The Return
AN INSPECTOR VAN VEETEREN MYSTERY
Håkan Nesser
Translated from the Swedish by Laurie Thompson
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
EPIGRAPH
PART I: August 24, 1993
CHAPTER 1
PART II: April 20–May 5, 1994
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PART III: August 24, 1993
CHAPTER 11
PART IV: May 5–10, 1994
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
PART V: August 24, 1993
CHAPTER 23
PART VI: May 11–15, 1994
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
PART VII: April 24, 1962
CHAPTER 27
PART VIII: May 16–22, 1994
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
PART IX: September 11, 1981
CHAPTER 33
PART X: May 23–28, 1994
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
PART XI: November 25, 1981
CHAPTER 41
PART XII: May 29–31, 1994
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
PART XIII: June 19, 1994
CHAPTER 44
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A NOTE ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
ALSO BY HÅKAN NESSER
COPYRIGHT
You ask me how long life is,
and I shall tell you like it is.
Just as long as the distance
between two dates on a headstone.
—W. F. Mahler, poet
I
August 24, 1993
1
It was the first and the last day.
The steel door was locked behind him and the metallic click hovered for a while in the cool morning air. He took four paces, paused and put down his suitcase. Closed his eyes, then opened them again.
A thin morning mist hung over the deserted car park, the sun was just rising over the nearby town and the only sign of life was the flocks of birds swooping over the fields that surrounded the cluster of buildings. He stood there for a few seconds and indulged his senses. The scent of newly harvested corn wafted into his nostrils. The dazzling light quivered over the asphalt. In the distance, a mile or so to the west, he could hear the persistent hum of traffic on the freeway that carved a path through the open countryside. The sudden realization of the world’s true dimensions gave him a moment of vertigo. He had not set foot outside these walls for twelve years; his cell had been seven feet by ten, and it dawned on him that it was a long way to the town and the railroad station. An incredibly long way, perhaps impossibly far on a day like this.
He had been offered a taxi, that was normal practice, but he declined. Didn’t want to take a shortcut into the world at this early stage. Wanted to feel the burden and the pain and the freedom in every step he took this morning. If he were to have a chance of succeeding in the task he had set himself, he understood what he needed to overcome. Overcome and get the better of.
He picked up his suitcase and started walking. It didn’t weigh much. A few changes of underwear. A pair of shoes, a shirt, pants and a toiletry bag. Four or five books and a letter. He had tried on the clothes he was wearing and signed for them at the equipment store the previous day. Typical prison clothing. Black synthetic-leather shoes. Blue pants. Pale gray cotton shirt and a thin windcheater. As far as the locals were concerned he would be as easily identifiable as a Roman Catholic priest or a chimney sweep. One of the many who wandered into the railroad station carrying a cardboard suitcase, eager to leave. Having spent time out here in The Big Gray between the municipal forest and the motorway. Having been so near and yet so far away. One of them. The easily identifiable.
The Big Gray. That’s what they called it around here. For him it was nameless—just a brief stretch of time and hardly any space. And it was a long time since he’d been worried about other people staring at him; a long time since he’d been forced to turn his back on that kind of superficial and pointless contact. He had left his former life without hesitation; there was no alternative, and he’d never longed to return. Never.
You could say he had never really been a part of it.
The sun rose. He had to stop again after a hundred yards. Wriggled out of his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Two cars overtook him. A couple of warders, presumably, or some other staff. Prison people in any case. Nobody else ventured out here. There was only The Big Gray here.
He set off once more. Tried to whistle but couldn’t hit upon a tune. It occurred to him that he ought to have sun-glasses: Maybe he could buy a pair when he got to town. He shaded his eyes with his hand, squinted and scrutinized the townscape through the dazzling haze. At that very moment church bells started ringing.
He glanced at his wristwatch. Eight. He wouldn’t be able to catch the first train. There again, he hadn’t really wanted to: better to sit in the station café over a decent breakfast and today’s paper. No rush. Not this first day, at least. He would carry out the task he’d set himself, but the precise timing depended on factors he knew nothing about as yet, naturally enough.
Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. If all these years had taught him anything, anything at all, it was precisely this. To be patient.
Patience.
He continued walking purposefully toward town. Took possession of the deserted, sun-drenched streets. The shady alleys leading from the square. The worn cobbles. Strolled slowly along the path by the brown, muddy river where listless ducks drifted in a state of timeless inertia. This was in itself something remarkable—walking and walking without coming up against a wall or a fence. He paused on one of the bridges and watched a family of swans huddled together on a muddy islet, in the shade cast by chestnut trees on the riverbank. Observed the trees as well, their branches that seemed to stretch down as much as upward. Toward the water as well as the sky.
The world, he thought. Life.
A spotty youth stamped his ticket with obvious distaste. Single ticket, yes, of course. He gave him a look, then headed for the newsstand. Bought two newspapers and some men’s magazine or other featuring large, naked breasts, without displaying the slightest embarrassment. Next, a pot of coffee in the café, freshly made sandwiches with jam and cheese. A cigarette or two. Another hour to go before the train, and it was still morning.
The first morning of his second return, and the whole world was full of time. Innocence and time.
Hours later he was nearly there. He’d been alone in the carriage for the last few miles. Looked out through the scratched, dirty window; watched fields, forests, towns and people marching past—and suddenly everything fell into place. Took on their own specific significance. Buildings, roads, the subtle interplay of the countryside. The old water tower. The soccer fields. The factory chimneys and people’s back gardens. Gahn’s Furniture Manufacturers. The square. The high school. The viaduct and the houses along Main Street. The train ground to a halt.
As he disembarked he noticed that the platform had a new roof of pale yellow plastic. The station building had been renovated. New signs as well.