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Authors: Håkan Nesser
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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 simple 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
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 simple 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
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