Mind's Eye (20 page)

43

Münster would never have recognized him.

To be honest, he didn’t have a clear recollection of him from the interviews at Bunge, but this shrunken specimen of humanity bore virtually no resemblance to the picture that had been broadcast on television and promulgated in the press.

In a way, he looked younger. His totally bald and rounded head gave a dubious impression of innocence. Of naïveté. Or perhaps something quite different: advanced senility.

A combination of the two?

He was sitting next to the wall, his hands clasped in front of him on the rickety table. His gaze was lowered. He was probably closing his eyes now and then.

Reinhart and Münster were sitting in front of the opposite wall in the oblong-shaped room. On either side of the door. The chief inspector’s chair appeared to have been placed meticulously in the geometrical center. All Münster could see of Van Veeteren was his back: he was as static as a sphinx for the whole of the interrogation. His questions were spat out tonelessly and contemptuously, as if he knew all the answers in advance, and as if he had no interest at all in the proceedings.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask if you were guilty. I asked if you knew why you’re here. An appeal for information about you has been featured on radio and television, and in sixty-eight different newspapers, together with your name and a picture. And despite that, you claim that you don’t know why you are here. Are you thinking of pleading that you are an idiot, or that you can’t read?”

“No. I know why I’m here.”

The voice was faint, but with no trace of unsteadiness.

“Let me make it clear from the very beginning that I have nothing but contempt for you, Mr. Ferger. The sight of you arouses no reaction in me but utter disgust. In different circumstances, in a less civilized society than the one we live in, I would have no hesitation in executing you on the spot. Have you understood?”

Ferger swallowed.

“I’m convinced that my feelings are shared not only by my colleagues, but also by more or less everybody who knows what you have done.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Shut up, Mr. Ferger. You are sitting here because you are a murderer. You will be charged with the murder of Eva Ringmar on October third, of Janek Mitter on November twentieth, and of Elizabeth Hennan on November twenty-eighth. You also killed a four-year-old child on May thirty-first, 1986, but we haven’t yet finished accumulating the necessary proof for that murder.”

“It’s not true.”

That was a whisper, so faint that Münster could barely hear it. Van Veeteren ignored it.

“If you think that the answers you give will make the slightest difference, let me relieve you of that illusion. You will be found guilty, and you will spend the rest of your life in prison. I must warn you that there is a possibility that you will be executed….”

“What the hell are you saying?”

He was still talking to the table rather than to Van Veeteren.

“Not as a result of due process of law, of course, but by one of your fellow prisoners. There is a deep-seated contempt for scum like you even inside our prisons. Some very nasty things can happen. I want you to be aware of that, so that you can take whatever precautions might be necessary.”

Ferger squirmed on his chair.

“Nobody will lift a finger to help you. Why don’t you want a lawyer?”

“That’s my business.”

“There are no volunteers to defend you, of course; but even so, you have a legal right to a lawyer if you want one. The law applies even to the likes of you, Mr. Ferger. Why did you kill Liz Hennan?”

“I’ve never set eyes on her.”

“Was it because you couldn’t satisfy her?”

“I’ve never set eyes on her.”

“Was it because she mocked you for being such an inadequate lover?”

No response.

“Are you frightened of women? Do you think Liz Hennan was a tart?”

Ferger muttered something.

“Was that a ‘yes’?”

“I’ve never set eyes on her.”

“Why did she have a photograph of you, then?”

“I’ve never given her a photograph.”

“But you had a photograph of her.”

“No…. It…You’re lying.”

“I’m sorry. I meant to say that you had a photograph of Eva Ringmar. Is that true?”

“Maybe…I don’t remember.”

“We found it in your apartment. Did you have a relationship with Eva Ringmar?”

No response.

“Was Eva Ringmar a tart as well?”

“No. I’ve no desire to answer any more questions.”

“I’ve no desire to ask you any, either. Why did you go to the home of Janek Mitter and Eva Ringmar on October second?”

No response.

“You went there in the evening, but you went back in the early hours of the morning and murdered Eva Ringmar by drowning her in the bath.”

No response.

“Do you think we don’t know who you are?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What’s your alibi for the murder of Janek Mitter?”

“I was at a pizzeria….”

“Between eleven and twelve o’clock, yes. But Mitter was murdered after that, in the early hours of the morning. Don’t you have a better alibi than that?”

“I returned home and went to sleep. I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“Nothing. I’m not going to answer any more of your questions.”

“Why do you think Eva preferred Mitter to you?”

Ferger lowered his head even farther and stared down at the table.

“Why did she prefer Andreas Berger?”

He waited for a few seconds.

“Even if you are a shit, Mr. Ferger, surely there’s no reason for you to be such a stupid shit? You claim that you are innocent, and that you had nothing to do with the murders of Eva Ringmar, Janek Mitter, and Liz Hennan. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you shave off all your hair, make yourself up, and go into hiding if you are innocent?”

“I hid myself away because I gathered the police were looking for me.”

“The first wanted message wasn’t broadcast until noon yesterday. You’d already gone into hiding several hours before then.”

“No, I had problems with the car. I’d gone away for the weekend, but I couldn’t get back.”

“Where were you?”

“Up north.”

“Where did you spend the night?”

“In a motel.”

“Name and location.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Why didn’t you let the school know?”

“I tried to ring, but I couldn’t get through.”

“If you can’t produce better answers than that, Mr. Ferger, I suggest that you’d be better off holding your tongue. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Van Veeteren paused.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“Yes, please.”

Van Veeteren took a pack out of his pocket and shook out a cigarette. Stuck it into his mouth and lit it.

“You’re not going to get a cigarette. I’ve had enough of you.”

He stood up and turned his back on Ferger. Ferger looked up for the first time. It was only for a brief moment, but even so, Münster had time to register the expression in his eyes. He was scared. Completely and absolutely scared stiff.

“Just one more thing,” said Van Veeteren, turning to look at Ferger again. “What does it feel like, drowning a child? He must have put up a bit of resistance. How long did it take? What do you imagine he was thinking while it happened?”

Ferger was clasping his hands tightly now, and his head was shaking slightly. He said nothing, but Münster wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d broken down at that very moment. Flung himself on the floor, or overturned the table, or simply bellowed and howled.

“He’s in your hands now,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll be away for three hours. He mustn’t leave this room, he’s not to have anything to eat or drink. He’s not allowed to smoke. Ask him questions if you like. It’s up to you.”

Then he nodded at Reinhart and Münster, and left the room.

The closer he came, the slower he drove.

With only a couple of kilometers to go, he stopped in a parking lot. Got out of the car. Stood with his back to the squally wind and smoked a cigarette. He’d almost got used to it now, smoking. He couldn’t recall any other case that had induced him to smoke so many cigarettes. Not in recent years, at least.

No doubt there were reasons. But it was all over now, more or less. Just this final dotting of the
i.
The final pitch-black brush-stroke to complete this repulsive painting.

He wondered about how necessary it was. He’d been wondering ever since he set off. Tried to think of ways of getting around it, of avoiding this final step.

Sparing both himself and her this final degradation.

Maybe him as well?

Yes, perhaps even him as well.

But it was all in vain, of course. It was no more than the usual, familiar reluctance that he was always forced to deal with when he rang the bell and had to inform the wife that unfortunately, her husband…. Yes, sad to say, he had no choice, he would have to tell her….

There was no escape.

No extenuating circumstance.

No way of easing the pain.

He tossed his cigarette into a pool of water and clambered back into the car.

She opened the door almost immediately. She’d been expecting him.

“Good morning,” he said. “Well, here I am.”

She nodded.

“I take it you’ve been following the news these last few days?”

“Yes.”

She looked around, as if to check that she hadn’t forgotten anything: watering the flowers, or switching off the cooker.

“Are you ready to come with me?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

Her voice was just as he remembered it. Firm and clear, but flat.

“Can I ask you something?” he said. “Did you know what the real situation was? Did you know about it, even then?”

“Perhaps we should leave now, Chief Inspector?”

She took her overcoat from a coat hanger, and he helped her on with it. She wrapped a silk shawl around her head, picked up her purse and gloves from the basket chair, and turned to face him.

“I’m ready,” she said.

The journey back was much faster. All the time she sat erect and immobile in the front passenger seat beside him. Hands crossed over her purse. Staring straight ahead.

She didn’t say a word, nor did he. As everything was absolutely clear now, all done and dusted, there was nothing more to say. He understood this, and the silence was never awkward.

Even so, he might have preferred to ask her a question, make an accusation: but he recognized that it would have been impossible.

Don’t you see, he’d have liked to ask her, don’t you see, that if only you’d told me everything that first time, we could have saved a life? Possibly two.

But he couldn’t ask that of her.

Not that she would answer him now, anyway.

Nor that she should have done so then.

When they entered the room, nothing had changed.

Reinhart and Münster were sitting on their chairs, on either side of the door. The murderer was hunched over his table in front of the opposite wall. The air felt heavy, possibly slightly sweet: Van Veeteren wondered if a single word had been exchanged here either.

She took three strides toward him. Stopped behind the chief inspector’s chair and rested her hands on the back.

He looked up. His lower jaw started to tremble.

“Rolf?” she said.

There was a trace of happy surprise in her voice, but it was crushed immediately and brutally by the facts of the situation.

Rolf Ringmar collapsed slowly over the table.

44

“I’ll be damned if this whole affair isn’t a genuine Greek tragedy,” said Van Veeteren, closing the car door. “There’s an inevitability about it from the very beginning. As you know, incest was regarded as one of the worst sins you can possibly commit. Nothing less than a crime against the gods.”

Münster nodded. Backed out of the parking lot.

“Just imagine it,” said Van Veeteren. “You’re thirteen, fourteen years old. The early stages of puberty. You’re sensitive and as vulnerable as an open wound. A boy on the way to becoming a man. The first tentative steps. What’s the first thing you identify with?”

“Your father,” said Münster. He’s been through this himself, he thought.

“Right. And what does your father do? He drinks like a fish and demeans himself. He hits you. He really beats you up, not just once, but night after night, perhaps. He tortures you, he insults you. Your mother is too weak to intervene. She’s as scared of him as you are. You pretend it isn’t happening. You keep quiet and let it carry on, keeping it inside the family. You are defenseless. You have no rights: he’s your parent and he’s fully within his rights. You’ve nowhere to turn to, nowhere to find consolation—apart from one person. There’s only one person who can comfort you….”

“Your sister.”

“Who also gets beaten sometimes, but not nearly so often. She is there, she’s a bit stronger than you are, a little less wounded. She’s there in the room you share when you finally get away from him. Let’s say you’re fourteen years old, both of you. You lie in bed together, and she consoles you. You snuggle up to her and she protects you. She places her healing hands on your body…you’re fourteen years old…you hold tightly on to each other, you feel safe in each other’s arms, and you can hear him ranting and raving. He sets on your mother instead, demands his conjugal rights…. Hell and damnation, Münster!”

Münster coughed tentatively.

“It’s night now and you are naked. You’re fourteen, you’re brother and sister. There’s nothing wrong in what you do, Münster—who the hell is going to blame them for it? Who apart from the gods has the right to condemn these two children for the way things turn out? For becoming lovers? Who, Münster? Who?”

“I don’t know,” said Münster.

“Can you understand what she gave him?” said Van Veeteren, taking a deep breath. “To be able to come to a woman when you are beaten and degraded and worthless…To a woman who is your lover, your mother, and your sister. All at the same time. Is there any love that could be stronger than that, Münster? Just imagine being in love for the first time, and everything is perfect from the very start…. That love, that relationship is so strong that it must be more durable than anything else you will ever experience in the rest of your life…. Hell and damnation, Münster, what chance did he have?”

“How long did that go on for?” Münster asked.

“Two or three years, I’d have thought. He seems to be a bit vague about exactly when it began. Most likely it was just as strong on both sides for quite a long time. I think Eva eventually managed to escape from it—not because she really wanted to, but because she knew it was wrong. Forbidden. Impossible to keep going.”

“But for him it was just as impossible to stop,” said Münster.

Van Veeteren lit a cigarette.

“Yes, but she rejected him. What went on in that household, both while the father was still alive and afterward…well, I’d rather not think about it, Münster.”

“And then there was Paul Bejsen,” said Münster.

“Yes. Perhaps it was no more than an attempt from her side; I don’t think she was really in love with him. She probably took him to demonstrate that what had been was now over and done with, beyond recall. And Rolf, well, he…”

“Bided his time,” said Münster.

“You could say that, yes,” said Van Veeteren. “He waited for an opportunity to show how serious he was. And when that party took place, he saw his chance.”

“He waited out there on the moor,” said Münster.

“Exactly. Wandered around in the darkness hoping for an opportunity. Like a werewolf, almost.”

“Did he tell you all this as well?”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Yes. Telegram style, mind you. That was almost twenty years ago. The statutory limitation is twenty-one years—so we’d be able to prosecute him for that murder as well, if anybody thought there was any point in doing so.”

“And Eva forced him to go away?”

“Yes. She gave him an ultimatum. Either he disappeared or she would turn him in. Put yourself in his situation, Münster. He committed murder, not only because he was jealous, but also to demonstrate how strong his love was. And she rejected him. I think he came close to committing suicide during those months; he hinted as much. And during the early part of his exile as well. Perhaps…”

“…it would have been just as well,” said Münster, finishing the sentence for him.

“Have we any right to think that?” Van Veeteren asked.

“Have we?”

Münster made no reply. Glanced at his watch. A quarter to six.

“What time does the plane leave? Half past seven?”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“I have to check in an hour in advance.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, but Münster could sense that they needed to go through everything.

“What about this Ellen Caine?” he said.

“Ah, yes,” said Van Veeteren. “He got by for eight years—pretty remarkable, that, to say the least, but he got a grip on himself. Settled down in Toronto, drifted from one job to another, but kept himself afloat. Until he met a woman. He claims she was the one who went running after him, rather than the other way around, and that’s probably right. In any case, she was unable to give him a fraction of what he received from Eva. God only knows what goes through his mind when it comes to sex and women, Münster. But he demands the impossible, because he has experienced the impossible. Then he killed Ellen Caine because she let him down. I don’t know if she left him, he didn’t want to speak about that. Perhaps he couldn’t cope with being a lover, perhaps there was an element of good old honest jealousy involved. Anyway, he killed her. Threw her off a viaduct in the path of a long-distance truck. It never occurred to anybody that it was anything but an accident, or possibly suicide. Nobody knew he was anywhere in the vicinity.”

“Why did he change his name?”

“I think he’d started to think about coming back to Europe with a new identity. As early as that, after the Ellen business. In 1980 or thereabouts. He moved to New York, in any case, became an American citizen after a few years, and changed his name to Carl Ferger. He seems to have led a more or less normal life. Superficially, at least. But nevertheless, it’s a riddle, Münster. What made him come back here in January 1986? Not even he can give an explanation.”

“The determinant, perhaps?” said Münster with a faint smile.

“What?” exclaimed Van Veeteren in surprise. “God Almighty, I do believe Inspector Münster has begun to catch on to a few things! Whatever, he came back here, tracked down Eva, and started pestering her. In every possible way, no doubt. Presumably the very fact of suddenly being in her vicinity became more or less unbearable for him. That’s what he says, at least. Naturally, he was extremely jealous of Berger; but the worst thing was the child. The fact that she’d had a child with somebody else. Ah well, everything is in a hell of a mess now, Münster.”

“So he kills the child in order to punish her?”

“Yes, I think so. His concept of his ego seems to oscillate between an all-powerful god of retribution and a desperate young boy trying to cope with puberty and a lack of identity.”

“What about after that murder?”

“Eva protected him again, despite the fact that she was starting to go out of her mind herself. I think this is the point when she gave up on her life, when she realized that nothing could ever be normal. Maybe she also recognized that the bond between her and Rolf was stronger than she had imagined. Sexually as well. They resumed their forbidden relationship several times over those years. He lived in France—she didn’t want to have him too close—but she occasionally paid him a visit. That’s what he says, at least. Perhaps he imagined that everything would turn out as he wanted in the end, perhaps she breathed life back into his hopes.”

“But instead, she discarded him again.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“She moved here. A new beginning. Maybe she didn’t tell him where she’d gone, but he tracked her down, of course. He even managed to get a job at the same school eventually. It must have been a nasty shock for her when the headmaster introduced the new school janitor.”

“Was that this year?”

“Yes, in January. The beginning of term after the Christmas holidays.”

“And so she married Mitter just to show him the way things stood?”

Van Veeteren sighed.

“Yes, could be. Perhaps she was just as mad as he was. I had the impression from Mitter that their relationship was something that exceeded his comprehension. That their lovemaking was a matter of life or death all the time. Well, something along those lines, I think.”

“Why did he kill her instead of Mitter?”

“I think it was an impulse, something he did on the spur of the moment. Possibly an attempt to get rid of the awful circumstances once and for all. Whatever, it was all a series of accidents, pure chance. The fact that Mitter was so drunk that he lost his memory was not something Ferger had anticipated, of course. He’d expected Mitter to say that Ferger had been with them earlier that evening, but was confident that there was nothing to indicate that he’d returned later and murdered her. He must have wondered why on earth he heard nothing from the police.”

Van Veeteren shook his head.

“Six murders,” he said. “I thought there were four, or possibly five. But there were six.” He paused, and gazed out the window into the darkness.

“What do you think it is,” he asked, “that makes his mother want to keep on living? Why the hell doesn’t she take her own life? Or just lie down and die?”

Münster thought for a moment.

“Hamlet? Too scared?”

“No. You’ve met her.”

“Is she religious?”

Van Veeteren couldn’t help laughing.

“What sort of a god would allow your husband to mistreat and degrade you, your children to indulge in incest, your son to murder your daughter…”

Münster hesitated.

“I don’t know. Perhaps she is punishing herself—by carrying on living, I mean.”

Van Veeteren turned to look at Münster.

“Excellent,” he said in surprise. “Well done, Münster! I shall have to remember not to underestimate you in the future.”

“Thank you,” said Münster. “We’re nearly at the airport. There was just one more thing.”

“Well?”

“I’d be grateful if you could send a card, sir. For the sake of the stamp. My boy has started collecting stamps….”

“Of course,” said Van Veeteren.

Münster parked the car and took out the bags.

“So, I’ll see you in January,” said Van Veeteren.

“The end of January,” said Münster. “I’m taking two weeks’ vacation after New Year’s.”

“Good for you, Münster! Where are you going?”

“The Maldives,” said Münster, smiling modestly.

“Excellent, Münster,” said Van Veeteren, shaking his hand.

“But keep in form. I’m not going to be easy to handle when I get back.”

“I know,” said Münster.