Mind's Eye (19 page)

40

The turnaround came with the twelve o’clock news.

He’d slept for three hours in a parking lot. Curled up under a blanket on the backseat, and woken up because he felt cold. Before driving off he’d switched on the radio, caught the middle of the news, and heard that he was wanted by the police.

Nationwide alert. Carl Ferger. Suspected of three murders. Traveling in a blue Fiat, registration number…

He switched it off. For a few seconds, time and the world stood still. Blood was pounding hard in his temples. His hands grasped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He’d been rumbled. Was wanted by the police.

Hunted.

He was on the run.

It took a while for it to sink in.

Three murders?

He couldn’t help laughing.

Which ones, he could ask them. Yes, he’d try to remember to ask them that, if they caught up with him. Excuse me, you fucking police bastard, he’d say. I’ve committed six murders. Which three am I suspected of?

The windows had misted over from his breath. He wiped them clean with his handkerchief. Opened the driver’s window slightly, looked around. The parking lot was empty, apart from one long-distance truck some fifty meters ahead of him.

A blue Fiat…Oh, fuck! Why had he turned off the radio? He switched it on again, but there was only music.

What else did they know?

Where did they think he was?

Nationwide alert. What did that mean? Roadblocks?

Hardly. He’d driven more than 300 kilometers since leaving Maardam. If they knew roughly when he’d left, they must realize that he could be more or less anywhere by now.

But how?

How the hell had they found him out?

He started the car. Drove slowly past the truck and onto the freeway.

It must have been Liz. That fucking whore. Something had gone wrong, but he didn’t understand how they could link her with the others. The bitch! If only he’d listened to his inner voice from the start…. The voice that had warned him, told him to steer well clear of her, of that tart. That fucking bitch.

Nothing more than a fucking bitch.

He would never repeat that mistake, at least. And let’s face it, it was only reasonable for the police to agree that he’d performed a public service in ridding society of the likes of Liz Hennan. He’d nothing to reproach himself with in her case. The others were not so good. They’d been driven by a different kind of necessity. But now wasn’t the time to sit back and take stock.

Action was called for now. Something had clicked—he’d sensed it coming, hadn’t he? His intuition had saved him yet again—why else would he have run away? It was just the same as it had been with Ellen….

Ellen. That was twelve years ago now. She’d also been a tart, no doubt about that. A disgusting little tart, just like Liz. He could see them both in his mind’s eye, just as horny, just as desperate for it….

He stepped on the gas. Saw from the gauge that he’d soon need to fill up. Why did he keep seeing them? Their naked bodies, their quivering pussies…He had no time to waste on them now. He must get a grip of essentials, not dillydally with these disgusting images. He must be ready. Must be on his toes, do the right thing, and it was urgent now.

Wanted by the police.

He checked his watch. Only a quarter past twelve. Was that message he’d heard the first one, or had there been several more, earlier? Better keep the radio on, so that he didn’t miss anything.

He switched it on, and lit a cigarette. Hardly any of those left, either.

Fill up and buy cigarettes, that was the most urgent thing.

Then?

The radio? he thought. What about the television? Newspapers? Had they published a photo of him?

Would he be as easily recognized as the president the moment he entered the gas station kiosk?

The telly wasn’t such a problem, he thought. Nobody sat gaping at the box in the mornings. The newspapers were worse. But the morning papers hadn’t carried anything—not the one he’d bought earlier on, at least. They’d reported the murder, of course; but not a word about Carl Ferger in a blue Fiat.

It would be in the evening papers, naturally. A photo on the billboards, perhaps. Like when a government minister had been murdered a few years ago.

He couldn’t help smiling. When did the first edition generally hit the streets?

Two? Half past?

Before then he needed to have become somebody else.

It was as easy as that. He must get to a decent-sized town as soon as possible, and fix some kind of disguise. A pity that he’d dumped the wig—although they’d know about that, no doubt. What else?

The car.

Get rid of it and hire another?

He didn’t like that idea. It would involve obvious risks. He decided to take a chance and carry on in the Fiat. As long as he was careful to park somewhere out of the way, he should be okay. Spread a lot of shit over the number plates, perhaps. There must be thousands of blue Fiats all over the country.

But then what?

The question grabbed hold of him, and kept him trapped in its iron grip for several seconds. Threatened to choke him. What the hell should he do after that?

This evening? Tonight? Tomorrow?

He swallowed and stepped even harder on the gas. Suppressed the question. He needed to take things one at a time. First his appearance, then he could make decisions as things developed. That was his strength, after all. His instinctive ability to make the right decision at the critical moment. Money, for instance. He’d emptied his account as early as the previous Saturday. They’d have frozen it by now, of course, but so what? He had enough to last him for a few weeks, at least.

Don’t do anything rash. Everything was under control. They wouldn’t catch him this time, either, the bastards. The thought of lounging around in some obscure little hotel for a few days made him smile again. Reading about the hunt in the newspapers, sitting in the communal television room every evening, hearing about how the hunt for him was going…

Next exit Malbork, 1,000 meters, he read on the signs. Excellent.

He signaled he was about to turn off, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

41

“What’s the time?” growled Van Veeteren. “What the hell is that great detective the general public playing about at? Why haven’t they found him?”

“Half past eight,” said Münster. “I expect he’s gone into hiding.”

“You don’t say?”

“He can hardly have avoided discovering that the police are after him. There’ll be another appeal on the TV at nine, incidentally.”

“I’m not an idiot,” said Van Veeteren. “But why has nobody replied to our faxes? Could you kindly explain that as well, Inspector?”

“The immigration office’s computers have been down, but they were running again this morning. The other lot are in a different time zone, of course. Their reply could come as late as midnight, even one in the morning.”

Van Veeteren contemplated his toothpick.

“Can I ask you something?” Münster ventured.

“Fire away,” said Van Veeteren. “But I don’t promise to answer it.”

“Who exactly is this Carl Ferger?”

“Haven’t you caught on yet, Münster?”

Münster blushed and cleared his throat.

“How could I when I’m not given all the information?” he asked. “To be honest, I can’t see the point of you withholding important details, sir. Information vital to the case, that is.”

He blushed again, this time at his own audacity. But the chief inspector didn’t react. Merely sat motionless on his desk chair, resting his chin on his hands. Narrowed his eyes to form two slits as he stared at Münster. Making no attempt to respond quickly.

“Münster,” he said eventually. “Your sense of timing is hopeless. If you listen to me, I shall explain a few things for your benefit. I don’t suppose you’ll understand much of what I’m talking about, but even so, I’m prepared to spare you a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you,” said Münster. “That’s very kind of you.”

“You must understand, Münster, that things are interlinked. There are certain laws that apply, and certain patterns. We are swimming around inside those patterns, we move about, we think, we live in accordance with those rules. It boils down to the subtleties—they are not easy to identify, but we have to listen for them, look for them, we have to be wide awake and keep our eyes skinned for the right turnings. Do you know what the determinant is?”

“The determinant?”

“Yes.”

“No idea,” said Münster.

“Nor have I,” said Van Veeteren. “But I’m on its heels. That’s what is telling us where to go, Münster; that’s what is pointing out the path we have to follow, what to do next, which turnings to take. I take it you agree that there has to be a plot in a novel?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That there has to be a story, or at the very least a sort of connecting thread that runs through a film or a play and links all the episodes together?”

“Yes…”

“A novel, a film, or a play, Münster—they are nothing but stuffed life. Life that has been captured and stuffed like a taxidermist stuffs a dead animal. They are created so that we can reasonably easily examine it. Clamber out of current reality and look at it from a distance. Are you with me?”

“Yes,” said Münster. “I think so…”

“Anyway, if there have to be plots and connecting threads ensuring that stuffed life, the artificial version, hangs together, then of course the same thing must apply to the genuine article, to real life. That’s the point.”

“The point?”

“Yes, the point. Obviously, you can choose to live a pointless life if you want to—watch the film backwards, for Christ’s sake, or hold the book upside down as you read it. But don’t kid yourself that if you do, you’ve understood anything. You see, there’s not just one, but thousands of points, whole series of points…patterns…rules…determinants. I’m off to Australia on Thursday, Münster, and I can sure as hell assure you that it’s not mere chance. It’s exactly the right thing to do. Don’t you think so?”

Just for a moment Münster had visions of his own ideal lagoon…Synn and the children and two weeks by the blue sea…

“If we were a movie, you and me,” said Van Veeteren, snapping a toothpick, “or a book, then of course it would be unforgivable of me to tell you certain things at this point in time. It would be a kick in the teeth for cinemagoers, an insult to the genre as such. Perhaps also an underestimate of your talents, Münster. Are you with me?”

“No,” said Münster.

“A crime against the determinant,” said Van Veeteren, looking just for a second as if he might smile. “If we don’t have a religion, the least we can do is to try to live as if we were a book or a film. These are the only hints you are going to get, Münster.”

What the hell’s going on? Münster wondered. Is he really sitting there and saying this, or am I dreaming?

“That’s why I’m annoyed,” said Van Veeteren. “They ought to find him tonight. I want him here tomorrow, and I want to confront him with the answers we’ve had to our faxes. And with another person. What we are dealing with is a mass murderer, Münster, are you clear about that? It doesn’t often happen.”

I am dreaming, Münster decided.

There was a knock on the door, and Constable Beygens looked in.

“Excuse me, Chief Inspector, but we’ve just received a fax from abroad.”

“Excellent,” said Van Veeteren. “Hand it over!”

42

“You’re a real pal!” said Ulich.

Tomas Heckel wasn’t supposed to start his shift until ten, but this evening they had a special agreement. If Heckel started at a quarter to nine instead, Ulich would have time to get to the boxing gala where his son was due to take part in a light-heavyweight bout with a black Englishman by the name of Whitecock.

It wasn’t the main event, of course, just one of the supporting fights. But like his dad in the old days, young Ulich packed a formidable punch. And a marked ability to take punishment.

Heckel, who was a second-year medical student, was well aware of the risks boxers took when they allowed other people to bash them around the head for money, but his job as a night porter was too important for him to get into an argument about the rights and wrongs of it. Nor did he want to deprive the father of the opportunity to sit at ringside as his son’s brain cells hit the canvas. As well as sandwiches and coffee, his rucksack contained three fat anatomy books. He intended to stay awake all night, swotting. Time is money, and there were only six days to go before his exam.

“You’re a real pal,” said Ulich again as he eased his gigantic body out of the porter’s booth. “There’ll be a bottle of the hard stuff for you if the lad wins!”

“I wouldn’t dream of accepting it,” said Heckel. “Is there anything I need to know?”

Ulich thought for a moment.

“There’s a handball team from Copenhagen on the third floor,” he said. “You’d better keep an eye on them. Oh yes, there’s somebody who has to move his car. He’s parked in such a way that the garbage truck won’t be able to get at the bins tomorrow morning. Prawitz called in to tell me, there’s a note by the telephone. I think it’s that Czerpinski character in number 26. I rang his room, but he wasn’t there.”

“Okay,” said Heckel. “Have a good time. I hope he does well.”

“He’ll skin the guy alive, dammit!” said Ulich, shadowboxing his way out through the swing doors.

Heckel sat down and leafed through the log book. Thirty of the thirty-six rooms occupied—not bad for a Monday in December. He switched on Ulich’s little television set: it might be an idea to watch the news before devoting himself to his anatomy studies. Besides, he usually found it difficult to settle down and read before midnight.

A few minutes still to go. Some ridiculous program called
A Question of Sport
hadn’t finished yet. What had Ulich said?

A wrongly parked car?

He found the note. Scrutinized it and memorized the car registration number while calling Room 26. No answer. He hung up, but taped the note to the telephone, so that he wouldn’t forget about it.

The news program was starting. The lead item was that murder hunt, of course. He’d heard about it several times during the course of the afternoon. There was something about it in the newspapers lying on the counter as well, he noticed. Carl Ferger…at least three murders…blue Fiat, registration number…

He stared at the plate on the television screen.

Stared at the telephone.

Switched off the TV and grabbed one of the newspapers. He snatched at the note he had just taped to the telephone and started comparing, letter for letter, number for number. As if he could barely read. Or was standing there with a lottery ticket in his hand, one that had just won over a million and he couldn’t really believe it was true…

An absurd but irritating thought buzzed around inside his head: he wasn’t going to get much anatomy revision done that night.

Then he pulled himself together and phoned the police.

The first call came just after half past nine. Münster took it, as Van Veeteren happened to be in the bathroom.

“Excellent,” said Münster. “Yes, I see. He’ll get back to you in five minutes. What’s your number?”

He made a note of it, then settled down again with the evening paper. Van Veeteren returned. Münster waited for a few seconds.

“They’ve got him, up in Schaabe,” he said, in the calmest tone of voice he could manage.

“They’ve what?” Van Veeteren exclaimed. “About bloody time.”

“Well, nearly got him,” Münster added. “You’d better ring back. It was a Detective Chief Inspector Frank. Do you know him?”

Van Veeteren nodded and dialed the number.

“Frank? Van Veeteren here. I’m delighted to hear that a blind chicken can still find a grain of corn…. What did you say?”

Münster observed his boss over the top of his newspaper. Van Veeteren was hunched over the telephone and looked as if he were trying to squeeze the murderer out of the receiver. All the time he was chewing away at two toothpicks, and listening.

“I see…. Make sure you grab him when he comes back, or I’ll have you skinned alive. I’m flying to Australia on Thursday, and I need him before then.”

Frank said something, and Van Veeteren nodded slowly.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll stay here. Ring the moment you’ve got him.”

He hung up.

“You can go home now,” he said to Münster. “They’ll pick him up as soon as he shows at the hotel. He’s shaved off all his hair, started wearing glasses and made himself up, it seems. An ingenious bastard. Booked into the Palace Hotel for four nights, a congress for artificial-limb salesmen…. Have you ever heard anything like it, Münster? Artificial-limb salesmen!”

“How did they find him?”

“Parking offense,” said Van Veeteren with a shrug. “The deadly sin of our time, no doubt about it.”

When Münster emerged into the raw night air, he realized to his surprise that he wasn’t dying to get home: he would have happily stayed up there with the chief inspector and waited. Sat reading his newspaper for a while longer, until the next call came….

The last verse.

The signal to indicate that the hunt was over.

Case closed. Murderer captured.

Time for the wheels of justice to start grinding….

There were still a few loose ends, it seemed; but even so, the basic facts appeared to be clear. The fax had explained everything; there was no longer scope for alternative theories and solutions. Van Veeteren had been right. As usual. Carl Ferger was their man.

And it was, as somebody had remarked a few weeks ago, a terrible business.

As he drove to the suburb where he lived, Münster thought over what Van Veeteren had said about the determinant. He couldn’t quite work out if the chief inspector was being serious or not. However, it couldn’t be denied that there was some truth in it, and maybe it was yet again the same old story: the only way of catching the big and most evil players was by trawling with a wide-mesh net aimed at capturing both the serious and the frivolous.

He was momentarily surprised by the wording of that thought, but then it dawned on him that it must be something Reinhart had said.

A wide-mesh net…

In any case, he made up his mind to look up “determinant” in his new and as yet incomplete twenty-four-volume encyclopedia when he got home.

Van Veeteren didn’t have to wait for as long as he’d feared. The call from Frank came as early as half past ten.

Ferger had been arrested.

He had strolled into the hotel without a care in the world, and immediately been overpowered by twelve armed police officers.

“Twelve?” wondered Van Veeteren.

“Twelve,” said Frank.

“Has he confessed?”

“No. He’s playing silly buggers.”

“Okay,” said Van Veeteren. “Put him in a prison van and shunt him up here tonight. I fancy him for breakfast.”

“Your word is my command,” said Frank. “How’s your backhand nowadays? I seem to recall that you had a few problems with it when we were in Frigge….”

“Lethal,” said Van Veeteren. “Next time you’re in these parts, call in and I’ll give you a demonstration.”