Free The Inspector and Silence by Håkan Nesser Page B

the situation with himself over a cold beer in the garden of the City Arms Hotel.
    In so far as a run-through was called for now, that is.
    And – in so far as it was called for now – two beers. The City Arms Hotel’s garden wasn’t a bad place to be on a day like this; he’d gathered that when he passed it on his way to the police station earlier in the day. Not bad at all.
    He stood up. Purity? he thought – for the fiftieth time since he had taken his leave of Yellinek out at Waldingen. It didn’t inspire any good associations this morning either.
    I suppose I’ve been living among the dregs for too long, Chief Inspector Van Veeteren thought.
    The two men were busy clearing brushwood from the edge of the road. The chief inspector braked and got out of the car.
    ‘Good afternoon. A bit on the warm side today.’
    The elder of the men switched off his saw and gestured to his companion to do the same.
    ‘A bit on the warm side today,’ the chief inspector repeated, as he realized they would have been unable to hear a word of his first greeting.
    ‘You can say that again,’ said the man, putting down his saw.
    ‘My name’s Van Veeteren. Police. I’m a detective. Would you mind answering a few questions?’
    ‘Eh? Er . . . yes, of course.’
    He stood up straight and beckoned to the younger man, indicating that he should come closer.
    ‘Mathias Fingher. This is my son, Wim.’
    Both of them shook hands, after first wiping theirs on their trousers.
    ‘What’s it all about?’
    Van Veeteren cleared his throat.
    ‘Harrumph. The Pure Life.’
    If the Finghers were surprised, they showed no sign of it.
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Do you have any contact with them? You’re their next-door neighbours after all – as it were.’
    ‘Well,’ said Mathias Fingher, tilting his cap over the back of his neck. ‘What do you mean?’
    He was evidently the one expected to conduct the conversation. His son stood a couple of paces behind, eyeing the chief inspector, and chewing gum.
    ‘Do you ever meet any of them?’
    Fingher nodded.
    ‘Yes, of course. They buy potatoes and milk from us. Eggs and carrots, and a few greens sometimes. They come every evening to collect it.’
    Aha, Van Veeteren thought. A close contact at last.
    ‘Who actually comes?’
    ‘It varies.’
    ‘Meaning what?’
    ‘Always four of them. Plus Yellinek, of course.’
    ‘Four girls every evening?’
    ‘And Yellinek. I suppose the girls take it in turns.’
    Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
    ‘Do you usually speak to them?’
    ‘Well, not really. We don’t usually say much. Why do you ask?’
    The chief inspector put a finger to his lips, and that seemed to be a sufficient explanation. As usual. Even if respect for officers of the law might vary, people seemed to accept that this secrecy business was something you just didn’t question; it was an observation he’d made many times.
    Stupidity is best clad in secrecy as Reinhart used to say.
    ‘Do you ever talk to the girls?’
    Fingher thought for a moment, then shook his head.
    ‘No, they . . . they always stay in the background, sort of.’
    ‘The background?’
    ‘Yes, they always wait by the wagon until Yellinek tells me what they want. Very quiet little girls, they seem a bit . . .’
    ‘A bit what?’
    ‘Hmm, I don’t really know. You sometimes wonder what they get up to over there.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Well, I don’t want to accuse anybody of anything. People have a right to think whatever they like, and they always pay up, no problem – which is more than you could say about some folk.’
    Van Veeteren wondered who the some folk might be.
    ‘What’s your own opinion of them? There are all kinds of rumours going round . . .’ It was worth a try.
    Fingher scratched the back of his head, and dropped his cap. Picked it up and stuffed it into his back pocket.
    ‘God knows. I wouldn’t trust any of my kids with them, that’s for sure. But they don’t do me any harm. As I