The Return

7

After some deliberation Rooth decided to phone rather than call round in person. It was more than ten miles to Blochberg and it was nearly half past seven.

Afterward, when he replaced the receiver, he was relieved to think that at least the woman at the other end of the line didn’t know what he looked like. With a bit of luck, she wouldn’t be sure of his name either: He hoped that he had managed to mumble it so indistinctly that she hadn’t picked it up.

It had not been a successful telephone call.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Menhevern?”

“Marie-Louise Menhevern, yes.”

The voice was shrill and discouraging.

“My name is Rooth, from the Maardam police. I’m calling in connection with a missing person. You telephoned us last June to inform us that, unfortunately, your husband seemed to have vanished, is that right?”

“No. I never said anything about it being unfortunate. I merely said he’d disappeared.”

“In June 1993?”

“Precisely.”

“Has he come back home?”

“No.”

“You haven’t had any sign of life from him?”

“No. If I had, I’d have informed the police, of course.”

“And you have no idea what’s become of him?”

“Well, I assume he’s run off with another woman and is hidden away somewhere. That’s the type he is.”

“Really? Where might he be, do you think?”

“How the hell should I know? I’m sitting here watching the telly, constable. Are you sure you’re from the police, come to that?”

“Of course.”

“What do you want, then? Have you found him?”

“That depends,” said Rooth. “How many testicles did he have?”

“What the hell was that you said?”

“Er, well, I mean, most men have two, obviously…. He hasn’t had an operation and lost one, or something like that?”

“Hang on, I’m going to have this call traced.”

“But Mrs. Menhevern, please, it’s not what you think….”

“You are the worst sort, do you know that? You don’t even dare to come and look me in the eye. Telephone pig! If I could lay my hands on you I’d…”

Rooth terminated the call in horror. Sat there for half a minute without moving. As if the slightest careless move might give him away. Stared out of the window as darkness began to fall over the town.

No, he thought, I’m no good with women. That’s all there is to it.

Then he decided to remove Claus Menhevern from the list of possible victims. Which meant there was only one left.

Münster parked outside the dilapidated apartment block on Armastenstraat. Lingered in the car before walking over the street and venturing in through the outside door. An unmistakable stench of cat piss hovered over the stairs, and large lumps of plaster had given up all hope of clinging on to the walls, leaving gaping holes. There was no mention of a Pierre Kohler on the list of tenants in the hallway, but that seemed to be as unreliable as the rest of the building and so he decided to investigate what it said on the doors.

He hit the jackpot on the fourth floor.

Pierre Kohler

Margite Delling

Jürg Eschenmaa

Dolomite Kazaj

it said on a handwritten scrap of paper pinned above the letter slot.

He rang the bell. Nothing happened—presumably it wasn’t working. He knocked several times instead. After almost a minute he heard footsteps and the door was opened by a woman in her fifties. She had a mauve dressing gown wrapped loosely round her overweight body, and she eyed Münster critically up and down.

She was evidently unimpressed by what she saw.

So was Münster.

“I’m from the Maardam police,” he said, flashing his ID for a tenth of a second. “It’s about a missing person. May I come in?”

“Not without a warrant,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said Münster. “We’ve found a dead body in some woods not far from here, and it seems possible that it might be Pierre Kohler, who was reported missing in August last year.”

“Why should it be him?” the woman wondered, tightening the belt of her robe.

“Well, we don’t know for certain, of course,” said Münster. “We’re just checking everybody who’s been reported missing. The age seems to fit, and his height; but this is purely a routine check. There’s nothing else to suggest that it could be him.”

Why am I being so polite to this damned bitch? he wondered. It’s obvious I should have clamped down on her right from the start.

“Well?” she said, lighting a cigarette.

“There is one detail,” said Münster.

“One detail?”

“Yes, something that will enable us to make a positive identification. You see, the body we found didn’t have a head. That’s what’s making it so difficult for us to establish who it is.”

“You don’t say?”

A man had appeared in the hall behind her. Nodded brusquely at Münster and put his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“What kind of a detail?” he asked.

“Er,” said Münster. “Well, our victim is missing a testicle. Presumably it was operated on some considerable time ago. Do you happen to know…?”

The man started coughing, and Münster broke off. When the attack was over, Münster realized that it had been more of an outburst of laughter. He was grinning. The woman as well.

“Well, mister fucking chief of police,” said the man, hammering his clenched fist against his forehead. “This is my head. If you want to count my balls, you’d better step inside. My name is Pierre Kohler.”

Why the hell didn’t I telephone instead? thought Münster.

When he’d got back home and read the bedtime stories for the kids, Rooth rang.

“How did you get on?” he asked.

“It’s not him,” said Münster. “He’s alive and kicking. They’d forgotten to inform the police.”

“Oh dear,” said Rooth.

“What about yours?”

“Same thing, presumably,” sighed Rooth. “Doesn’t seem to be missing a testicle, in any case. Nor does his wife. The fact is, he’s probably done a runner.”

“Huh,” said Münster. “What do we do now, then?”

“I had a bright idea,” said Rooth. “About that butchery job. Either there must have been some kind of distinguishing feature on his hands or feet, or there might be a simpler explanation.”

“Simpler?” wondered Münster.

“Fingerprints,” said Rooth.

Münster thought for a moment.

“You don’t get rid of fingerprints by cutting a man’s feet off,” he said.

“True,” said Rooth. “But he probably did that to confuse us. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Münster thought for another couple of seconds.

“Of course,” he said. “We’ve got his fingerprints. He’s on our crime register.”

“There’s a clever boy,” said Rooth. “Yes, we’ve got his fingerprints somewhere in the archives; I’ll bet my damned life on it. Do you know how many we have, by the way?”

“Three hundred thousand, I think,” said Münster.

“Just over, yes. Ah well, given the way things are we can’t pin him down that way, in any case, but at least it’s a lead. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, see you,” said Münster, putting the phone down.

“What’s keeping you so busy?” asked Synn when they had switched the light off and he’d put his left arm around her.

“Oh, nothing special,” said Münster. “We’re looking for an old lag who disappeared sometime last year, that’s all. He’s between fifty-five and sixty, and only has one testicle.”

“How fascinating,” said Synn. “How are you going to find him?”

“We have done already,” said Münster. “He’s dead, of course.”

“Ah,” said Synn. “I’m with you. Could you cuddle me a bit more tightly, please?”