Mind's eye

34

“There’s something that doesn’t add up.”

“Quite a few things, I’d have thought,” said Munster.

Coming from Munster, that was definitely cheek, but Van Veeteren let it pass. He suddenly felt weary. . An exhausted ox sinking into a swamp. Where the devil did all these images come from? Something he’d read in a book, presumably. He stared listlessly at his notes. What the hell was it that was wrong?

Perhaps everything, as Munster had implied?

Or was it just a detail?

Munster sighed and looked at the clock.

“What shall we do now?” he asked. “Check the alibis more carefully?”

“No,” said Van Veeteren. “It’s obvious that we could smash one or two of them, but we’re not allowed to keep pestering the Bunge crowd: specific orders from above. The parents’

association have threatened to keep the children at home if we turn up anymore. Suurna has phoned Hiller seventeen times.”

“Hmm,” said Munster. “In that case, I don’t see what. .”

“Go and fetch Rooth again,” said Van Veeteren.

Munster stood up.

“But leave me alone for half an hour before the pair of you turn up.”

Munster opened his mouth and intended to say something, but the chief inspector swiveled around on his chair and turned his back on him.

In nineteen cases he was sure. In the twentieth. .

Underneath all the broken and chewed-up toothpicks was his diary, and it was not long before that had engaged his attention.

Twenty-eight days to Christmas Eve, he worked out.

Nineteen sweet young ladies

Aspired to be his wife. .

How much overtime could he turn into vacation time?

Number twenty killed him. . no, spurned him. .

Presumably enough for him to take the rest of the year off?

The next one took his life.

What the hell was he doing? What was it, whizzing around so helplessly in his ancient, sluggish brain? Was he thinking of giving up? Was he thinking. .

There was no point. The thought had struck home right away, he wasn’t going to be able to banish it. . He might as well admit it. An easy chair on a terrace in. . Casablanca.

He’d be able to sit back there in just a few days from now! A warm breeze, a book, and a glass of white wine. Why continue to kid himself that this pretentious guessing game served any purpose at all?

But there again, should he not. .? Didn’t he owe it to Mitter, at least, to crack this case? Incidentally, what was the aver-age temperature in North Africa in December? Not much to shout about, presumably. Cold winds from the Sahara, and all the rest of it. .

The next one he got wrong!

Wouldn’t the chances of success be better if somebody else took over completely?

Australia! That was it! What was it Caen had said?

Seventy-five degrees. . Lemon blossoms? Australia. .

He dialed Hiller’s number.

“I’m thinking of handing this case over to Munster. I’ve got stuck.”

“The hell you will,” said Hiller.

“I’m old and tired,” said Van Veeteren.

“Crap!”

“I’ve got back pain.”

“You’re supposed to work with your head, not your back.

For Christ’s sake, you have six men under you!”

“I was thinking of going to Australia.”

There was silence for a while.

“All right,” said Hiller. “Why not? Put this bastard behind bars, and you can have a month’s vacation. Shall we say you have six days in which to crack it? I’ve promised on television that we’ll clear up this case within two weeks. There’s a direct flight to Sydney every Thursday.”

Van Veeteren thought it over. Put down the receiver and studied his diary again.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, dammit!” said Van Veeteren.

“Well?”

“Okay, let’s say that,” said Van Veeteren with a sigh. “But if I haven’t cracked it by Wednesday, you’ll receive my letter of resignation. This time it’s serious. I shall buy a ticket tomorrow.”

He hung up before Hiller had a chance to get the last word in. Looked through his notes one more time. Then he tore them out of the pad and threw them into the wastebasket.

Six days to go, he thought.

Didn’t the last one in the rhyme get away with it, by the way?

Rooth sat down on the chair he had vacated half an hour earlier.

“What did you do before going to Majorna?” Van Veeteren asked.

“Bendiksen.”

“A possible murderer?”

“No way.”

“Had he received a letter?”

“No.”

“What else?”

“Former wife. The children. No letters. .”

“Tips?”

“No. The ex-wife seemed shocked.”

“Out of the question as the murderer, I take it. Any more?”

“Marcus Greijer and Uwe Borgmann.”

“Brother-in-law and. . neighbor?”

“Correct. Nothing.”

“Alibis?”

“Watertight.”

“How long have they been living in Maardam?”

“Greijer for about ten years, Borgmann all his life.”

“Okay, anything else?”

Rooth shook his head. Van Veeteren dug a sheet of paper from out of a desk drawer.

“I have a list here of twenty-eight names. It’s Mitter’s suggestion for people who might have killed Eva Ringmar. I think we’ve investigated most of them, but not all.”

He handed the paper to Rooth.

“I want you and deBries to take a look at them.”

“What exactly are we after?”

“Alibis, of course. And their past. The interesting ones are those who’ve only moved to Maardam recently. And. . well, use your imagination, for Christ’s sake!”

Rooth blew his nose loudly.

“When are we supposed to do this by?”

Van Veeteren looked at his diary.

“Let’s say Monday. But if you find the murderer before then, do feel free to let us know.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Rooth. “Have a nice weekend!”

He folded the sheet of paper and put it in his inside pocket.

Stood up and added:

“We’ll find him, no doubt, never fear.”

“Clear off,” said Van Veeteren.

“And what do we do, then?” asked Munster when they were alone again.

Van Veeteren tore up a few more notes while he thought the matter over.

“You and Reinhart can do what the devil you like,” he said eventually. “Whoever solves the case gets a bottle of cognac.”

“Five star?” asked Munster.

“Four,” said Van Veeteren. “Can I give you a few tips?”

Munster nodded.

“Concentrate on newly appointed staff at Bunge. I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find him, in any case! But for God’s sake don’t actually go there!”

“We’ve got their names,” said Munster. “All the ones appointed after Eva Ringmar.”

“How many of them are there?”

Munster took out his notebook and leafed through it.

“Men?”

“Yes, only the men, of course.”

“Eleven.”

“So many?”

“Yes, there is a certain amount of turnover, after all. That’s probably not so odd, come to that.”

“How many have an alibi for the first murder?”

“Only the first one?”

“Yes.”

Munster checked.

“One,” he said.

“Only one?”

“Yes.”

“That leaves ten. Are any of those on Mitter’s list as well?”

“You gave that to Rooth.”

Van Veeteren produced another sheet of paper from his desk drawer.

“Have you ever heard of photocopying, Inspector?”

Munster took the list and started comparing. Van Veeteren stood up and walked over to the window. Stood with his hands behind his back, staring out at the rain.

“Two,” said Munster. “Gert Weiss and Erich Volker.”

“Is Weiss as new as that?”

“Yes. He arrived at more or less the same time as Eva Ringmar.”

“I see. . I see. This Erich Volker, who the devil’s he?”

“Temporary teacher of chemistry and physics,” said Munster. “Appointed September ’91.”

“Interesting,” said Van Veeteren. “If I were you, I’d squeeze him a bit extra. Come down hard on them all, of course. And Weiss. Can I see the list of the new staff?”

Munster handed it over. Van Veeteren studied it for half a minute, rocking back and forth on his heels and muttering.

“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe. . but maybe not. You never know.”

Munster waited for clarification, but it never came.

“Any other tips?” he asked after a while.

“The Thursday before Easter, 1986. If the person under consideration was in Karpatz in a car at lunchtime, then he’s the one. Together with Eva Ringmar, that is.”

Munster looked as if he’d eaten something unpleasant.

Then he nodded and made a note. He’d been through this kind of thing before.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“The whole of April and May ’86,” said Van Veeteren. “In Karpatz, of course. But for Christ’s sake don’t ask him out-right. If he has the slightest suspicion, he’ll wriggle out of it.”

Munster made another note.

“Is that all?”

Van Veeteren nodded. Munster put his notebook into his jacket pocket.

“Monday?”

“Monday,” said Van Veeteren.

“What are you intending to do yourself?” Munster asked as he stood in the doorway.

Van Veeteren shrugged.

“We’ll see,” he said. “Beate Lingen to begin with.”

Munster closed the door behind him.

Who the hell is Beate Lingen? he wondered. Ah well, no badminton for the next few days, at least. If he worked all day Friday, he might even have a weekend off.

When he got back to his office, the phone rang.

“Another thing,” said Van Veeteren, “while we’re at it. The thirty-first of May is also a good date-1986, that is. Saturday afternoon, somewhere among the lakes at Maarensjoarna. But it’s only a hunch, and you’ll need to be extremely careful.

Have you understood?”

“No,” said Munster.

“Good,” said Van Veeteren, and hung up.