Mind's Eye Read online

  “Overruled!” bellowed Havel. “Answer the question!”

  “Never,” said Mitter.

  “Is it not a fact that you were reported for striking a pupil? In March 1983, according to the information at my disposal?”

  Ferrati looked pleased with himself. Mitter said nothing.

  “Do you intend to reply, or don’t you remember?”

  “I was reported, yes.”

  “But nevertheless you claim that you have never been violent toward your pupils?”

  “I was falsely accused. Declared wrongfully convicted, just as I shall be again now.”

  More reaction from the gallery. This time it was so loud that Havel was forced to resort to his gavel.

  “I must ask the public to remain silent during court proceedings…and to request the defendant to answer the questions put to him! Nothing else!”

  Rüger obviously felt that this was the time to make a decisive intervention.

  “My Lord, I really must insist that we call a halt to this line of questioning. My learned friend the prosecuting attorney has been asking irrelevant questions for far too long. His intention is clear: he is intent on maligning my client, because he has no solid evidence to support the prosecution case. If he is going to be allowed to continue, I must insist that he ask questions that are relevant to the case!”

  For a moment it looked as if Havel were intent on aiming his gavel at Rüger’s skull, but in fact he turned to Ferrati: “May I ask that my learned friend come to the point!”

  “By all means.”

  Ferrati produced his friendly smile once more, this time directed at the jury. The two lady members were only too keen to smile back.

  “Mr. Mitter, did you drown your wife?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because…because I didn’t do it.”

  “You mean that you didn’t kill her because you didn’t kill her?”

  Mitter allowed himself a couple of extra seconds’ thinking time before replying. Then he said, calm and restrained, “No, I know I didn’t kill her, because I didn’t kill her. Just as I’m sure that you know you are not wearing frilly knickers today, because you aren’t. Not today.”

  The gallery exploded. Ferrati sat down. Havel hammered away at his desk. Rüger shook his head, while Mitter stood upright in the dock and then bowed modestly to acknowledge the applause.

  Now he was in an excellent mood, albeit dying for a cigarette. Nevertheless, his next comment came as a surprise to himself, not to mention everybody else.

  “I admit everything!” he yelled. “Provided somebody gives me a cigarette!”

  When Judge Havel was eventually able to make himself heard, he announced, “The court will adjourn for twenty minutes! The prosecuting and defending attorneys will report to my room immediately!”

  And with a resounding blow of his gavel, he concluded the proceedings for the time being.

  12

  “Excuse me.”

  Van Veeteren elbowed aside two reporters and forced his way into the telephone kiosk. Slammed the door shut so as not to hear the curses and protests…Who did they think they were? Surely the police took precedence over the press?

  While he was waiting for a reply he observed the grotesque face glaring at him from the shiny surface above the telephone. It was a few seconds before it dawned on him that he was looking at his own reflection. There was something unusual about it, evidently, and it took him a few more seconds to realize what it was.

  He was smiling.

  The corners of his mouth were raised to form a generous curve and gave his face an expression suggesting a touch of lunacy.

  Like a posturing male gorilla, he thought glumly, but that didn’t help much. The smile stayed in place, and deep down inside himself he began to feel vibrations, a sort of muffled purring, and he realized that all this must combine to form an expression of satisfaction. Warm and grateful satisfaction.

  He couldn’t recall having experienced anything funnier; not since the former chief of police ran over his wife on a pedestrian crossing, in any case. The image of the prosecuting attorney, Ferrati, in frilly knickers was something he could hide in the innermost recesses of his mind, to be dug out whenever it suited him for the rest of his life. Ponder over it, and enjoy it.

  Not to mention the sheer pleasure to be derived from entering Ferrati’s office on Monday mornings and saying:

  “Hi there! What color are your knickers today, then?”

  It was priceless. As he stood there glowering at the gorilla, it struck him that his present state was something reminiscent of a kind of happiness.

  Measured by his own standards, at least.

  It didn’t last long, more’s the pity; but at least it was real.

  However, the problem at the moment was Münster. The badminton match scheduled for noon would have to be postponed. Van Veeteren would have to blame his foot.

  “It’s this damned awful weather. I don’t think it feels stable enough yet. I’m sorry, but it’s just not on.”

  Münster understood. No problem. He could take on PC Nelde instead. The chief inspector didn’t need to worry.

  Worry? Van Veeteren thought. Why the hell should I worry? Who does he think he is?

  But then he turned his mind to the real reason.

  The fact was that he had no desire to leave the courtroom for the sports hall. Not yet.

  Mitter.

  This damned Mitter.

  Those vibrations were starting up again, but he suppressed them. Anyway, this case. He had come here this morning because he didn’t feel like starting on anything new. An arsonist was lying in wait on his desk, he knew that; and if there was anything he hated, it was arsonists.

  He had thought he would hang around for an hour or so. Just to see how the schoolteacher coped with being in the dock, and with Ferrati. He wouldn’t stay very long—he would just fill in an hour or two before it was time for badminton and lunch.

  But now he was hooked. Couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not yet. It wasn’t the line about Ferrati’s knickers that compelled him to stay, despite the fact that on grounds of pure courtesy he’d have been prepared to hang around for hours simply to have had the privilege of being there at that moment. No, it was something else. Even before the palaver and the adjournment, it had become clear to him that he would have to stay on and see how the trial developed—not because he thought that Mitter had a cat’s chance in hell in the long run: that wasn’t the point. He had no doubt that Mitter would be found guilty in the end.

  But had he done it?

  Had this crazy schoolteacher really pressed his wife’s head down under the water and held it there until she was dead?

  Two minutes? No, that wouldn’t have been long enough. Three, three and a half?

  Van Veeteren doubted it. And he didn’t like doubts.

  And was Mitter in his right mind?

  He certainly had been at the time of the murder.

  But now?

  You’re not wearing frilly knickers. Not today!

  I’ll admit everything if somebody gives me a cigarette!

  In court. That was brilliant.

  And then, when all was said and done, if Mitter hadn’t killed his wife, who had?

  He recalled Reinhart once saying that no two professions were more similar than those of teachers and actors.

  If he was wrong, the winners would have to be police officers and mud wrestlers, Van Veeteren thought as he elbowed his way back to his seat in the public gallery.

  13

  “Would you please tell us as much as you can remember about the evening and night between October second and third.”

  Havel had opened the session by warning all concerned: there would be new adjournments and proceedings behind locked doors if there were any further interruptions or indiscipline. Nevertheless, there was a murmur from the gallery in anticipation of Mitter’s answer.

  “Where would you like m
e to begin?”

  “From when you left school.”

  “By all means.” Mitter cleared his throat. “I finished at three-thirty. Eva only had lessons in the morning, so we didn’t go home together. I had the car. Called in at Keen’s and bought a drop of wine.”

  “How much wine?”

  “How much? A case. Twelve bottles.”

  “Thank you. Please go on.”

  “I got home at half past four, or thereabouts. Eva had started preparing the evening meal, a casserole we were going to eat later on. She paused when I arrived, and we had a glass of wine and a cigarette on the balcony instead. It was very pleasant weather, and I suppose we sat outside for an hour or more.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing special. School, books…”

  “You didn’t have any visitors?”

  “No.”

  “Any telephone calls?”

  “Just the one, Bendiksen.”

  “Who’s Bendiksen?”

  “A good friend of mine. We’d planned a fishing trip for that Sunday. He rang about some detail or other.”

  “What, precisely?”

  “I can’t really remember. What time we should leave, I think.”

  “No other telephone calls?”

  “No.”

  “Or visits?”

  “No.”

  “As far as you can remember?”

  Ferrati smiled.

  “Yes. As far as I can remember.”

  “Okay, so you sat out on the balcony until about…half past five, is that right?”

  “Roughly.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “I don’t know. A bottle, perhaps.”

  “Each?”

  “No, between us.”

  “Not more?”

  “Well, possibly.”

  “And then? Please go on.”

  “We went indoors and finished preparing the casserole. Then we had a shower.”

  “Separately, or…?”

  “No, together.”

  “Go on!”

  “We watched television for a while.”

  “What program?”

  “The news, and then a film.”

  “What was the film?”

  “I don’t remember. French, from the sixties, I think. We switched it off.”

  “And then?”

  “We went to the kitchen and started eating.”

  “What time was it by now?”

  “I don’t know. Presumably about half past eight…nine o’clock…something like that.”

  “Why are you guessing that time?”

  “The police showed me the TV program for that evening. A French film started at eight o’clock.”

  “But you don’t remember yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. Let’s assume that it’s correct even so. You and your wife are sitting in the kitchen, eating, round about nine o’clock. What happens next?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I have no memory of what happens after that.”

  “You remember nothing more from the whole evening?”

  “No.”

  “But you have told the police that you had sexual intercourse with your wife as well…”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but it was the same time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was at the same time as we were eating dinner.”

  “You had intercourse while you were eating dinner?”

  Somebody sighed in the gallery. Ferrati turned his head.

  “Yes. More or less the same time.”

  More muttering, and Havel picked up his gavel. But this time he didn’t even need to raise it. It was clear that he had the situation under control.

  “What else do you remember from that evening?” Ferrati asked.

  “Nothing, as I’ve already said.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t remember getting undressed and going to bed? Or that your wife took a bath?”

  “No. Would you kindly refrain from asking the same question over and over again!”

  “Now, let’s get this straight, Mr. Mitter: you are accused of murder. I think it’s in your best interests for us to be a bit more precise. Just one more thing, before we move on to the next morning. How much did you drink during the course of the evening?”

  “I don’t know. Six or seven bottles, perhaps. Between us, that is.”

  “Wine?”

  “Yes.”

  “But surely you hadn’t managed to get through six bottles of wine when you were having your, er, intercourse dinner?”

  Somebody giggled, and Rüger protested.

  “Overruled!” Havel roared. “Answer the question!”

  “No…. I don’t think so.”

  “So I can draw the conclusion that you didn’t go to bed at about nine o’clock?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “In any case, you must have been pretty drunk—or what do you think, Mr. Mitter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t hear you!” Havel bellowed.

  “Yes, I was drunk.”

  “Were you also drunk when you slapped your former wife a couple of times?”

  “Why are you asking that?”

  “Surely you must understand why?” said Ferrati with a smile.

  “Objection!” shouted Rüger, but it was in vain.

  “Yes, I was drunk then as well,” admitted Mitter. “Being drunk is not a crime, I hope.”

  “Certainly not,” said Ferrati amiably. “And your wife, Eva Ringmar that is, was she also drunk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it usual for you to drink such amounts, Mr. Mitter? Your wife had a blood alcohol count of over three hundred.”

  “It happened.”

  “Is it true to say that your wife had a drinking problem?”

  “Objection!” shouted Rüger once more.

  “Rephrase the question, please!” said Havel.

  “Has your wife received clinical treatment for an alcohol problem?” asked Ferrati.

  “Yes. That was six years ago. She received treatment at her own request. It was in connection with some very tragic incidents…. I think…”

  “Thank you, that will do. We know the details. What is your next memory?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s the next thing you remember after the casserole and the sexual intercourse?”

  “Waking up.”

  “What time?”

  “Twenty minutes past eight. The next morning.”

  “Tell me what you did!”

  “I got up…and found Eva in the bathroom.”

  “What about the state of the door—the bathroom door, that is?”

  “It was locked. I opened it with a screwdriver.”

  “Was it difficult to open?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “So you opened the locked door from the outside, no problem. Would you have been able to lock it from the outside as well?”

  “Objection! My learned friend is forcing my cli—”

  “Overruled! Answer the question!”

  “I…I suppose so.”

  “You could have drowned your wife in the bathtub and then locked the door from the outside, is that right?”

  Rüger started to stand up, but Havel raised a warning finger.

  “Will the accused please answer the attorney’s question!”

  Mitter moistened his lips.

  “Of course,” he said calmly. “But I didn’t.”

  Ferrati stood for a few seconds without saying anything. Then he turned his back on Mitter, as if he could no longer bear to set eyes on him. When he started speaking again, he had sunk his voice half an octave, and spoke slowly, as if addressing a child. Trying to make it see reason.

  “Mr. Mitter, you have no memor
ies at all from that night, but nevertheless you maintain that you didn’t kill your wife. You have had a month to think about it, and I have to say that I’d expected rather more logic from a teacher of philosophy. Why can’t you at least admit that you can’t remember if you killed her or not?”

  “I wouldn’t forget something like that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I wouldn’t forget having drowned my wife. I don’t remember having killed her…ergo, I didn’t kill her.”

  Rüger blew his nose. It might have been an attempt to divert attention from Mitter’s last words. If so, it failed because Ferrati repeated them, albeit somewhat distortedly. Standing in front of the jury, only an arm’s length away, he intoned: “I don’t remember, therefore I’m not guilty! Might I request, members of the jury, that you consider these words carefully, and weigh their significance. What do you conclude? I can see that you know the answer already—they weigh less than air! And that is characteristic of the whole case for the defense! Air, nothing but hot air!”

  He turned to look at Mitter again.

  “Mr. Mitter, for the last time…why don’t you confess to killing your wife, Eva Ringmar, by drowning her in the bathtub? Why persist in being so stubborn?”

  “May I point out that I’ve admitted it already, before the adjournment,” said Mitter. “Who’s being stubborn?”

  The reply aroused considerable enthusiasm in the public gallery, and Havel was forced to resort to his gavel. Ferrati took the opportunity of consulting his assistant before confronting Mitter once again.

  “Tell us what you did while waiting for the police!”

  “I…tidied up a bit.”

  “What did you do with the clothes that you and your wife had been wearing the previous evening?”

  “I washed them.”

  “Where?”

  “In the washing machine.”

  Ferrati took off his glasses and put them into his inside pocket.

  “While your wife was lying dead in the bath and you were waiting for the police to arrive, you took advantage of the opportunity to wash clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  New pause.

  “Why, Mr. Mitter? Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ferrati shrugged. Walked back and stood behind his chair. Stretched both arms out wide.

  “Your Honor, I have no more questions to ask the defendant.”