Rooth met Bendiksen in the Roman section of the Central Bathhouse. It was Bendiksen’s suggestion: he always spent a few hours of Monday evening in the bathhouse, and after yet another day spent at Majorna, Rooth had nothing against it.
It transpired that Bendiksen lived a life governed by strictly observed regular activities. Being a bachelor of many years’
standing, he adhered to a disciplined regimen as befitted a gentleman of good character. He bathed on Mondays, played bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and attended meetings of the local history society on Wednesdays. He went jogging on the weekend, and socialized with friends; the movies on Fridays, the pub on Saturdays. On Sunday he generally made an excursion, did the cleaning, and finished reading the historical novel he’d taken home the previous Monday from the library, where he’d been working for sixteen years.
He explained all this to Rooth during their first five minutes in the sauna.
When do you manage to fit in a shit? wondered Rooth, who was also a bachelor.
“What did you think of Eva Ringmar?” Rooth asked when they’d progressed as far as the cold bath.
“I know nothing about women,” said Bendiksen, “but I know quite a lot about Greek and Hellenic culture; and I also know my Culbertson, and I can play a decent hand of bridge.”
“Good for you,” said Rooth. “How often did you meet her?”
“Hard to say,” said Bendiksen. “Three or four times, maybe; but only in passing.”
“In passing?”
“Yes, amidst the madding crowd, as you might say. We bumped into each other in town, at the library once. That was about it, really.”
“I thought you were a close friend of Mitter’s?”
“Yes, you could say that. We met at high school, and we’ve been meeting occasionally ever since. Only now and then, I should say.”
“How?”
“What do you mean by ‘how,’ Inspector?”
“What did you do when you met?”
“We sometimes had a glass or two together, and a chat, occasionally something else-I think it’s time to start beating each other with birch twigs now, Inspector.”
“What else did you do, Mr. Bendiksen?”
“Call me Klaus.”
No fear, Rooth thought.
“We made a few trips together-after Janek’s divorce, of course. We did some fishing. What are you getting at?”
The sauna was empty. Empty and scalding hot. Rooth
sighed and slumped down on the lowest bench.
“Nothing special,” he said. “It’s just that we’re looking for a murderer. Who do you think it was that stabbed Mitter to death?”
“The same person as drowned his wife.”
Rooth nodded.
“That’s what we think as well. So you don’t have anything to say that could help to put us on the right track?”
Bendiksen scratched away at his armpits.
“You have to understand that I hardly met the man after he started going with Miss Ringmar. We were both at a meeting of old friends down at Freddy’s one night in June. Seven or eight of us, but I didn’t speak much with Janek. And then we were both at a meeting of the local history club around the beginning of August. . ”
“What was he like then?”
“As ever. But we didn’t have much to say. We exchanged a few ideas about megalithic cultures, if I remember rightly.
That was the theme for the evening.”
“So you didn’t meet very much after Eva Ringmar entered the stage. Why was that?”
“Why? Well, I suppose that’s the way it goes.”
“Meaning what?”
“With women. You should have friends, or a woman,
according to Pliny. If you don’t have any friends, you might as well get married. Don’t you think, Inspector?”
“Maybe,” said Rooth. “But let’s get down to some details. . Am I right in thinking that you’d arranged to go fishing the Sunday after Eva Ringmar’s murder?”
“You’re right, yes. We always used to drive out to Verhoven’s cottage-he’s another good friend of ours-one Sunday in October. It’s on the banks of Lake Sojmen, on the eastern side. There’s lots of perch and grayling, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can catch the odd arctic char and whitefish. Anyway, Verhoven and I and Langemaar-the fire-brigade boss, I don’t know if you’re familiar with him-the three of us went there, but Janek had a few problems that prevented him from joining us, of course. I must say, it’s a shit-house of a setup, Inspector. Do you think you’re going to catch him? The murderer, I mean, of course.”
“Definitely,” said Rooth. “Incidentally, what were you doing last Thursday evening?”
“Me? Thursday? Bridge club, of course. Surely you don’t imagine for one second that I. .”
“I don’t imagine anything at all,” said Rooth. “Can’t we go and have a beer now?”
“Now?” said Bendiksen. “Of course not. We have to take a swim now, and then we need to go back into the sauna for a few minutes before having a good sweat. That’s when we can indulge ourselves in a beer. Have you never had a sauna before, Inspector?”
Rooth sighed. He had spent two whole days trying to squeeze information out of God knows how many maniacs, catatonics, and schizophrenics, and now he had ended up in this sauna with the librarian, Bendiksen.
Why the hell did I become a cop? he asked himself. Why didn’t I become a concert pianist, like my mom wanted me to be? Or a priest? Or a fighter pilot?
I shall report in sick tomorrow, he decided. It’s my day off, but I shall report in sick even so.
To be on the safe side.