Mind's Eye Read online

  “We have people who can pick locks,” said Münster.

  “No time,” said Van Veeteren.

  “There’s usually a janitor,” said Münster.

  “Knock the door down, I said! Do I have to do it myself?”

  Münster sized it up. The door was ideally located, no doubt about that. Farthest away from the staircase. He’d have a run of a good eight meters. Van Veeteren stepped to one side.

  “Give it all you’ve got!”

  Münster barged into the door, shoulder first. There was a loud creaking noise, from both the door and Münster, but that was all.

  “One more time!” said Van Veeteren.

  Münster charged again, with just as little result.

  “Fetch the janitor!” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll wait here.”

  After ten minutes Münster returned with a thin man wearing an overall and a flat cap.

  “Mr. Gobowsky,” explained Münster.

  A circle of discarded toothpicks had formed around Van Veeteren’s feet, and Mr. Gobowsky eyed it critically. Then he asked to see Van Veeteren’s ID.

  The bastard had been to the movies, it seemed.

  The apartment comprised two small rooms and an even smaller kitchen, and it took them about five seconds to establish that the tenant had flown. Van Veeteren slumped down into an artificial leather chair.

  “He’s done a runner,” he said. “We’ll have to set off a nationwide alert. This guy is going to bankrupt the police force. Münster, you stay here and root around! I’ll send somebody to help you.”

  Münster nodded. The chief inspector turned to the janitor, who was loitering in the hall, eager to know what was going on.

  “Did he have a car?” Van Veeteren asked.

  “A blue Fiat,” said Mr. Gobowsky. “A 326, I think.”

  “Where did he usually park it?”

  “In the lot outside.”

  Mr. Gobowsky nodded in the direction of the courtyard.

  “Come with me, please, and see if it’s still there,” said Van Veeteren. “We’ll leave the inspector here.”

  “Wait!” shouted Münster, just as they were passing through the door. “Look at this!”

  He held out a little photograph in a frame. Van Veeteren took it and examined it.

  “Eva Ringmar,” he said. “A few years younger, but it’s her, sure as hell.”

  “No more doubts, then?” said Münster.

  “Have I ever had any doubts?” said Van Veeteren, leaving Münster to his fate.

  “Carl Ferger, yes,” said Reinhart. “Came here in 1986, presumably, possibly a year or so earlier. Send the faxes immediately! And tell them we need answers PDQ, if not sooner, the moment they find him! Stick on red flags and express labels and Interpol and whatever else you have in that line! And make sure you inform me, or one of the others, the moment you get an answer! Is that understood?”

  Widmar Krause nodded.

  “One to the immigration office, and one to the other side, okay?” Reinhart repeated. “Let them fight to see who wins!”

  Krause left the room. Reinhart looked at the clock. A quarter past twelve. Looked at Van Veeteren, who was slumped over the desk.

  He looks like a half-finished stuffed animal, Reinhart thought.

  “Where do you think he is?” he said.

  “Probably lying low and dossing down in a motel somewhere,” said Van Veeteren. “Not a bad idea, in fact. Do you know that some shit-heap woke me up at four-thirty this morning? Let’s go and have lunch.”

  “By all means,” said Reinhart. “But not the canteen.”

  “No, Christ no,” said Van Veeteren. “If we have nothing else to do but sit and wait, we might as well go somewhere a bit classier.”

  “Good,” said Reinhart. “Let’s go to La Canaille and leave the number with the switchboard. But what if it’s Klempje on duty?”

  “No chance,” said Van Veeteren. “He’s still in exile.”

  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 we
re 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 boxin
g 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?