Borkmann's point

21

Jean-Claude Ruhme lived up to his prototype. A broad shouldered man in his sixties, with a white lion’s mane and sharp but totally petrified features. A cross between a human being and a monument, Van Veeteren thought. Or was it just sorrow that immobilized his face?

He received Van Veeteren in his study, sitting at his dark colored desk with red and ocher marquetry. He stood up and raised himself to his full height when he shook hands.

“I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Van Veeteren, but I haven’t been sleeping well since the accident. Please take a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

His voice was deep and resonant.

“A glass of soda water,” said Van Veeteren, “if it’s not too much trouble. May I express my sympathy, Dr. Ruhme.”

The doctor barked an instruction into the intercom, and within half a minute a maid appeared with two bottles on a tray.

“I am grateful for the few days’ grace you have allowed me,” said Ruhme. “I’m ready to answer your questions now.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“I’ll be brief, Doctor,” he said. “There are actually just a few specific questions I want to ask you, but before I do so I would beg you… most urgently… to bring to bear all your intelli-gence and intuition in order to help us. I prefer to regard the murder of your son as an isolated case, distinct from the others.”

“Why?”

“For several reasons, mainly to do with technical aspects of the investigation. It’s easier to concentrate on one thing at a time.”

“I understand.”

“If anything at all occurs to you regarding a motive-who might have had a reason for wanting to get your son out of his way-I urge you not to hesitate. You can contact me at any time of day or night. Perhaps you already have an inkling?”

“No… no, no idea at all.”

“I understand that sorrow can numb the mind, but if any thing should occur to you, then…”

“Of course, Mr. Van Veeteren, I assure you that I shall tele phone you. I think you said that you had some specific ques tions?”

Van Veeteren took a swig of soda water. He fumbled for a toothpick but thought better of it.

“How would you describe the relationship between you and your son?”

Dr. Ruhme reacted by raising his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. That was all.

“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I understand.”

He jotted down a few nonsense scribbles in his notebook and allowed the seconds to pass.

“No,” said the doctor eventually. “I don’t think you under stand at all. Maurice and I had a relationship based on great and mutual respect.”

“That’s exactly what I have just noted down,” said Van

Veeteren. “Are you married, Dr. Ruhme?”

“Divorced twelve years ago.”

“So your son must have been… nineteen at the time?”

“Yes. We waited until he’d flown the nest. Separated the very month he started his medical studies in Aarlach.”

“He has lived in Aarlach ever since, is that right?”

“Yes, until he took up his post at the hospital here in

March.”

“I see,” said Van Veeteren. He stood up and started pacing slowly around the room with his hands behind his back.

Stopped in front of a bookcase and contemplated some of the titles… walked over to the window and looked out at the well-tended lawns and bushes. Dr. Ruhme glanced at his watch and coughed.

“I’m due to see a patient in twenty minutes,” he said. “Per haps you might be so kind as to ask the rest of your questions, assuming there are any more.”

“When did you last visit your son in Leisner Alle?”

“I’ve never been there,” said Ruhme.

“Your opinion of Beatrice Linckx?”

“Good. She’s visited me here several times… without Maurice.”

“A messenger?”

Dr. Ruhme made no reply.

“Your son started his medical studies in 1982-eleven years ago. When did he take his exams?”

“Two years ago.”

“Nine years? That’s quite a long time, isn’t it, Dr. Ruhme?”

“Some people take longer.”

“How long did you need?”

“Five years.”

“Were there any special reasons in Maurice’s case?”

Dr. Ruhme hesitated, but only for a moment.

“Yes,” he said.

“Would you mind telling me what they were?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Cocaine addiction,” said Dr. Ruhme, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. Van Veeteren made another note.

“When was he clean?”

“It came to my notice in 1984. He stopped totally two years later.”

“Any legal repercussions?”

The doctor shook his head.

“No, nothing like that.”

“I’m with you,” said Van Veeteren. “Everything could be arranged, no doubt?”

Ruhme did not reply.

“And this post at the hospital, the kind of post that every body covets-that could also be… arranged?”

Ruhme rose to his feet.

“Those were your words, not mine. Don’t forget that.”

“I don’t forget all that easily,” said Van Veeteren.

“Many thanks, Chief Inspector. I fear that I don’t have time to answer any more questions just now…”

“No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “I don’t have any more to ask.”

“I’ve come to talk a bit more about your son,” said Bausen.

“Maurice…”

“He’s dead,” said Elisabeth Ruhme.

Bausen took her arm.

“Do you like walking in the park?”

“I like the leaves,” said Mrs. Ruhme. “Especially when they’re no longer on the trees, but they haven’t started falling properly yet. It’s still September, I believe?”

“Yes,” said Bausen. “Did you meet Maurice often?”

“Maurice? No, not all that often. Sometimes, though… but she, Beatrice, often comes with flowers and fruit. You don’t think she’ll stop coming now that…?”

“Of course not,” said Bausen.

“I feel lonely at times. I prefer to be alone, of course, but it’s also nice when somebody comes to visit… Funnily enough, I usually think how nice it was afterward. When somebody’s been to see me, and it’s over and done with, I mean. I can feel somehow exhilarated… fulfilled; it’s hard to explain.”

“When did you last see Maurice?” asked Bausen.

Elisabeth stopped and took off her glasses.

“I must clean them,” she said. “I can’t see properly through them. Do you have a handkerchief?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Bausen.

She put them back on.

“When did you last see Maurice?” Bausen asked again.

“Hard to say. Are you a police officer?”

“My name’s Bausen. I’m the chief of police here in Kaal bringen. Don’t you recognize me?”

“Of course I do,” said Elisabeth Ruhme. “Your name’s

Bausen.”

He carefully steered her back toward the nicotine-yellow pavilion.

“It’s beautiful here,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Especially after the leaves have fallen.”

“Your other son… Pierre?”

“He’s ill. He’ll never get better. Something happened in the church, don’t you know about that?”

“Yes, I do,” said Bausen.

“I haven’t seen him for ages,” she said pensively. “Perhaps he can be a doctor now… instead of Maurice. Do you think that could be arranged somehow?”

“Perhaps,” said Bausen. A nurse wearing a white bonnet was approaching them.

“Thank you for the walk and the chat,” said Bausen. “I’ll ask Beatrice to come and see you next week.”

“Thank you,” said Elisabeth Ruhme. “It’s been nice to take a walk with you. I hope I haven’t been any trouble.”

“Not at all,” Bausen assured her. “Not at all.”

So much for Doctor Ruhme and his posh family, he thought as he walked to the parking lot, scraping out his pipe.