He soon realized that Thatcher must have got scent of a rabbit, because there was no sign of her all the way — but it was only when he came to his turning point next to Egirs pier that he began to wonder if there was something wrong. No matter how engrossed the retriever was, obeying her basic instincts and chasing the rabbits who always escaped anyway, she was usually waiting for him when he got to the turning point, and would accompany him all the way back. The fact that Thatcher wasn’t lying by the little boatshed just before Egirs, gasping away with her tongue lying out on the ground — or that she had not grown tired of the pointlessness of trying to catch a rabbit long before then — that was an indication, quite definitely.
An indication that something was wrong.
Henry slowed down and stopped. Climbed part of the way up towards the crest of the hill, flopped down onto the soft sand and started doing sit-ups.
He had only got as far as thirty to thirty-five when he heard the dog barking in the distance.
From somewhere in among the dunes — it was hard to say exactly where the sound was coming from, since the wind and the waves distorted everything. Perhaps also the pulsating in his temples caused by his physical efforts. He paused and stood up. The barking continued, and there was virtually no doubt that it was Thatcher. For a trained ear a dog’s bark is just as individual as a human voice, he used to explain to friends and acquaintances. That was an old and reliable fact.
He turned his head and listened. Immediately he had a slightly better sense of its origin: somewhere diagonally in towards solid ground to the south-east. Muffled, persistent barking that didn’t seem to be moving. The dog was standing still, and barking to draw attention to itself — nothing could be more obvious. To draw its boss’s attention.
He walked up over the crest of the hill and made his way through the dunes towards the origin of the sound. Glanced at his watch and was somewhat irritated by the delay: he wouldn’t get back home until after eight o’clock, and in order to get to work in time he needed to be in his car by a quarter to nine. A shower and breakfast would take at least half an hour: but if Thatcher was standing at bay, barking away at something, he didn’t have any choice, of course. He would have to find her, and find out what the hell was going on.
Looking back — not while he was recounting what had happened that chilly morning to family and friends and the police, but when he was sitting alone at his desk in the evening, gazing out through the window and thinking things over — he couldn’t make up his mind whether he had seen the dog or the dead body first.
It didn’t matter either way, of course: but as he found himself sitting there, thinking about it, maybe it did mean something after all. God only knows what.
In any case, the dog was standing there in front of its find, completely still — in a sort of watchful, ready-to-attack posture he vaguely remembered from the training course he had attended at the kennel club several years ago: back bent, leaning forward over the widely spaced front paws. What could be seen of the female corpse — the back of her head, shoulders and her right arm — was partly concealed by sand and scraps of black plastic: but nevertheless it was clear enough for him to see in a flash how serious the situation was.
Crystal clear.
He took hold of the dog and began automatically calming it down, pressing it against his right leg and patting its neck. For a brief, confused moment he wondered if somebody else might turn up and calm him down in the same way. Then he stood up and looked round to see if he could see any sign of a house.
A steep red-tiled roof was sticking up from behind the dunes a bit further inland, and when he came to the top of the next little grass-covered incline he realized that it was Willumsen’s house.
Good, thought Henry. Thank God I know who lives there.
‘Out jogging as usual?’ asked Tom Willumsen, pulling a face. ‘Isn’t it too windy today? The wind’s veered to the north as well, I think.’
‘I know,’ said Henry. ‘But we can talk about the weather some other time? Thatcher has found a dead body out there.’
‘A dead body?’ said Willumsen.
‘A woman,’ said Henry. ‘Or rather, a girl. Looks horrendous. Ring the police and give me something to drink, please.’
It was a few minutes past half past seven in the morning when Van Veeteren unlocked the door of the flat in Moerckstraat 16. Before doing so, he looked around carefully in all directions, but there was no sign of any curious heads. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
His first impression was the smell. Stuffy, dirty. He couldn’t make up his mind if there was also a trace of the characteristic sweet smell of rotting flesh as well, or whether that was merely his imagination and a sort of perverted expectation.
He switched on the light in the cramped hall, and stepped into the kitchen on the left. Found the light switch and turned it on, but went over to the window and closed the Venetian blinds.
There was no need to advertise his presence, he thought. No reason at all. Even if tenants had no interest in their neighbours, according to what Reinhart and Moreno had reported, Van Veeteren was keen to remain incognito. Undisturbed and invisible. That was how he had described his mission to Moreno when he asked her to produce a key, and he really hoped he could rely on her promise of keeping everything under the counter. There was nothing to be gained from the whole of the police station becoming aware of his being involved. From their knowing that the bookseller in Kupinskis gränd simply couldn’t keep out of police business any longer.
Any longer? Rubbish, he thought as he continued into the living room. There was no question of time, nor of his reverting to police duties: it was just that confounded priest whom he couldn’t get out of his mind. The man of God he had turned away with catastrophic consequences, and whom he dreamt about at night. That was all. Nothing more. Was that so odd?
And in any case, why was he wandering around making excuses for himself? What was the point of that? He muttered away in irritation, and took out his cigarette machine. As I’m here, I must look round about me rather than into myself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, for Christ’s sake!
He looked around the room. It looked dreary. The furniture seemed to have been collected by pure chance: the sofa and armchairs were covered in typical light-coloured nineties material, but several large wine stains (as far as he could judge — and let’s face it, he was not exactly unacquainted with such phenomena) tended to undermine the impression of newness. There were large clumps of dust under the table, and the wallpaper pattern seemed to be more suitable for underpants than anything else. The bookcase along one wall contained more ornaments than books, and the black plastic audiovisual set-up opposite — television, video recorder plus a Korean hi-fi device he thought he recalled having seen on sale at a rock-bottom price in a petrol station — all of it could well have been a part of the flat’s basic equipment, just like the blinds, the linoleum floor-covering, the cooker, refrigerator and kitchen sink.
What am I doing here? he thought, lighting his cigarette. What am I looking for, and with what justification am I trampling around through all this hopeless gloom?
Good questions. He moved on into the daughter’s room. Monica? he thought. Monica Kammerle, who were you? Or who are you? The girl might still be alive, after all. Stranger things have happened.
The room was small and narrow. No more than four by two-and-a-half metres, or thereabouts. A bed with a worn, red bedspread. A basic desk and chair. A bookcase and a freestanding wardrobe in a corner. Two posters on the wall, one black-and-white featuring two hands reaching towards one another without quite meeting, the other a face he thought he recognized. A singer, he thought. Died a year or so ago after an overdose, he thought. A small noticeboard with a calendar, a school timetable and a few black-and-white drawings of horses.