The Return

36

“What do we do in here?” wondered Jung.

“We could have a bite to eat, for instance,” said Münster. “Sit down and try to look as if you’re at home here.”

Jung sat down tentatively and looked around the austere premises.

“That won’t be easy,” he said. “But what’s the point? I assume we’re not being allowed to sit here in the town’s most expensive restaurant as a reward for our virtue.”

“Can you see that character in the dark blue suit next to the grand piano?” Münster asked.

“Of course,” said Jung. “I’m not blind.”

“According to Reinhart, he’s one of the top brass in the neo-Nazi movement. His name’s Edward Masseck, incidentally.”

“He doesn’t look like the type.”

“No, he’s an anonymous sort of character, Reinhart says. But he’s well documented. He’s the one behind an awful lot of shit, it seems. Arson in refugee hostels. Riots, desecration of graves, you name it. In any case, he’s sitting there and waiting for a contact from big business, a real big shot. We don’t know who, but when he turns up we’re supposed to let them sit and shuffle paper for a quarter of an hour or so. Then you go and phone from the vestibule while I go and arrest them. Reinhart and a couple of other officers are in two cars just around the corner.”

“I get it,” said Jung. “Why can’t Reinhart do it himself?”

“Masseck knows him,” said Münster. “Anyway, let’s order something to eat. What do you say to some lobster mousse to start with?”

“I had that for breakfast,” said Jung. “But I expect I can force down a bit more.”

“This Verhaven business,” said Jung as they waited for their main course. “How’s it going?”

Münster shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’m also off the case. It looks as if they don’t want to put any more resources into it. I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Why?”

“I expect they’re scared of stirring things up in the courts again. There could be one hell of a row if he should prove to be innocent, especially in the press and on television.”

Jung scratched the back of his neck.

“What does the chief inspector have to say about it?”

Münster hesitated.

“I don’t know. He’s still on sick leave. But it’s obvious that he’s not sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs.”

“Is it true that he’s got somebody on the hook? There was some talk about that in the canteen yesterday afternoon. Somebody who might have done it, that is?”

There was no doubting Jung’s curiosity, and it was obvious to Münster that he must have been aching to ask that question from the moment they’d sat down.

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he said. “I was out at Kaustin with him the day after they released him from the hospital. He pottered around at the house for an hour or so, and then he appeared with that look…you know what he’s like.”

Jung nodded.

“It’s damned amazing,” he said. “We spend several weeks going through that village with a fine-tooth comb—four or five of us—without finding anything of interest at all. Then he drives out there and picks up the trail inside an hour. Astonishing. Do you think it really is possible?”

Münster thought for a few seconds.

“What do you think?” he said.

“No idea,” said Jung. “You’re the one who knows him best.”

That’s true, I suppose, Münster thought. Although he sometimes had the feeling that the closer to Van Veeteren you got, the more unfathomable he became.

“It’s hard to say,” he said. “He’s certainly on to something, though, no doubt about that. But the last time I saw him he was going on about thin threads. And how long a flabby policeman could be stuck in a spider’s web, that kind of thing. He didn’t sound all that enthusiastic, but you know what he’s like.”

“I certainly do,” said Jung. “He’s a one-off, that’s for sure.”

There was a clear tone of admiration in Jung’s voice; there was no mistaking it, and Münster suddenly wished he could think of a way of conveying that to the chief inspector. Perhaps it wouldn’t be completely impossible, he thought. Since the cancer operation, he’d had the impression that their cooperation and level of communication had improved noticeably. There was more of a feeling of equality and more mutual respect. Or however it ought to be expressed.

Despite Van Veeteren’s unfathomability. And it was only in the early stages.

“No,” he said. “Van Veeteren is Van Veeteren.” He glanced over at the grand piano. Why hadn’t anybody appeared? Reinhart had guessed it would be one o’clock, but it was twenty past by now.

“I don’t know,” said Jung. “Anyway, here comes our sole. Yum-yum!”

Forty-five minutes later, Edward Masseck paid his bill and left. He had been all alone from start to finish. Jung had just ordered a second helping of candied walnuts, but they decided to pay and report to their colleagues.

“Hell’s bells!” said Reinhart when he heard that his prey had escaped. “How much did the meals cost?”

“It’s all yours,” said Münster, handing him the bill.

Reinhart stared at the pale blue scrap of paper.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “Stauff and I have been sitting in the car for two hours with half a packet of peanuts between us.”

“It was an excellent meal,” said Jung from the backseat. “Maybe it would be a good idea to try again tomorrow?”