The Inspector and Silence Page 6

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Kluuge nodded several times, to remove any possible doubt.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked the chief inspector.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Hard to say. Somewhere between forty and fifty but I’m not sure . . . Could be older. Voices are not my strong point.’

  ‘What did she sound like?’

  ‘Like I said. She spoke quietly, especially the first time . . . Sounded very serious anyway, as if she really meant what she was saying. That’s why I concluded that I ought to call the chief inspector.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Have you got any more information about that sect?’

  Kluuge scratched nervously at his neck.

  ‘I’ve spoken to colleagues in Stamberg. They promised to gather together a bit of information and fax it over, but nothing’s come yet.’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go back to my hotel – you can let me know if anything turns up. I’ll be staying on here for a few more days, no matter what.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kluuge, looking a bit self-conscious. ‘I’m grateful, as I said.’

  ‘You don’t need to keep on being grateful all the time,’ said the chief inspector, rising to his feet. ‘I suspect there’s something rotten going on here – I’ve paid, by the way.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Kluuge.

  By the time Van Veeteren had returned to his room at Grimm’s, it was half past two in the afternoon and the sun was shining diagonally through the open window. He closed the curtains and took a long, cool shower, this time not paying any attention to the colour scheme.

  When he had cooled down sufficiently, he stretched himself out on the bed and called the police station in Maardam. He eventually got hold of Münster.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Van Veeteren asked.

  ‘How’s what going?’ Münster wondered.

  ‘How the hell do I know? The trigger-happy lunatic, for instance.’

  ‘We caught him this morning. Don’t you listen to the radio?’

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ Van Veeteren explained.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Münster.

  ‘So I might be able to get a bit of help?’ asked Van Veeteren rhetorically. ‘Now that you’ve got your man.’

  Münster coughed and sounded worried – and the chief inspector recalled that Münster was about to go on holiday. He explained what he wanted, and Münster promised to do whatever he could – to find out all there was to know about the Pure Life, and to fax it without delay to Grimm’s Hotel in Sorbinowo.

  ‘The quicker, the better,’ said Van Veeteren, and hung up.

  No harm in casting out a few more lines, he thought, and started to get dressed.

  In case Kluuge might have rung the wrong number, or something.

  A quarter of an hour later he was back in the car, armed with a new pack of cigarettes and a few fugues. He wasn’t heading anywhere in particular – unless an hour’s unhurried drive round the lakes and through the aromatic forests could be defined as somewhere in particular.

  And a trip through Bach’s unfailingly logical variations.

  He was back by five o’clock. Took another shower, and before going out to choose a suitable eating place, he enquired at reception if there were any messages for him.

  There were not.

  Nothing from Kluuge.

  Nothing from Münster.

  Ah well, he thought. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

  And as he wandered towards the town centre, he wondered what on earth he meant by that.

  9

  Despite the massive influx of tourists seeking fresh air and good walking country – at this time of year the town probably housed twice as many people as during the winter, Van Veeteren would have thought – Sorbinowo had it limits. The number of respectable eating places (to qualify as such in his opinion you needed to be able to sit down and eat at a proper table, and be spared having to listen to canned music at more or less unbearable sound levels) was precisely five. Including Florian’s, where he had taken lunch with Kluuge, and Grimm’s Hotel, where he was staying.

  This second evening the chief inspector chose number four: a simple, quasi-Italian establishment in one of the little alleys leading from Kleinmarckt up the hill to the church and the railway station. The pasta turned out to be a bit sticky and the beer lukewarm, but it was peaceful and quiet, and he could sit there alone with his thoughts.

  Something which rarely happened, in fact.

  Prayers? he thought.

  Self-denial? Purity?

  He had been thinking about such things in the car as well, while listening to the fugues.

  And the image of the tranquil bodies of the little girls at the water’s edge came back to him. And the pale women wrapped in their lengths of bleached cotton cloth.

  What the devil was going on?

  A justified question, no doubt about that. There were voices inside him – loud voices – stubbornly demanding that he should sort them out. Return to Waldingen without a second’s delay – preferably together with Kluuge in his uniform – and bring the lot of them to book.

  Give Oscar Yellinek a good dressing-down and set about all that sanctimoniousness with a sledgehammer. Find out the name of every single girl and send them off home at the first opportunity.

  Very loud voices.

  But there was something else as well. He took another swig of beer and tried to pin it down.

  Something to do with freedom and rights, presumably.

  With the right to practise one’s religion in peace and without interference. Not to have the police lurking round every corner, ready to come storming in the moment anything happened that didn’t conform with convention.

  With defending, or at least not squashing, a minority.

  Yes, something of that sort. Definitely.

  Despite his instinctive dislike of Yellinek, he couldn’t help agreeing with him when it came down to basics. What right had he, the unbeliever, to stand in judgement over these members of a drop-out sect?

  Two anonymous telephone calls. Little girl missing? Was that sufficient reason?

  It could no doubt be argued that one should have rather firmer ground on which to stand. Somewhere a bit drier for one’s feet.

  The fair-haired waitress came with his coffee and cognac. He lit a cigarette.

  Not to mention the inconvenience!

  He took a sip of cognac. Perhaps that was what put him off the most. The inconvenience. In the other half of the scales, comfort and warmth – for if he really did make up his mind to move in now, wasn’t it likely that Yellinek and the female troika would make him take the consequences as well? Force him to take responsibility for the whole group of girls and make sure each of them got back home safely?

  And there was no reason to think that the girls’ parents would have a more benevolent attitude towards the police than their spiritual leader had displayed. After all, they had sent their offspring to this camp, and whether or not they were completely naive, they were hardly likely to be pleased to receive their half-confirmed teenagers three weeks earlier than expected. Anybody would be able to understand that. Even Kluuge. Even an agnostic detective chief inspector on his last legs.

  Hell and damnation, Van Veeteren thought as he gestured for the bill. I’m sitting here like a donkey in two minds, thinking rubbish.

  About a case that doesn’t even exist!

  Or at least, probably doesn’t, he added. It must be the weather.

  He paid, and left El Pino. It occurred to him that perhaps a decent glass of wine might help to get his mind back on track. White, of course, in view of the temperature; it was a few minutes short of half past eight, and the heat of the day was still lingering around Kleinmarckt, where the occasional tourist (and perhaps one or two locals) were strolling around in the gathering dusk.

  Mersault, perhaps? Or just a sim
ple glass of Riesling? That would probably be easier to find.

  He could feel his mood improving already.

  After all, the only reason he’d come here in the first place was to fill in time until Crete. Christos Hotel, the source of youth and that chestnut brown hair.

  No other reason at all.

  The cinema was called Rymont, and the mere existence of such an establishment in Sorbinowo was just as surprising as the films it was showing. Evidently something called a ‘Quality Film Festival’ was on offer during the summer, and when he discovered that a showing of the Taviani brothers’ Kaos was due to start in about two minutes, there was not a lot of time to hesitate.

  He entered the auditorium just as the lights were being dimmed, but that gave him ample time to greet the rest of the evening’s audience. It comprised five people comfortably spread over the back few rows: four gentlemen and a lady – all of them past the first flush of youth, but with the kind of features characteristic of genuine cinema enthusiasts, Van Veeteren was pleased to note.

  With a satisfied sigh he slumped down a few rows further forward – his satisfaction being intensified when it transpired that there would be no advertisements, and that the main film would begin at the exact time stated on the billboards.

  So there is still a grain of quality left in this world of ours, he thought. Even a blind chicken can sometimes discover that fact occasionally.

  Afterwards none of the audience was in much of a hurry to leave the premises. Two of the gentlemen launched into an animated discussion of the film. Comparisons were suggested with Pirandello’s texts and with other films by the Italian brothers, and it was clear to Van Veeteren that this was no ordinary group of people he’d found himself a part of. When he eventually stood up, another member of the audience came up to greet him – a short grey-haired gentleman exuding an aura of energy.

  ‘A new face! It’s a pleasure to welcome you!’

  He held out his hand, and Van Veeteren shook it.

  ‘Przebuda. Andrej Przebuda. Chairman of the Sorbinowo Film Society.’

  Van Veeteren. I just happen to be passing through . . .’

  He searched his memory.

  ‘Life is a series of coincidences.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said the chief inspector. Very true. Hmm . . . I’m delighted to see that the cinematographic arts are still alive and kicking even outside the metropolitan centres.’

  ‘Well,’ said Przebuda, ‘we do our best – but as you can see, there aren’t all that many of us.’

  He gestured towards the others.

  ‘And we’re not exactly spring chickens either.’

  He smiled broadly and ran his hand apologetically over his almost bald head.

  ‘Andrej Przebuda?’ said the chief inspector – the penny had dropped at last.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think we have a mutual friend.’

  ‘You don’t say? Who?’

  ‘W.F. Mahler.’

  ‘The poet?’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘He claimed that you appreciated his poems.’

  Przebuda burst out laughing and nodded enthusiastically. He was certainly closer to seventy than anything else, Van Veeteren thought. But the intensity in those eyes of his suggested the timeless twenties; and when the chief inspector looked more closely it seemed to him that the man’s face was distinctly Jewish. He realized – or suspected at least – that he was talking to one of those rare people who had been ennobled by suffering. Who had passed through fire and brimstone and been hardened rather than cracked.

  But that was only a guess, of course. One of those sudden surges of speculation that demanded to be considered, and he was old enough to do so.

  ‘A damned fine poet, that Mahler,’ said Przebuda. ‘Fastidious, and as clear as a mountain tarn. I think I’ve reviewed every collection he’s published, right from the start. But how . . .’

  It was another ten minutes before Van Veeteren was able to leave the Rymont cinema, armed with an insistent invitation from Andrej Przebuda to meet again and get to know each other better in the very near future – either in the editorial offices of his magazine, or at his home, which was nearby.

  If the fact of the matter was that the chief inspector had come to Sorbinowo on official business, rather than as a tourist, then it could well be – not to overstate the matter – that he, Andrej Przebuda, might well be able to supply appropriate information.

  If that should prove to be necessary. He’d been living here for forty-four years, after all.

  If nothing else, perhaps they could exchange a few words about films and poetry.

  Why not? Van Veeteren thought, having eventually taken leave of Przebuda and the other members of the Sorbinowo Film Society. It could be rewarding, from various points of view.

  On the whole, not a wasted evening by any means, he decided as he made his way back to Grimm’s. But even so, once he had gone to bed what dominated his consciousness were the images from the morning. They kept him awake until the small hours.

  Those young, naked little girls.

  Those pale women.

  The prophet’s beard.

  10

  The information about Oscar Yellinek and his spiritual activities had arrived on the Sunday morning. Both from Münster and from Stamberg. After a substantial breakfast in his room with two daily newspapers, Van Veeteren devoted an hour of the morning to sitting at Sorbinowo’s police station and going through the material.

  And wondering what to do next.

  Always assuming there ought to be anything to do next. Kluuge had been sent home to look after his pregnant wife, who had evidently been unwell during the night. The chief inspector was sweating. The sun had turned a corner, and was now slowly warming up Chief of Police Malijsen’s office to a state that would soon be just as unbearable as a fried apricot. There was no way of preventing that, despite all the blinds and curtains.

  To what extent the Pure Life was an even more unbearable business was a matter of opinion.

  Oscar Yellinek was born in 1942 in Groenstadt. Studied theology and took the cloth in Aarlach in 1971. Was active as a curate and spiritual guide in half a dozen places until he broke loose in the autumn of 1984 and started the free-church community (alternative synod) of the Pure Life. The main centre of recruitment was Stamberg, where he had also lived and worked since the beginning of the eighties.

  In its early years the Pure Life had evidently led a quite anonymous existence. Nobody had a word to say against it; the number of proselytes seemed to be upwards of thirty souls (there were no reliable figures), most of them women – a characteristic that continued into the future. Meetings and services were held in various different locations, which often seemed to be rented for just a week or so, and sometimes for only one occasion.

  As time went by, however, the movement began to develop a more populist profile. Together with a former fellow student, Werner Wassmann (who later left the movement after an internal schism), Yellinek began to arrange open-air meetings and to appear in more or less public places.

  The message was simple, the tone attractive:

  Leave the sinful, materialistic world! Come to us! Live in purity and harmony in contact with the only true God!

  Membership increased, quite a lot of money was donated, and in 1988 the Pure Life’s first church was opened. It was later extended to accommodate various school activities, and eventually became competent enough to teach years one to six in accordance with official education regulations.

  From the start there had been rumours circulating about Yellinek’s movement, and letters were sent to the editors of local newspapers and calls made to local radio programmes. Accusations varied from brainwashing and fascism to contempt for women and sexism, and in 1989 the mother of a member who had left the sect – a seventeen-year-old girl – brought an action against Yellinek for indecent assault and sexual abuse.

  The case attracted a lot of attention, and had undeni
able appeal for the mass media. Speaking in tongues. Compulsory mortification of the flesh. Big meetings at which all participants were naked, and Yellinek exorcized the devil collectively from the whole congregation. Girls being spanked on their bare bottoms. And a number of other activities with marked sexual undertones. Or overtones. The Pure Life was sometimes described in newspapers as the sex-sect, sometimes as devil-worshippers, and the eventual outcome was that Yellinek was sentenced to six months in prison for mild indecency and illegal compulsion.

  Mild indecency? the chief inspector thought, fanning himself with an old newspaper. Was there really such an offence? He couldn’t remember ever having come across it before, that was for sure.

  Paradoxically, the sentence and Yellinek’s time behind bars seemed to result in a slight change in public opinion, according to Münster’s documents. The imprisoned priest achieved a certain martyrdom, and the reputation of the Pure Life seemed – temporarily at least – to rise out of the dirt. While waiting for their spiritual leader’s return, most members went to ground; but the sect was not wound up, and surprisingly few left.

  After half a year of diaspora, the shepherd returned to his flock, and as far as one could tell, activities began again on the same basis as before. There were no obvious changes, except perhaps a more marked tendency to remain aloof from the everyday world and discourage interest from outside, be it from journalists or anybody else. Even so the membership continued to expand slowly but surely, and by the middle of the nineties it appeared to be about a thousand souls. Oscar Yellinek’s position as the sole spiritual leader had probably never been stronger.

  The view of other communions when it came to the Pure Life was more or less one hundred per cent critical; there had never been room for any interest in fellowship and ecumenical matters in Yellinek’s teachings, and serious commentators obviously regarded the sect as a rather promiscuous and generally dodgy phenomenon.

  Among Kluuge’s information from the police in Stamberg were also several indications of the so-called defector syndrome, which meant that former members had been harassed in various ways after leaving the sect. Such incidents were by no means unknown in similar circumstances, but as far as the Pure Life was concerned it seemed to be mainly rumours and occasional notices in the local press. There had been no cases leading to police intervention or any other kind of reaction from the authorities.