Free The Return by Håkan Nesser Page B

on the bedcover and managed to raise the patient into a half-sitting position, more or less—with the aid of a few pillows and the chief inspector’s wheezing instructions. The color of his face reminded Münster of strawberries that have been marinating in spirits overnight, and there was nothing to suggest that that wasn’t how Van Veeteren felt as well. He repeated his welcoming speech.
    “Shit.”
    Münster picked up the roses again.
    “These are from all of us,” he said. “The others send greetings.”
    He found a vase and filled it with water from the washbasin in the corner. Van Veeteren watched proceedings suspiciously.
    “Huh,” he said. “Give me some as well.”
    Münster poured him a glass from the jug on the bedside table, and after a second one, Van Veeteren appeared to be capable of conversation at least.
    “I must have dozed off,” he said.
    “You get extremely tired after an operation,” said Münster. “It’s normal.”
    “You don’t say.”
    “Reinhart sends his special regards and says he’d like you to remember that pain drives out evil.”
    “Thank you. Well?”
    Raring to go again already? Münster thought and sat down on the visitors’ chair. He opened his briefcase. Took out the envelope and propped it up against the vase of flowers.
    “I’ll put the photocopies here. They’re only from the newspapers. It will take a bit of time to dig out the records of the trial, but I’ll pop in with them tomorrow.”
    “Good,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll look through them after you’ve gone.”
    “Don’t you think you ought to have a good rest first, when…?”
    “Hold your tongue,” snapped Van Veeteren. “Don’t talk such a lot of crap. I’m feeling better by the second. And there’s never been anything wrong with my head, for Christ’s sake. Tell me what you’ve all been doing!”
    Münster sighed and launched into an account of the visit to Kaustin and the search of Verhaven’s house.
    “The forensic team hasn’t finished yet, of course, but everything points to him being our man. He only seems to have been at home for one day. In August last year. There was a newspaper, some food marked with a use-by date and a few other things. It appears to have been the twenty-fourth, the same day as he was released. A few witnesses saw him arriving—in the village, that is. Maybe he stayed the night; some things suggest that. He went to bed in any case. The clothes he was given on leaving prison are still there.”
    “Hmm?” said Van Veeteren. “Hang on a moment…. No, carry on; it’s OK!”
    “They haven’t found anything startling. Nothing to suggest that he died there. No bloodstains, no weapon, no sign of violence. But over eight months have passed since then, of course.”
    “Time doesn’t heal all wounds,” said Van Veeteren, rubbing his hand gingerly over his stomach.
    “No,” said Münster. “That’s possible. We shall see. It’s possible that he was murdered there the same day. Or night. The butchery might have been done there or somewhere else. It could have been anywhere.”
    “Hmm,” said Van Veeteren again. Münster leaned back against the wall and waited.
    “Pull me up!” said Van Veeteren after a while, and Münster repeated the procedure with the pillows. Van Veeteren pulled a face as he worked himself into a slightly better position.
    “It hurts,” he said, nodding toward his stomach.
    “What did you expect?” Münster asked.
    Van Veeteren muttered something and took another drink of water.
    “Heidelbluum,” he said eventually.
    “Eh?” said Münster.
    “He was the judge,” said Van Veeteren. “In both trials. He must be eighty now, but you’ll have to go and see him.”
    Münster made a note.
    “I have the impression that he’s good,” Van Veeteren added. “A pity Mort’s dead.”
    Detective Chief Inspector Mort was Van Veeteren’s predecessor, and Münster gathered that he must have been involved in the second of the