The Return Page 9

  Rooth sighed.

  “Yes, that’s what it looks like.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “That woman,” he said, “the one who came to visit him…last year, or whenever it was…Who was she?”

  Bortschmaa turned to the welfare officer.

  “I’ve no idea,” he said.

  “Me neither,” said Joppens. “We’d better go and have a look at the record books, if you really want to know.”

  “Why don’t we do that?” said Rooth.

  It took some time for the two women in the archives to pin down the reference, but they eventually came up with the date.

  June 5, 1992. A Friday.

  Her name was Anna Schmidt.

  “Address?” Rooth asked.

  “We don’t have that,” said the older of the two women. “It’s not required.”

  “Only the name?”

  “Yes.”

  Rooth sighed.

  “What did she look like?”

  They both shrugged.

  “You’d better ask the warder.”

  “Is it possible to find out who was on duty then and who might have…might have seen her?”

  “Of course.”

  That also took some time, but at least it gave Rooth the opportunity to visit the canteen and buy a couple of cheese sandwiches while the duty officers on the day in question were traced.

  “You are Emmeline Weigers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were supervising the interview room on June fifth, 1992?”

  “Yes, it seems so.”

  “That was the day Leopold Verhaven had a visitor. That was most unusual, I gather.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Fairly well, yes.”

  “But it’s almost two years ago.”

  “I remember it because it was him. We talked about it among the staff. He was a bit…special, we’d heard.”

  “Did he often have visitors?”

  “Never.”

  “Can you describe the woman?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid. I can’t really remember. She was getting on a bit. About sixty, I’d say. A bit sickly, I think. Used a walking stick.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

  She thought for a while.

  “No, I don’t think I would. No.”

  “How long did they talk?”

  “I’m not sure. Fifteen or twenty minutes, if I remember rightly. Not the full time anyway.”

  “The full time?”

  “The rules allow half an hour.”

  “Is there anything special you remember, now that you think back about it? Any particular detail?”

  She pondered for about ten seconds.

  “No,” she said. “There was nothing.”

  Rooth thanked her and stood up.

  It took another hour to complete the formalities in the prison and then find Number 4 Ruitens Allé in the village of Ulmentahl itself. He parked outside the white house. Recited a silent prayer and walked up the paved drive. Rang the doorbell.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Chervouz?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Rooth. Detective Inspector Rooth. I was the one who phoned you not long ago.”

  “Come in. Or would you prefer to sit in the garden? It’s quite nice weather.”

  “Outdoors would be fine,” said Rooth.

  “It’s pretty when the chestnuts are in blossom,” said Mr. Chervouz as he filled two tall glasses with beer.

  “Yes,” said Rooth. “Very.”

  They drank.

  “What do you want to know about Verhaven?”

  “You were on duty, so-called gate duty, on June fifth, 1992. Verhaven had a visitor that day. I know it’s nearly two years ago now, but I wonder if you can remember anything about the woman you let in?”

  Chervouz took another swig of beer.

  “I’ve been thinking about it since you called. She came by cab, I think. An oldish woman. Had trouble walking, used a pair of walking sticks, in any case. But Christ, it’s just what I think I remember. I could be mixing her up with somebody quite different. I might be thinking of the wrong person.”

  “Why do you remember the visit at all?”

  “Because the visitor was for him, of course.”

  “I see,” said Rooth. “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “No.”

  “Was there anything else you noticed?”

  “No…No, I don’t think so.”

  “Were you still on duty when she left?”

  “No, it must have been somebody else. I don’t remember her leaving, in any case.”

  “Would you recognize her again?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  A few seconds passed. Then it came, and there was no mistaking the undertone of curiosity.

  “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing,” said Rooth. “He’s dead.”

  He had a moderately exciting dinner at the railroad station restaurant, and it was already getting dusk when he returned to his car.

  What a productive day this has been, he thought. Most impressive.

  And when he started working out how much taxpayers’ money had been spent—and would continue to be spent in future—on this dodgy investigation, he could feel himself growing angry.

  Especially when you consider what Leopold Verhaven had already cost the state. While he was still alive, that is.

  He had murdered two women. Been at the center of two protracted trials and found guilty and spent almost a quarter of a century in jail. And now somebody had put a period behind him.

  Wouldn’t it be as well for the police to do the same?

  Period. Draw a line and act as if they’d never stumbled upon that butchered body wrapped up in a piece of carpet. Who would benefit from the police putting vast amounts of time and energy into finding whoever it was that for whatever reason had decided to put an end to that solitary criminal’s existence?

  Who the hell cared if Leopold Verhaven was dead?

  Was there any single person?

  Apart from the one who killed him, of course.

  Rooth doubted it.

  But somewhere deep down at the back of his mind he could hear the echo of some guidelines, taken from the Rules and Regulations for Criminal Investigations, if he remembered rightly. He couldn’t recall the precise wording, but the meaning could be expressed just as well by one of Van Veeteren’s favorite sayings.

  If the murderer is holed up in Timbuktu, stop the first cab that comes along and go there. We’re not a profit-making company, for Christ’s sake!

  “Where is Timbuktu?” somebody had asked.

  “The cab driver will know,” Van Veeteren had replied.

  Better stick with that spirit, I suppose, Rooth thought. It’s hard to judge the consequences of any other approach.

  17

  Van Veeteren picked up the bundle of photocopies and leafed through it.

  Münster hadn’t been twiddling his thumbs, he had to admit. Forty to fifty pages as least; from several newspapers, but naturally enough mainly Neuwe Blatt and Telegraaf. Arranged in chronological order with the athletics business first and comments on the judgment in the Marlene trial last. Precise dates supplied.

  He wondered if it really had been Münster himself who had made all this effort to satisfy his superior’s curiosity, or if it had been some assiduous librarian in the periodicals archives who had done the donkey work. He tended toward the latter explanation, but you never knew, of course.

  Münster is Münster, Van Veeteren thought.

  He started with the background details. Verhaven’s brilliant but short career on the cinder running track. It couldn’t have lasted for more than two years, if you worked it out. Two successful years before everything changed key.

  “New Record by Verhaven!” was the headline of an article over four columns, dated August 20, 1958,
incorporating a blurred photograph of a young man looking straight at the camera in close-up, making the V sign.

  He didn’t look particularly overwhelmed, Van Veeteren thought. Nor overwhelming. But it had to be said that there were clear traces of seriousness and determination in that resolute mouth, and his dark eyes seemed full of implicit faith in future triumphs and even faster times.

  He contemplated that twenty-four-year-old face for a while, wondering if it was possible to read anything into it—if he could discern anything of the future in those steely features…. Any signs of predestination, the embryo of the older man of violence, a double murderer.

  Needless to say it was impossible.

  He couldn’t blot out the key he was holding in his hands. He knew what he was looking for, and hence it was possible to find it. No, those eyes revealed nothing; only the usual, slightly pompous self-confidence, Van Veeteren decided. The quality that is considered to indicate strength and manliness and God only knows what else that you can generally find in all modern heroes. Perhaps in the classical ones as well. Van Veeteren had never been much of a sports fan, and fooling oneself into believing that there was a qualitative difference between a Greek discus thrower and a Russian ice hockey back was nothing more than an expression of our constant need of self-delusion. Sport is sport.

  Having established that, he started reading instead:

  It has been obvious all this year to the general public with an interest in sport that Leopold Verhaven is one of our biggest stars on the track. But few people can have expected this incredibly talented athlete from Obern, still only 22 years old, to start breaking records as early as this summer.

  But he fooled us all, and how pleased we are to be fooled! Sunday’s brilliant performance in the Verhejm stadium and the impressive new record for the 1,500 meters was followed last night, a marvelous evening of sport at Willemsroo, by a further reduction to an excellent 3 minutes 41.5 seconds, and it should be stressed that Verhaven was forced to run the last 600 meters out on his own, in solitary majesty.

  None of the others in the high-quality field was able to keep up when he turned on the heat after about half the race. His easy, lightning-fast stride, the apparently effortless grace and flow characteristic of his style, the rhythm and his masterly tactical brain…

  Van Veeteren skipped the rest. Tried to go back in his memory and find himself during that August more than thirty-five years ago. But the best he could do was to establish that it must have been the summer vacation in between two of those easily confused university terms. Before he burned his bridges and threw himself wholeheartedly into police college. Probably a summer job at Kummermann’s, that damn and dusty warehouse, or—much preferably—a week spent by the sea with his uncles.

  Ah well. He moved on to the next clip. Almost a year later. May 18, 1959. Three columns in Telegraaf with a picture of the winner crossing the line in another fifteen-hundred-meter race. Obviously his favorite distance—the “blue riband,” isn’t that what they called it? Chest thrust forward to break the tape as soon as possible, longish hair fluttering in the wind, mouth open and eyes more or less unseeing…

  “Verhaven Heading for the European Record?” was the headline this time. Van Veeteren read:

  3 minutes 40.5 seconds! That is Verhaven’s new record for the 1,500 meters, set last night after a brilliant race at the international meeting at the Künderplatz. Shortly after the 800-meter mark our new king of the middle distance waved good-bye to the rest of the field, and after two magnificent solo laps posted a time that has only been bettered this year by the Frenchman Jazy and the Hungarian Rozsavölgy. Verhaven’s time is the sixth best ever, and there is no doubt that the incredibly talented 23-year-old from Obern will be one of our strongest cards at the Rome Olympics next year. At least, as far as track events are concerned, where our national team seems to be lagging way behind the British, the French and the outstanding Americans. At yesterday’s meeting no fewer than…

  May 1959, Van Veeteren thought, putting the page to one side. Three months before the bubble burst, that is.

  He took the next article, and there he was already. The scandal had happened, and this time it was also front-page news:

  “Verhaven—a Cheat!” Large bold type over four columns; underneath it a blurred picture that, on closer inspection, appeared to be a man being carried away on a stretcher. In rather tumultuous circumstances, judging by appearances.

  Van Veeteren read the indignant article on the five-thousand-meter race in the middle of August 1959, in which Verhaven was well in the lead with only just over two laps to go—and a probable European record—but he suddenly collapsed as he emerged from the southern bend at the Richter Stadium in Maardam.

  He checked the date: Yes, the article was written two days after the race. When everything had been revealed.

  When the doping and the illegal payments had all come to light.

  When the fairy tale was over.

  Verhaven—the cheat.

  Was this the background to Verhaven—the murderer? wondered Van Veeteren.

  And to Verhaven—the double murderer?

  Was there a link, a connection, with one thing leading to another? Not automatically, of course, but nevertheless a sort of cause and effect. Was the murderer already there as a seed, an embryo, in the cheat? Was it even legitimate to ask such questions?

  He could feel weariness creeping up on him again. He smoothed out the slightly wavy sheets of paper and put them back in the envelope.

  What was the point of thinking along these lines? he asked himself. Why was his brain following up these dark ideas? Whether he wanted to or not. Was there really nothing more reliable that he could turn his attention to?

  If he wanted to claim that he was now in charge of this investigation?

  He listened for a while to the pigeons cooing away somewhere outside the window. His thoughts wandered off on their own for a few minutes and contemplated rather vaguely peace symbols, the disintegration of Europe and ambiguous nationalism, before coming back to the matter at hand again. For—the bottom line was, what to do about the suspicion he had?

  The persistent idea that kept on nagging away.

  Wasn’t that what he really ought to be trying to find evidence for?

  How easy and simple it was for a distant observer to draw the same would-be-wise conclusions. Cheat—murderer. Build these putative bridges over imagined chasms. Look for connections where no connections exist or are needed. And come to that, one could ask just how serious the cheating had been.

  Did it really carry the weight and significance given to it by the gods and gurus of sports at the time, the innocent 1950s? Or budding 1960s. He found it hard to believe. Did the guy run any faster because he was being paid? The amphetamine and whatever else probably gave him a bit of a boost, one can assume, but would that kind of thing nowadays lead to a life ban?

  He didn’t know. It was not his field, certainly not, but Rooth or Heinemann would be bound to know about such things.

  Whatever, the question remained: How much had Verhaven—the cheat—weighed against him when he progressed to being Verhaven—the murderer?

  In other people’s eyes, that is. Journalists’. The man in the street’s. The police’s, the judiciary’s and the jury members’. The eyes of those who condemned him.

  Judge Heidelbluum’s?

  That was a question worth thinking about, yes, indeed.

  He clasped his hands over his tender wound, closed his eyes and decided to let his dreams take care of it for the time being.

  18

  After a certain amount of lobbying, deBries had been allocated Detective Constable Ewa Moreno as a partner. For the forthcoming fieldwork, at least, and when they set off for Kaustin in the late afternoon, taking the pretty, meandering route by the lake, he had the impression that she was not too displeased by the arrangement.

  And she could certainly have done worse. Surely it was permissible to allow oneself
that degree of self-esteem? DeBries came to a halt outside the school and they stayed in the car for a while, comparing the hand-drawn map with reality.

  “Gellnacht first?” Moreno suggested, nodding in the direction of a house. “It’s over there.”

  “Your wish is my command,” said deBries, engaging first gear.

  Irmgaard Gellnacht had laid a table for coffee in the arbor behind her large clapboard house. She beckoned them to sit down on a yellow porch swing, and she took one of the two old easy chairs.

  “The evenings are lovely at this time of year,” she said. “You have to try to be outside as much as possible.”

  “Early summer is the prettiest time,” said Ewa Moreno. “All these flowers.”

  “Do you have a garden?” wondered Mrs. Gellnacht.

  “I’m afraid not. But I hope to have one eventually.”

  DeBries cleared his throat discreetly.

  “Ah, forgive me,” said Mrs. Gellnacht. “That wasn’t what we’re supposed to talk about, of course. Do help yourselves, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Moreno. “Did you grow the rhubarb in this pie yourself?”

  “So you were the same age, in other words?” said deBries.

  “Not quite. I’m one year older. Born in thirty-five. Leopold in thirty-six. But we were in the same class even so. The village school combined three age streams per class in those days—I think they still do, in fact—so I remember him all right. You don’t forget five years in the same school so easily.”

  “What impression did you have of him?”

  “A loner,” said Irmgaard Gellnacht, without hesitation. “Why are you so interested in him? Is it true what they are saying, that he’s dead?”

  No doubt it will be in tomorrow’s papers anyway, deBries thought.

  “We’d prefer not to comment on that, Mrs. Gellnacht,” he explained, holding a finger to his lips. “And we’d be grateful if you are discreet about our little chat.”

  He thought that sounded a bit like a veiled threat, which was exactly what he had intended.