‘Closed for holidays!’ said Stiller. ‘Typical!’
Moerk stared at the notice in the window.
‘“We’ll be open again on Monday”,’ she read out. ‘Yes, that really is typical.’
‘What do we do now?’ wondered Stiller.
Moerk thought for two seconds.
‘The owner’s name is Baagermaas or something like that, I seem to recall. It doesn’t necessarily follow that he’s in Upper Volta just because he’s on holiday.’
‘Upper Volta?’ said Stiller.
‘Or Mallorca or the Maldives,’ said Moerk. ‘We’ll look him up in the telephone directory and give him a ring.’
‘Okay,’ said Stiller, dialling the police station on his mobile.
A minute later he had all the necessary information from fröken Miller, who could also inform him that the name was Maagerbaas, and not the other way round. He keyed in the new number and received a response after one-and-a-half rings.
‘Hello.’
‘Erwin Maagerbaas?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the police. Will you be at home a quarter of an hour from now?’
‘What? Er. . yes, I’ll be in. What’s it all-’
‘Just routine. And your address is Oostwerdingen Allé 32, is that right?’
‘Yes. . Yes, that’s right.’
‘Thank you, we’ll see you shortly then,’ said Stiller, concluding the call.
He’s starting to grow into his uniform, thought Moerk as she unlocked the car door.
Erwin Maagerbaas didn’t look as if he had spent his holidays on Mallorca or in Upper Volta — in a cave in the woods, more likely. His face was greyish white and he seemed to be in a bad way overall when he let them into his flat in Oostwerdingen Allé. The first thing he did was to sneeze three times and explain that he had been ill in bed for several days.
But he said he was on the mend and would no doubt be up to answering a few questions. What was it all about?
Beate Moerk took out the photograph of Verlangen and handed it to him.
‘Do you recognize this man?’ she asked. ‘We have reason to believe he paid a visit to your camera shop.’
Maagerbaas put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and examined the photograph carefully.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘It’s possible — I think I recognize him but I’m not certain.’
‘It’s very important for us, as you no doubt understand,’ said Stiller.
‘I see. Well, I have rather a lot of customers in fact. When would it have been? I’ve been closed since the middle of August.’
‘We know that,’ said Moerk. ‘This visit took place quite a long time ago. In April.’
‘April?’ exclaimed Maagerbaas, and started coughing. ‘How am I supposed to remember a customer who called in half a year ago? He’s not one of my regulars in any case, I’m quite sure of that. What did he want?’
‘We presume he simply handed in a roll of film for developing,’ said Stiller. ‘And then collected it.’
‘Why are you looking for him?’
Moerk exchanged glances with her colleague.
‘Haven’t you read the newspaper?’ she asked. ‘We asked for information about him last Monday.’
‘De Journaal?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been away for a couple of weeks. I got back yesterday.’
‘I see,’ said Moerk. ‘So you can’t say whether this person has been in your shop or not?’
Maagerbaas shrugged and sneezed once again.
‘No.’
Stiller cleared his throat.
‘Forgive me, but if he did hand in a film for developing in April, it should be possible to check that, surely?’
Maagerbaas took off his glasses, breathed on them a few times and put them back into a brown case.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’ll be records in the computer in that case, but-’
‘Excellent,’ said Moerk. ‘Can you come with us, and we’ll investigate the matter.’
‘Now?’ wondered Maagerbaas, looking reluctant.
‘This very minute,’ said Stiller. ‘This is all about a murder, herr Baagermaas — didn’t we mention that?’
‘Maagerbaas,’ said Moerk.
Ten minutes later they were once again at the FotoBlix shop in Hoistraat, but this time inside it. Erwin Maagerbaas switched on the computer and invited them to sit down.
‘It’s a bit old,’ he explained. ‘It takes some time to warm up. What was his name?’
It occurred to Beate Moerk that she hadn’t thought about this potential problem until now.
‘Try Verlangen,’ she said.
Maagerbaas waited a bit longer, then keyed in the name.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sommers,’ said Stiller. ‘Try Henry Sommers.’
Maagerbaas looked at him in surprise for a few seconds, then did as requested.
One chance in a thousand, thought Moerk glumly as he tapped away at the keys. At best.
‘Eureka!’ said Maagerbaas, coughing up some phlegm. ‘Yes, there is a Sommers here. The fifteenth of April, could that fit in?’
Moerk hurried round the desk and took a look at the screen.
‘That fits in perfectly,’ she said. ‘What does this mean? That he’s been here and handed in a roll of film?’
‘Yes,’ said Maagerbaas, studying the information in more detail. ‘Handed in, but evidently not. .’
‘Not what?’
‘Hmm. He hasn’t been to collect the pictures.’
‘Not been to collect. .?’
It took three seconds before she realized what that implied. Or could imply. Stiller was evidently a few tenths of a second quicker on the uptake, for he was the one who exclaimed:
‘What the hell are you saying? Hasn’t he collected the pictures? Does that mean that. .’
‘. . that they’re still here?’ said Moerk, finishing his question for him.
Maagerbaas made quite a show of blowing his nose.
‘Presumably, yes. I usually keep them for about a year. Customers sometimes forget them. . I ring and remind them first, of course. . Me or my assistant. But that has evidently not helped in this case. And he didn’t supply a telephone number.’
‘Where?’ said Stiller. ‘Where do you keep the pictures?’
‘Where?’ said Maagerbaas. ‘Well I assume they’ll be in the office somewhere. I have a cupboard where I keep uncollected photographs. Would you like-’
‘You bet we would,’ said Moerk. ‘God almighty. .’
‘God almighty,’ echoed Chief of Police deKlerk just over an hour later. ‘Twenty-four pictures taken by the murder victim himself — that surely has to be a breakthrough. But what on earth can we say about them?’
The photographs were spread out on the table in the conference room, and those present had been staring at them for quite a while. Every one of them. Intendent Münster and Inspector Rooth. The chief of police himself. And Moerk and Stiller, who had arrived with the pictures half an hour ago. Every single photograph had been passed round to all present. From hand to hand. Twenty-four of them. Everybody had examined them carefully. Nobody had shouted ‘Aha!’, and nobody had used the word ‘breakthrough’ until the chief of police used the word now.
The problem was the motif of the photographs.
They all depicted a house.
The same house.
‘In every bloody photo,’ to quote Inspector Rooth.
Quite a large single-storey villa, photographed from various angles. Four angles, to be precise. Two from the front, two from the back — most of them from the back. Nineteen of the pictures depicted the rear of the house: a stretch of lawn, two knotty fruit trees (probably apple trees), several small shrubs (probably berberis), and a large terrace with a table and four green chairs. The facade was clad in reddish-brown brick, and the roof was dark-coloured slate. Münster guessed it dated from the 1950s, and nobody objected to that. There were people in some of the pictures: a man and a woman. The man appeared eleven times, the woman eight, and in six of the pictures they were both present. Both of them were wearing the same clothes on each occasion, and it seemed highly likely that all the pictures had been taken on the same day. Within quite a short time as well — an hour, perhaps, judging by the light and the shadows.
As far as the camera was concerned, deKlerk had suggested that it was quite a primitive model. The distance from the two positions at the rear of the house was always the same, about twenty-five metres. The zoom function had not been used, the facial expressions of the man and the woman were difficult to make out, and their facial features in general were not very clear.
As far as one could judge the man seemed to be somewhat older than the woman. He had greyish-white hair and a short beard of the same colour, and seemed to be between sixty and seventy. He was wearing dark trousers and a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The woman was wearing jeans and a black, long-sleeved jumper in all the pictures, and she had dark hair tied up in a simple ponytail. In most of the pictures they were on the terrace, standing up or sitting down. The sun was shining, and on the table were coffee cups, a thermos flask, several newspapers and some books. In three of the photos the woman had a cigarette in her hand. The man was wearing glasses in two.
That was all.
‘That bloody idiot has taken pictures of a house,’ said Rooth. ‘Twenty-four times! Brilliant detective work, at least I can give him that eulogy. If he were not dead we ought to reinstate him in the police force immediately.’
‘Hmm, I don’t know about that,’ said deKlerk.
‘And we’re sure that no one here recognizes it?’ asked Münster. ‘The house, that is.’
DeKlerk shook his head.
Moerk and Stiller shook their heads.
‘Sorry,’ said Moerk. ‘I don’t think so. It seems quite a posh place — but it’s not certain that it’s in Kaalbringen, is it?’
‘Of course the bloody place is in Kaalbringen,’ said Rooth. ‘Why would Verlangen go to Kaalbringen in order to take pictures of a house in Hamburg? Or in Sebastopol?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the chief of police, tugging at his nose. ‘Inspector Rooth no doubt has a valid point. But what about the man in the photographs? Could it possibly be Hennan?’
Münster glanced at Rooth before answering.
‘Very possibly,’ he said. ‘Why not? It could be anybody at all, of course, but if there was any point in taking those photographs. . and this whole business, come to that. . I’d be prepared to vote for it being Jaan G. Hennan. I’ve no idea who the woman is, but why not look into the likelihood of it being his new wife?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Moerk. ‘Very bold conclusions, I must say. But okay, if we forget about the possibility of them being wrong, where do they get us? If Hennan really is living in a house in Kaalbringen, surely he has every right to do so?’
‘Not if he’s shot Verlangen through the head he doesn’t,’ said Rooth, taking something that looked like a half-eaten bar of chocolate from his jacket pocket. ‘If he has, that robs him of the right to choose his own address for at least ten years. But I don’t understand. . These pictures surely can’t be the proof he was going on about? Not unless he was completely barmy. Verlangen, that is.’
‘It’s very possible that he was,’ sighed Münster. ‘I’m beginning to think he might well have been.’
‘He was murdered because he knew something,’ said deKlerk.
‘Or because somebody thought he knew something,’ said Stiller tentatively.
Beate Moerk stood up and walked over to the window. Folded her arms over her chest and looked out over Kleinmarckt.
‘That’s what we believe, yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘What we convince ourselves is the case, so that the evidence fits in with our theories. But what if it was in fact some other lunatic who shot him?. . Somebody who has nothing at all to do with Jaan G. Hennan. That’s a possibility, in fact.’
Rooth crumpled up the chocolate paper into a ball, took aim and missed the waste-paper basket by one-and-a-half metres.
‘That’s plan B,’ he said. ‘You might be right, but surely we should continue with plan A for a bit longer. Shouldn’t we?’
Chief of Police deKlerk thought for a moment, then nodded and began collecting together the photographs. Stiller picked up the ball of paper and asked Rooth if he wanted to have another go. Rooth shook his head.
‘As I said,’ said deKlerk, ‘I’m also very sceptical about this leading us anywhere: but we’ve started and we might just as well finish. . I suppose.’
‘But what should we do?’ wondered Stiller, looking round the table. ‘What, exactly?’
‘Any suggestions?’ said deKlerk, also looking round the table at his colleagues.
‘There is only one possibility, surely?’ said Moerk. ‘Identify the house. That must be our first priority.’
‘But how?’ said deKlerk. ‘Should each of us get into our own car and drive around until we find it?’
There followed a few seconds’ silence as all present seemed to weigh up that possibility.
‘Well,’ said Moerk. ‘That would probably work in the end — but I reckon there’s a faster way of doing it.’
‘What is it?’ asked Stiller.
‘There must be people in this town who are better at identifying houses than we are, don’t you think?’
‘Presumably, yes,’ muttered the chief of police. ‘But I think that whatever we do we should avoid appealing for assistance from the general public. We’ve already agreed on doing that. Or are you thinking of a specific person who might be able to help us?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Moerk. ‘Yes, I did have somebody in mind. He’s over seventy years old and has lived here in Kaalbringen all his life. He recognizes every single garden gate and front door.’
‘Who could that be?’ wondered Probationer Stiller.
‘Bausen,’ said Beate Moerk, opening the window. ‘The former chief of police. I think it’s time we let in a breath of fresh air — and interrupted a game of chess.’