. It’s not good for girls if men come into their lives too early. But I assume I’m talking to deaf ears.”

Van Veeteren nodded and tried to sit upright. He had a pain in the small of his back, and what he would really like to do was to lie on the floor with his legs on the seat of the chair—that usually helped. But something told him that Miss Barbara di Barboza didn’t like men lying on the floor of her study. It was bad enough having to be visited by a man in the first place. And a police officer at that.

But his back was giving him hell. It was that damned hotel bed, of course. He had felt stiff when he got up that morning, and a two-hour drive hadn’t improved matters. Perhaps he would have to call on Hernandez, the chiropractor, when he got back home. It was six months since he’d last been, so it was about time for another visit. The worst thing was the badminton, of course. Chasing down Münster’s short, angled returns could spell disaster for a bad back, he knew that, but he certainly didn’t want to postpone the match planned for Tuesday evening. So he’d have to grin and bear it.

He shifted his weight from right to left. It hurt. He groaned.

“Are you unwell, Chief Inspector?”

“I’m all right, thank you; just a bit of pain in my back.”

“Probably due to the wrong diet. You’d be surprised if I were to tell you the effect various foods have on one’s muscles and muscular tension.”

Not surprised, Van Veeteren thought. I’d be bloody furious. I might even be tempted to do things that would make it necessary for me to arrest myself.

“Sounds interesting,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m a bit short of time, so we’d better concentrate on what I’ve come here for.”

“Miss Ringmar?”

“Yes.”

The headmistress took a folder from the shelf behind her and opened it on the desk in front of her.

“Eva Ringmar. Appointed by us on September 1, 1987. Taught French and English. Resigned at her own request on May 31, 1990.”

She closed the folder and returned it to its place.

“What was your impression of her?”

“My impression? Good, of course. I interviewed her personally. There was nothing about her to object to. She lived up to my expectations of her, and carried out her teaching and other duties impeccably.”

“Other duties…What do you mean by that?”

“She had certain duties as a class teacher and house matron. We are a boarding school, as you may have noticed. We don’t only look after the girls in the classroom, but we take care of the whole of their upbringing. Fostering the whole person is one of our principles. Always has been from the very beginning. That’s what has created the good reputation we enjoy.”

“Really?”

“Do you know how many applications we receive at the beginning of each academic year? Over two thousand. For two hundred and forty places.”

Van Veeteren lowered his shoulders and tried to curve his back inward.

“Did you know Miss Ringmar’s background when you appointed her?”

“Of course. She’d had a hard time. We believe in people, Chief Inspector.”

“And are you aware of what has happened, that both she and her husband have been murdered?”

“We are not isolated in this school, don’t think that. We read the newspapers and keep abreast of what’s happening in the world. More so than many others, I would suggest.”

Van Veeteren wondered if she was well up on the reading habits of police officers, but had no desire to ask her to comment on that. He took out a toothpick instead. Put it into his mouth and made it move slowly from one side to the other. Di Barboza slid her spectacles to the tip of her nose and observed him critically.

Before long she’ll be demanding to see my identity card again, he thought. It’s preposterous, the extent to which a bit of a pain in the back restricts your abilities.

“Well, what else do you want to know, Chief Inspector? I don’t have all day to spare either.”

He stood up and walked over to the window. Stretched his back and gazed out at the mist-filled grounds. Several other buildings could be glimpsed through the trees, all of them in the same dark red brick as the “refectory,” which was where di Barboza held sway, and the head-high wall that surrounded the whole establishment. In Anglo-Saxon style, this barrier was topped by broken glass. It had made him smile as he drove in through the gates—smile and wonder if the symbolic broken glass was meant to deter outsiders from breaking in, or inmates from breaking out.

He certainly did have prejudices against this place. He was full to the brim with prejudices, and he was slightly irritated to find that they had not been reinforced by what he had seen and heard that morning, despite di Barboza’s willingness to show him around. He had taken lunch in the large dining room in the company of a hundred or so women of various ages, mainly young women, of course; but nowhere had he been able to discern the oppressed sexuality or sexual frustration or whatever it was that he thought he would sense. Perhaps it was just a matter of the good old fear of women, the realization that despite everything, it was the opposite sex that had the best prospects of coming to grips with life.

At least, that is how his wife would have diagnosed the situation; he didn’t doubt that for one second.

If I’d been born a woman, he thought, I’m damned if I wouldn’t have turned out more or less like di Barboza!

“Well?” said di Barboza.

“Well what?”

“What else do you want to know? I’m starting to run out of time, Chief Inspector.”

“Two things,” he said. “First of all, do you know if Miss Ringmar had a relationship with a man while she worked here…. She lived in, I believe, is that the case?”

“She had a room in the Curie Annex, yes. No, I don’t know if she had a relationship. Was that one question or two, Chief Inspector?”

He ignored the correction.

“Can you give me the name of a colleague, somebody who was friendly with her, who might be able to answer some more detailed questions?”

The headmistress slid back her spectacles and thought that one over.

“Kempf,” she said. “Miss Kempf has the room next to the one Miss Ringmar used to live in. I believe they were good friends as well. In any case, I saw them together occasionally.”

“You don’t mix with the other teachers yourself, Miss di Barboza?”

“No, I try to keep a certain distance. We respect one another, but we cannot ignore the fact that we have different responsibilities. Our statutes define the role of the headmistress as the person in overall charge of the school, and the responsibilities that entails. It’s not up to me to question those statutes.”

She checked the watch that was hanging on a chain around her neck. Van Veeteren remembered something Reinhart had said not so long ago: “I normally steer well clear of women who wear a watch around their neck.”

Van Veeteren wondered what it meant. Perhaps it contained a kernel of great wisdom, like quite a few things that Reinhart came out with.

In any case, he was relieved to get out into the fresh air. He crossed over the large lawn, despite di Barboza’s express instructions to stick to the paved paths. He could feel her eyes boring into his back.

Two girls aged about twelve, wearing overalls over their school uniform, were busy painting the trunk of a fruit tree white. He approached them cautiously, and attracted their attention by coughing.

“Excuse me, but does this happen to be the Curie Annex?”

“Yes. The entrance is over there.”

They both pointed with their paintbrushes, and giggled modestly.

“Why are you painting the tree white?”

They looked at him in surprise.

“Dunno…. It’s what we were told to do.”

Presumably to discourage the male dogs in the neighborhood from peeing on it, he thought as he opened the door.

It was some time before he was able to talk to Miss Kempf. She had three more tests to mark, and it was impossible to break off until the whole damned lot was finished, if he didn’t mind.

He didn’t. He sat in an armchair behind her back and watched her as she completed her task. A well-built woman in late middle age, more or less as old as he was, in fact. He wondered if di Barboza had been right to pair her off with Eva Ringmar—there must have been at least fifteen years between them?

But it was correct. Eva Kempf put the kettle on for tea, and explained. “Friends” was probably a bit too strong a word: Miss Ringmar was not the type to open her heart up, but it had seemed that she felt the need for…an elder sister? Yes, more or less. Eva and Eva. A big one and a small one. And they lived next door to each other, after all. What did he want to know?

For the hundredth time he asked the same question and received the same answer.

No, she hadn’t seen a man around. Miss Kempf was lesbian herself, there was no point in pretending otherwise…. Or rather, had been: she had now withdrawn for good from the battlefields of love.

And it was a damned good feeling, she could assure the chief inspector.

No, Eva Ringmar hadn’t had the slightest lesbian tendencies, you could see that kind of thing right away.

But men?

No. Not that she knew of. But she didn’t know everything, of course. Why was he sitting like that? Something wrong with his back? If he lay down on the bed she could massage his muscles for a while.

Presumably he had other things to ask about while she was doing that?

Van Veeteren hesitated. But not for long.

She couldn’t make it any worse, surely?

“So there! Fold the waistband of your trousers down a bit so that I can get at you. That’s better!”

“Ouch! For Christ’s sake! Fire away, Miss Kempf!”

“What about, Chief Inspector?”

“Anything at all. Did she go away sometimes? Did she receive any letters? Mysterious telephone calls in the night…?”

She pressed her thumbs into his spine.

“She received letters.”

“From a man?”

“That’s possible.”

“How often?”

“Not all that often. She didn’t get much mail at all.”

“Where were they posted?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Domestic or from abroad?”

“I don’t know. From abroad, perhaps.”

“But she received a number of letters from the same person?”

“Yes. I think it was a man.”

“Why do you think that? Ouch!”

“You can tell.”

“Travels?”

“Yes. She did a fair bit of traveling. Several times to her mother. Or so she said, at least.”

“But?”

“She might have been lying.”

“So it’s possible that she received letters from a man, and it’s possible that she occasionally went off to meet this man?”

“Yes.”

“How strong is the possibility?”

“I don’t know, Chief Inspector. She was a bit…reserved. Secretive. I never pressed her. People have a right to a life of their own—believe you me! I’ve been lesbian since I was seventeen!”

“Aaagh! Christ Almighty! Be careful…that’s where it’s worst.”

“I can feel that, Chief Inspector. What kind of a litter did you spend last night on? Go on.”

“How often?”

“How often did she go away, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Two or three times a term, perhaps. Just for the weekend, a few days.”

“Vacations?”

“I don’t know. I’m always away during the holidays. But I don’t think she stayed here. She went on a package holiday once. Greece, I think. But she liked traveling, that’s for sure.”

“Her husband…Andreas Berger?”

“No, it wasn’t him, she never mentioned him.”

“Could he have been the letter writer?”

“I suppose so, but I doubt it…”

“What about her son? The son who died. Did she tell you about him?”

“Yes, but only once…. I’ll have to stop now, Chief Inspector. My fingers are going to sleep. How does it feel?”

Van Veeteren sat up. Not bad. He moved tentatively…bent forward…to the right, to the left. It was actually feeling better.

“Excellent! A pity I have to sit behind the wheel again. Many thanks, Miss Kempf. If you ever find yourself in jail, just give me a call and I’ll come and get you out.”

She smiled and rubbed her fingers.

“Not necessary, Chief Inspector. I’ll find my own way of breaking out. But I have a lesson in ten minutes, so I think we’ll have to stop now.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“I’d like to ask you just one more question. I can see that you are a lady of good sense, Miss Kempf. I’d like you to use that, and refrain from answering if you are doubtful.”

“I understand.”

“Okay. Do you think it’s possible that all the time you knew her, there was a man in Eva Ringmar’s life…a man who, for whatever reason, she kept secret?”

Miss Kempf removed her oval glasses. Held them up to the light and examined them. Breathed heavily on the lenses and rubbed them with a corner of her red tunic.

He realized that it was a ritual. A ceremony performed while she formed her conclusions. What a waste, this lesbian love business, he thought.

She replaced her spectacles and met his gaze. Then she answered.

“Yes,” she said. “I think that’s possible.”

“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren.