read correctly between the lines.
Even from a long way away – just after he had left the main road and started to follow the narrow, meandering tarmacked path through the forest – he could hear a voice. A plaintive wail coming from inside the grounds further up the hill. A solitary, anonymous voice forcing its way out through an open window, presumably, and hovering over the trees and the summer evening like an expression of, not to say a reminder of, the natural place of suffering in the world.
The melancholy cry of a migratory bird, he thought. A migratory bird that had stayed behind. A languageless animal’s vain attempt to make contact with a cold and indifferent environment. It ceased at exactly the same moment as he came to a stop outside the locked gates. But nevertheless it seemed to linger like an unfilled silence under the trees, and he paused for a few moments until it died away.
The Wolgershuus Clinic
Secure Psychiatric Nursing Home it said on a blue-and-white enamel plaque, screwed directly onto the solid brick wall.
Dangerous lunatics! Van Veeteren thought. That’s what it would have said in another age – and that’s probably what ordinary people still say.
Although nowadays, of course, there is medicine to make them less dangerous.
He walked over to the window at the entrance and explained why he was there. The young porter, busy solving a crossword puzzle, pressed a button and he was allowed in through a barred gate. Then he had to consult another porter behind another window, and was given instructions about how to get to where he wanted to go, and a little white plastic card as authorization.
It was the same pass as he’d been given the previous time, when he had merely sat there and listened to Servinus and Suijderbeck trying in vain to squeeze a reply out of the Weird Sisters.
This time it was his turn, and he had no intention of returning empty-handed.
He walked straight ahead along the well-raked gravel path. There was another hour or so to go before dusk, and here and there he could see small groups of people. Carers and warders in white coats; dark green interns – wearing big, loose jackets and shapeless trousers that reminded him of the crappy get-up he’d occasionally been forced to wear during his National Service long ago, at the beginning of time.
And here and there among all the greenery an occasional recluse. A man sitting on a bench smoking, with an empty dog lead in his hand. Another lying stretched out on the lawn, apparently asleep. Under a tree a bit further away, a woman: she was leaning against the tree trunk with her forehead while carrying out slow, hesitant swimming movements with her arms.
Over everything – over the grounds, over the buildings, over the surrounding forest – stillness. A vague, almost oppressive stillness that seemed to embody not only the illusion of another land, but also another existence.
A dimension that was dangerously attractive, he was aware of that. An allure that in certain circumstances – with certain rudimentary defence mechanisms neutralized – he would find difficult to resist.
Deep down in his consciousness was a blurred image of his own father, and of a conversation between his father and his only brother. His father’s words, and the inexplicable way in which he distanced himself from his own brother. Resolute steps hurrying away over the gravel, and a heavy gate slamming shut.
His own four- or five-year-old legs first hesitating, and then having to run for dear life in order not to be shut up behind the walls. And having to stay there with Uncle Bern.
Incomprehensible then. Incomprehensible now – but even so, he had inherited a portion of that attitude to life.
His own private birthmark. One of them.
He turned off to the right before coming to the main building, followed the well-trodden path down into the hollow and came to the same low, oblong building under the elms as last time. Showed his pass to a bearded young man behind another window, and was allowed in.
Sergeant Matthorst was sitting in the coffee room, smoking and watching the television. He seemed to be somewhat embarrassed at having been caught in such trivial circumstances, and was keen to escort the chief inspector to a room in one of the corridors where Mathilde Ubrecht had been held for the last three and a half days. He unlocked the door, and Van Veeteren entered.
She was curled up on her bed, reading the Bible. The same pale, unbleached cotton individual as before. The same lank, colourless hair. The same introspectiveness. The chief inspector hesitated for a moment before turning the desk chair round and sitting down opposite her, less than a metre away.
He paused. Took a toothpick from his breast pocket and weighed it in the palm of his hand. Decided it was too light and put it back again. Looked out through the barred window. Most of the view was obscured by a dense and unpruned lilac hedge. He returned to observing the woman on the bed.
Waited. Listened to the silence and the very faint noise from some air-conditioning system. After about five minutes, she closed the Bible. Looked up, and met his gaze.
‘I suggest we go for a little walk in the grounds,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It’s a lovely evening.’
She didn’t respond. Continued looking at him while leafing through the Bible and breathing through her half- open mouth. He wondered if she might suffer from asthma or some kind of allergy – it looked like it. After a while she nodded vaguely, and stood up. Matthorst, who had evidently been waiting outside the door, accompanied them along the corridor; as they passed the television room, the chief inspector gave him a nod as an indication that he could go back to watching his programme.
Or to more high-minded pursuits, always assuming he had any.
The sun had set by the time they went outside, and the groups of green and white people had gone indoors for the night. Van Veeteren let Mathilde Ubrecht choose the route, and they set off slowly in the direction of the pond at the other end of the grounds. North-west, unless he was mistaken. The evening breeze, the gentle whispering he had heard in the forest as he made his way up to Wolgershuus, had now died away altogether; the only noise remaining was their steps on the gravel, and Mathilde Ubrecht’s slightly strained breathing. There was a faint aura of tension over her movements, and he was careful to keep a half-metre behind her so as not to influence her route and possible decisions.
Nor did he say a word until they came to the artificial pond with water lilies and softly murmuring water trickling out of a mythological bronze statue. They sat down on one of the brown-coloured benches and Van Veeteren lit a cigarette.
‘I have three questions,’ he said. ‘Your silence is protecting a murderer. I take it for granted that you will give me honest answers.’
Mathilde Ubrecht didn’t react. Didn’t even indicate in any way that she had heard what he’d said. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and braced himself.
‘Question number one,’ he said. ‘Do you know who murdered Clarissa Heerenmacht?’
Silence. He contemplated the dark forest over the top of the high wall. She’s not going to answer, he thought.
‘No,’ she said.
Van Veeteren nodded. Allowed a minute to pass. Stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Number two,’ he said. ‘Do you know what happened to Katarina Schwartz?’
Another wait. Then she took a deep breath; he could hear the irregular wheezing in her bronchial tubes.
‘No.’
‘Thank you,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Oscar Yellinek Do you know where he is?’
She paused longer this time, but when the answer eventually came it sounded just as definite as the previous ones.
‘No.’
He sat for a while, mulling things over.
‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’
Instead of answering she stood up and made a gesture indicating that she wanted to go back indoors. He nodded, and they started to walk back through the increasingly blue silence.
Matthorst was waiting for them at the entrance, and Van Veeteren realized he must have been watching them through the window.
He didn’t go inside with her, merely handed her over to a carer. But nevertheless he had a moment’s eye
