Woman with Birthmark

February 16-

March 9

33

The Pawlewski Hotel had seen better days, but then, so had Mr. Pawlewski.

And better guests.

More specifically, he had seen them sixty years ago and more, when he had to stand on a blue-painted and scratched stool in order to be able to see over the edge of the reception desk. When it was still Pawlewski senior and Pawlewski grand-senior running the show. And his mother and grandmother ruled the roost in the restaurant and linen store, and kept the cooks and pomaded bellboys in good order. While the century was somewhat younger.

A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then. An awful lot of water. Nowadays the stool stood under a tired palm tree in his own den, the former so-called bridal suite on the fifth floor of the hotel.

Everything has its day.

Biedersen spent the first three evenings in the bar in the company of numerous whiskeys and the assortment of doubtful characters that comprised the clientele, roughly half of them one-night guests and the rest introverted regulars. All of them were men. All had thinning hair and almost all had drooping shoulders, some kind of beard or mustache, and vacant expressions. He didn't waste a minute on any of them, and from Monday night onward he drank from the bottle he had in his room instead.

This made the days monotonous and indistinguishable. He got up about noon. Left his room an hour later and spent the afternoon wandering around the town, so that the chambermaid had an opportunity to come in and mark the commencement of a new day. He would drink black coffee in some café or other, preferably Günther's near the town center, try to read a newspaper or perhaps several, go for a long walk, and buy some cigarettes plus the evening's bottle, which he would choose with a degree of care that struck him as unjustified but nevertheless essential. As if it were one of the basic rules in a game-he was not sure if he was playing it or if he was one of the pieces, but for the moment it was the only thing taking place. There was nothing else at all.

He returned by devious routes to the Pawlewski the moment he noticed that the dirt-gray dusk was beginning to fall. It happened early in a town like this, accompanied by acid rain and the smog from coal fires.

Stretched out on his newly made bed, with sick-looking pigeons cooing outside on the roof, he drank his first whiskey of the day before taking a bath, with number two within easy reach on the floor. Went down to the restaurant for dinner, usually as one of the first diners, occasionally completely alone in the oversized, mouse-brown room with uninspiring crystal glass chandeliers and tablecloths that had once been white. Drank beer with the food, coffee and cognac afterward, and each night he remained sitting there a little longer.

He tried to last out for a few extra minutes; to shrink and cut back as much as possible the accursed boredom of what remained of the waking day. And it was as he returned from these meals-on his way to the bar or up to his room-that Mr. Pawlewski saw him. Pawlewski spent virtually all his waking hours more or less invisible behind the reception desk; from there he could observe and pass judgment and as usual ascertain that most things had seen better days.

Who this particular guest was, and what the hell he was doing in this lugubrious town in a month like February were the kind of questions that, in his capacity of observer and man of the world, he had ceased to ask forty or more years ago.

At first the intoxication and numbing of the senses was an aim in itself. Simply to get away, to run away and put distance between himself and what was happening, had been the primary, not to say the only, goal he had had when he left home. The idea that eventually he would have to adopt a different strategy, would have to work out practical new tactics and courses of action, was as yet merely a thought dormant in the back of his mind; or at least was not something hanging over him, demanding that he should do something. Even so, these days were filled with the complicated actions and routines necessary to enable him to enjoy the blessing of sleeping in a state of unconscious intoxication.

Dreamless sleep for eight hours. Dead to the world. Beyond reach of everything and everyone. In the morning he would wake up sweating profusely, and with a headache strong enough to keep all other sensations miles away. Then, simply by taking a couple of tablets and preparing himself yet again for the afternoon hours spent on the streets and in cafés, he had set the warped wheels of time turning once more. Gained another day.

By the seventh night it was over, this purifying, cauterizing alcohol bath. The desired distance had been achieved, his fear was in check, and he needed to apply himself to the strategies once more.

Scrutinized and filtered through a week of turbid, soothing whiskey, the proportions of his opponent had become possible to assess accurately. He could envisage her again. His faux pas and the fiasco in Berkinshaam, followed by the shocking murder of Innings, had elevated her out of the real world-the murderer was a phantom that couldn't be stopped, a superwoman; the only thing he could possibly do was go into hiding and wait. Vanish. Go underground, and hope.

That is why he had run away. Made himself invisible. Not just stuck his head in the sand, but dug down and concealed all of him. Away from everything and everyone. Away from her.

But on the tenth day he weighed his gun in his hand and began to look ahead again.

First of all, it was necessary to reject two possibilities.

The first was the police. To abandon his self-defense. Give himself up and tell them the whole story. Allow the bitch to win.

It took him two drams of whiskey to dismiss that thought.

The other was to remain in hiding. For as long as was necessary.

That took him a bit longer. Four drams, maybe six. But he managed it.

So what should he do?

He drank more. A lot more.

Days. All the rest of the days he stayed at the Pawlewski Hotel, to be precise. Needless to say this had been his original thought, the one that had been lying dormant in the back of his mind-to find a place like this, and to stay there. To stay in this damned, filthy, bad-smelling hotel until he was ready and knew what he was going to do next.

Stay here and wait for the strength, the determination, and the ideas.

There must be a way.

A way of killing this damned bitch. And the more he thought about it, the clearer it became that this wasn't just about himself. Not just his own skin. That strengthened his resolve. All the others… the friends she had murdered, the widows and children, and the lives she had destroyed in the course of her blood-stained campaign, just in order to…

All the people who had suffered. Just in order to…

His duty. His duty for God's sake, was to kill her. Challenge her on her own terms, then outwit her and obliterate her from the surface of the earth once and for all.

Eliminate this accursed bitch.

The anger inside him grew into hatred. Powerful, incandescent hatred coupled with the feeling of having a mission to accomplish, a duty to perform-he was filled with the strength he needed to carry it out.

Courage. Strength. Determination.

And the method?

Was there more than one?

Two drams. Let it circulate in the mouth, as if it were cognac. The same question over and over again. One evening after the other. More whiskey? The method? Was there more than one?

No. Only one.

Lower his guard. Leave himself open.

Give her the chance to strike first.

Then parry and kill her.

That was the way.

Yes, the Pawlewski Hotel had seen better guests.

How and where?

Where? That was the most important thing. Where the hell could he find a corner into which he could entice her without giving her too much of an advantage? He still didn't know what she really looked like-naturally, he had studied the pictures of her printed in the newspapers, but the only sure thing was that she was never going to approach him with an expression like the remarkably peaceful one she had there.

Another woman this time. No matter what she looked like. Unexpected and completely unknown. But where? Where the hell would he be able to set the trap?

And how?

It took a whole night to sketch out the plan, and when he eventually fell asleep in the gray light of dawn, he didn't believe it would still hold water in the cold light of day.

But it did. On Tuesday, he had lunch in the restaurant for the first time, and when he checked through the plan with the aid of two cups of extra-strong black coffee, he found the occasional crack, but nothing that couldn't be papered over, and nothing wide enough for him to fall through.

It was watertight.

Biedersen left the Pawlewski Hotel at about two in the afternoon on Wednesday, February 28. His gaze met that of Mr. Pawlewski behind the reception desk for only a fraction of a second, but that was enough for him to be sure that those remarkably all-seeing yet nothing-seeing eyes would never recall a certain Jürg Kummerle who had spent twelve nights in Room 313.

In view of this, for the twelve days and nights that had never existed, he gave Mr. Pawlewski an extra hundred-guilder note.

If she had found him during this dreadful period, she would have won-he knew that. But she hadn't, and now he was ready again.

34

“The first of March today,” announced the chief of police, snapping off a withered leaf from a hibiscus. “Take a seat. As I said, I'd like to hear some kind of summary, at the very least. This case is gobbling up a lot of resources.”

Van Veeteren muttered and flopped down into the shiny leather armchair.

“Well?”

“What do you want to know? If I had anything significant to tell you, I'd have done so without your needing to ask me.”

“Is that something I can rely on?”

The chief inspector made no reply.

“We've been guarding and protecting twenty people for two weeks now. Would you like me to tell you how much that costs?”

“No thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “You can call them off if you like.”

“Call them off!” exclaimed Hiller, sitting down at his desk. “Can you imagine the headlines if we cancel the protection and she then clobbers another one? We're in a big enough mess as it is.”

“The headlines won't be any better if we leave things as they are and she picks one off even so.”

Hiller snorted and started rotating his gold watch around his wrist.

“What do you mean by that? Are you suggesting that the guards are of no significance? They could be the very thing that's holding her back.”

“I don't think so,” said Van Veeteren.

“What do you think, then? For Christ's sake tell me what you do think!”

The chief inspector took out a toothpick and examined it critically before inserting it into his lower row of teeth. Turned his head and tried to peer out the window through the dense expanse of greenery.

“I think it's raining. For instance.”

Hiller opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“It's not possible to say,” Van Veeteren continued, after a pause for effect. “Either she's finished, or she's intending to kill more. Whatever, just at the moment she's lying low. Perhaps she's waiting for us to lower our guard… and for the next victim to do the same. Clever. That's what I'd do.”

Hiller made a noise that the chief inspector was inclined to associate with a horny but unhappy seal.

“But what are you doing?” he managed to say eventually. “For God's sake tell me what you are doing about it!”

Van Veeteren shrugged.

“We're working through tips from the general public,” he said. “Quite a few are still coming in, despite the fact that the newspapers have lost interest.”

Hiller breathed deeply and tried to look optimistic.

“And?”

“Not much there; I'm wondering whether we ought to go out on a limb, although that would involve a bit of a risk, of course. We could concentrate on a few possible candidates and leave the rest to their fate. That might give results.”

Hiller thought about that.

“Are there any? Ones who are more likely than the others, that is?”

“Could be,” said Van Veeteren. “I'm looking into that now.”

The chief of police stood up and went over to his plants again. Swayed back and forth with his back to the chief inspector, using his thumbs and index fingers to remove specks of dust from some leaves.

“Do that, then,” he said, turning around. “Use that blasted intuition of yours and make something happen!”

Van Veeteren heaved himself up from the armchair.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“For now,” said the chief of police, gritting his teeth.

“What did he have to say?” asked Reinhart.

“He's nervous,” said the chief inspector, pouring some coffee into a plastic mug. Raised it to his mouth, then paused.

“When was this brewed?” he asked.

Reinhart shrugged.

“February, I should think. This year, in any case.”

There was a knock on the door and Münster came in.

“What did he have to say?”

“He wondered why we hadn't arrested her yet.”

“You don't say,” said Münster.

Van Veeteren leaned back, tasted the coffee, and pulled a face.

“January,” he said. “Typical January coffee. Münster, how many have we failed to get in touch with yet? Of the as-yet-unmurdered, that is.”

“Just a moment,” said Münster, and left the room. Returned a minute later with a piece of paper in his hand.

“Three,” he said.

“Why?” asked the chief inspector.

“They're away,” said Münster. “Two of them on business, one on holiday, visiting his daughter in Argentina.”

“But surely we can get in touch with her?”

“We've sent her a message, but they haven't replied yet. We haven't been pressing all that hard, to be fair…”

Van Veeteren produced the well-thumbed photograph.

“Which of them is it?”

“His name's Delherbes. He lives here in Maardam. It was deBries who talked to him last time.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“And the other two?”

“Biedersen and Moussner,” said Münster. “Moussner is in Southeast Asia somewhere. Thailand and Singapore and so on. He'll be back home before long. Sunday, I think. Biedersen is probably a bit closer to home.”

“Probably?” said Reinhart.

“His wife wasn't very sure. He often goes off on business trips, maintaining contacts now and then, it seems. He runs an import company. England or Scandinavia, she thought.”

“ Scandinavia?” said Reinhart. “What the hell does anybody import from Scandinavia? Amber and wolf skins?”

“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “Has anybody seen Heinemann today?”

“I spent three minutes with him in the canteen this morning,” said Münster. “He seemed pretty worn out.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Could be the grandchildren,” he said. “How many tips have we left to go through?”

“A few hundred, I'd say,” said Reinhart.

The chief inspector forced the remainder of the coffee down, with obvious reluctance.

“All right,” he said. “We'd better make sure we've finished plowing through that shit by Friday. Something had better happen soon.”

“That would be helpful,” said Reinhart. “As long as it's not another one.”

Dagmar Biedersen switched off the vacuum cleaner and listened.

Yes, it was the telephone again. She sighed, went to the hall, and answered.

“Mrs. Biedersen?”

“Yes, that's me.”

“My name is Pauline Hansen. I'm a business acquaintance of your husband's, but I don't think we've met?”

“No… no, I don't think so. My husband's not at home at the moment.”

“No, I know that. I'm calling from Copenhagen. I've tried to get him at the office, but they say he's away on business.”

“That's right,” said Dagmar Biedersen, rubbing a mark off the mirror. “I'm not sure when he's coming home.”

“You don't know where he is?”

“No.”

“That's a pity. I have a piece of business I'd like to discuss with him. I'm sure he'd be interested. It's a very advantageous deal, with rather a lot of money involved; but if I can't get hold of him, well…”

“Well what?” wondered Dagmar Biedersen.

“Well, I suppose I'll have to turn to somebody else. You've no idea where I might be able to contact him?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“If you should hear from him in the next few days, please tell him I've called. I'm certain he'd be interested, as I said…”

“Just a moment,” said Dagmar Biedersen.

“Yes?”

“He phoned the other day and said he'd probably be spending a few days at the cottage as well.”

“The cottage?”

“Yes. We have a little holiday place up in Wahrhejm. It's his childhood home, in fact, although we've done it up a bit, of course. You might be able to catch him there, if you are lucky.”

“Is there a telephone?”

“No, but you can phone the village inn and leave a message for him. But I can't swear that he'll be there at the moment. It was just a thought.”

“Wahrhejm, did you say?”

“Yes, between Ulming and Oostwerdingen. Just a little village. The number is 161621.”

“Thank you very much. I'll give it a try-but even so, if you hear from him, I'd be grateful if you mentioned that I've called.”

“Of course,” said Dagmar Biedersen.

Verbal diarrhea, she thought as she replaced the receiver; when she started the vacuum cleaner again, she'd already forgotten the woman's name.

But the call was from Copenhagen, she did remember that.

35

Dusk was beginning to set in as he drove into Wahrhejm. He turned right at the village's only crossroads, passed the inn, where they had already lit the red lanterns in the windows-the same lanterns, he thought, that had been hanging there ever since he was a child.

He continued past the chapel, Heine's house, and the pond, whose still water looked blacker than ever in the failing light. Passed Van Klauster's house, Kotke's dilapidated old mansion, and then turned left into the little road between the post boxes and the tall pine trees.

He drove in through the opening in the stone wall and parked at the back, as usual. Hid the car from the gaze of the street-an expression his mother used to use that he had never been able to shake off. But today, of course, it was appropriate. The kitchen door was at the back as well, but he didn't unload his food supplies yet. He got out of the car and examined the house first. Outside and inside. The kitchen and the three rooms. The loft. The outbuilding. The cellar.

No sign. She was not here, and hadn't been here. Not yet. He applied the safety catch on his pistol and put it into his jacket pocket.

But she would come. He started unloading the provisions. Switched on the electricity. Started the pump. Allowed the taps to run for a while and flushed the lavatory. Nobody had set foot in the place since October, when he had invited a business acquaintance to spend the weekend there, but everything seemed to be in order. Nothing had given up the ghost during the winter. The refrigerator was humming away. The radiators soon felt warm. The television and radio were working.

For a second or two the pleasure he felt at returning home succeeded in ousting the reason for his visit from his mind. Most of the furniture-as well as the pictures and the tapestries, the hundreds of other little things-were still there and in the same state as when he had been a young boy and the moment of arrival, the first sight of the place again, always brought with it a feeling of leaping back in time. Vertigo-inspiring, instantaneous. And it happened again now. But then, needless to say, the circumstances caught up with him.

The circumstances?

He switched off the lights. He felt at home in the darkness inside the house, and he knew that no matter what happened, he would not need a flashlight in order to find his way around. Neither indoors nor out of doors. He knew every nook and cranny. Every door and creaking stair. Every path, every bush, and every root. Every stone. Everything was in its place, had always been there, and that gave him a feeling of confidence and security-something he might have hoped for during the planning stage, but had hardly dared count on.

Anyway, the outbuilding.

He unhasped the door. Dragged the mattress up the stairs as best he could. Placed it carefully by the window. Not much headroom up there. He had to crawl, crouch down. He went back to collect pillows and blankets. It was colder in the outbuilding, there was no source of heat at all, and it was clear that he would have to wrap himself up well.

He adjusted the mattress to an optimal position under the sloping roof. Lay down, and checked it was all as he'd foreseen.

Perfect, more or less. He could look out through the slightly rippled, old-fashioned glass pane and see the gable end of the house, with both the front door and the kitchen door in his field of view. The distance was no more than six or eight meters.

He opened the window slightly. Took out the gun and stuck it out through the opening, moved it back and forth, testing. Took aim.

Would he hit her at this distance?

He thought so. Perhaps not accurately enough to kill her outright, but he would probably have time for three or four shots.

That should be sufficient. He was not a bad marksman, even though it had been several years since he'd been out with the hunting club up here.

He returned to the house. Ferried over a few more blankets and some of the provisions. The idea was that he would spend his time lying here. Spend as much time as possible in the correct position in the outbuilding loft.

He would be lying here when she came.

He would ambush her and give her the coup de grâce.

He would finish off the mad bitch once and for all through this open window.

Pure luck, he would tell the police afterward. It could just as easily have been she who got me instead… Good thing I was on my guard.

Self-defense. Of course it was self-defense, for God's sake-he didn't even need to lie.

But he would not reveal the real reason. The root of the evil. The reason he knew he was next on the list.

He had done all he could. Went back to the house and listened.

It's strange how quiet it is, he thought, and remembered that this was what he always felt here. The silence that came rolling in from the forest and obliterated every slight sound. Wiped out everything with its enormous, silent soughing.

The armies of silence, he thought. The Day of Judgment…

He checked his watch and decided to pay a visit to the inn. A short walk there and back, along the familiar road.

Just for a beer. And, maybe, the answer to a question.

Any strangers around lately?

Any new faces?

When he got back, the darkness lay thick over the house and its environs. The buildings and the scraggy fruit trees could just about be made out against the background of the forest-rather better here and there against the somewhat lighter sky over the treetops. He had drunk two beers and a whiskey. Spoken to Lippmann and Korhonen, who had charge of the bar nowadays. Not a lot of customers, of course: a normal weekday at the beginning of March. And not many strangers, not recently, either. The occasional one who had passed through and called in, but nobody who had been there more than once. Women? No, no, not as far as they could remember. Neither Lippmann nor Korhonen. Why was he asking? Oh, business reasons. Nudge, nudge. Did he really think they would swallow that? Pull the other one. Tee hee. And cheers! Good to see you back here in the village.

Homecoming.

He tiptoed over the wet grass. It hadn't rained at all this evening, but damp mists had drifted in from the coast and settled down over the open countryside bordering the forests like an unseen presence. He kept stopping and listening, but all he could hear was the same impenetrable silence as before. Nothing else. He withdrew behind the outbuilding in order to rid his body of the remnants of the beer. Carefully opened the door, which usually squeaked a bit but didn't on this occasion. He would oil it tomorrow, just in case.

Crouched down in order to negotiate the cramped staircase again, and crawled over to his bed. Fiddled around with the blankets. Wriggled in and snuggled down. Turned over on his side and peered out. The house was dark and inert down below. Not a sound. Not a movement. He slid the pistol under his pillow, and placed his hand over it. He would have to sleep lightly, of course-but then, he usually did.

Always woke up at the slightest sound or movement.

Would no doubt do that now as well.

Blankets wrapped around his body. Face close to the window-pane. Hand over the gun.

So. Bring her on.

36

“I don't know,” said the chief inspector. “It's just an opinion, but if these three were up to no good together, you'd think that at least some of the others ought to have known about it. So it's more likely that something of this sort would happen toward the end of the course. But then, that's only speculation, pure and simple.”

“Sounds reasonable, though,” said Münster.

“Anyway rapes in 1965. How many have you found?”

“Two,” said Münster.

“Two?”

“Yes. Two cases of rape reported, both of them in April. The first girl was attacked in a park, it seems. The other in an apartment in Pampas.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“How many rapists?”

“One in the park. Two in the apartment. The pair in the apartment were sentenced, the one in the park got away with it. He was never found.”

Van Veeteren leafed through his papers.

“Do you know how many rapes have been reported so far this year?”

Münster shook his head.

“Fifty-six. Can you explain to me how the hell the number of rapes could shoot up so drastically?”

“Not rapes,” said Münster. “Reported rapes.”

“Precisely” said the chief inspector. “How do you rate the chances of tracking down a thirty-year-old unreported rape?”

“Poor,” said Münster. “How do we know it's a matter of rape anyway?”

The chief inspector sighed.

“We don't know,” he said. “But we can't just sit here twiddling our thumbs. You can have another job instead. If it gets us somewhere I'll invite you to dinner at Kraus.”

Mission Impossible, Münster thought, and so did the chief inspector, it seemed, as he cleared his throat somewhat apologetically.

“I want to know about all births registered by the mother with the father given as unknown. December ′65 to March ′66, or thereabouts. In Maardam and the surrounding district. The names of the mothers and the children.”

“Especially girls?” Münster asked.

“Only girls.”

That evening he went to the movies. Saw Tarkovsky's Nostalgia for the fourth, or possibly the fifth, time. With the same feelings of admiration and gratitude as usual. The masterpiece of masterpieces, he thought as he sat there in the half-empty cinema and allowed himself to be gobbled up by the pictures; and he suddenly thought of what the vicar had said at his confirmation service-a gentle preacher with a long white beard, and there were doubtless many in the congregation who considered him a very close relation of God the Father himself.

There is evil in this world, he had declared, but never and nowhere so much that there is no room left over for good deeds.

Not a particularly remarkable claim in itself, but it had stuck in Van Veeteren's mind and occasionally rose up to the surface.

Such as now. Good deeds? Van Veeteren thought as he walked home after the showing. How many people are there living the sort of lives which don't even have room for nostalgia?

Is that why she's murdering these men? Because she never had a chance?

And room for good deeds? Was that really always available? Who exactly decided on the proportions? And who started off the relentless hunt for a meaning in everything? In every deed and every happening?

Things occur, Van Veeteren thought. Things happen, and perhaps they have to happen. But they don't need to be good or evil.

And they don't need to mean anything.

And his gloom deepened.

I'm an old sod, an old, tired detective who's seen too much and doesn't want to see much more, he thought.

I don't want to see the end of this case that's been occupying me for the past six weeks now. I want to get off the train before we get to the terminus.

What were all those vile thoughts about flushing out and hunting that were so noble and meaningful at the start?

I don't want to get to the point where I'm staring at the bleak and grubby causes of all this, he thought. I know the background is just as ugly as the crimes. Or suspect that, at least, and would like to be spared everything.

A futile prayer, he knew that-but isn't futility the home ground of prayer? What else could it be?

He turned into Klagenburg and wondered briefly if he ought to call in at the café. He failed to reach a conclusion, but his feet passed by the brightly lit doorway of their own accord, and he continued his walk home.

Things happen, he thought. I might just as well have gone in.

And as he lay in bed, there were two thoughts that overwhelmed him and kept him awake.

Something is going to happen in this case as well. Just happen. Soon.

I must think about whether I have the strength to last for much longer.

And then the image of Ulrike Fremdli-Karel Innings's wife-popped up in his mind's eye. Hovered there in the dark mist between dream and reality, between slumber and consciousness, and was gradually interleaved by and combined with Tarkovsky's ruined church and Gorchakov's wading through the water with a flaming torch.

Something's bound to happen.

37

“Hello?”

Jelena Walgens's hearing was not what it had once been. She found it especially difficult to understand what people said on the telephone-and needless to say, she would have preferred to discuss whatever the topic was over a cup of coffee. With something freshly baked on the side. A little chat about this and that. But the young man was persistent, sounded pleasant, and of course it would be possible to settle matters over the phone even so.

“How long did you say? A month only? I would prefer to have a tenant for a bit longer than that…”

“I could pay you a bit extra,” argued the young man. “I'm a writer. Alois Mühren, I don't know if you've heard of me?”

“I don't think so.”

“What I'm looking for is a nice, quiet hideaway where I can write the final chapter of my new book. I certainly don't need more than a month. All the people and the hustle and bustle of a city make things so difficult for a writer, if you see what I mean.”

“I certainly do,” said Jelena Walgens as she searched through her memory.

But she couldn't think of anybody by that name. She read quite a lot, and had always done so; but he was a young man, and maybe she hadn't quite heard the name right. Alois Mühren? Was that what he'd said?

“One month,” she said. “Until the first of April, that is. Is that what you want?”

“If possible. But perhaps you have other prospective tenants?”

“A few,” she lied. “But nobody who's committed themselves yet.”

In fact this was the third week in succession that she'd placed the ad in the newspaper, and apart from an off-putting German who seemed to have misunderstood everything it was possible to misunderstand, and no doubt stank of sauerkraut and sausages, he was the only one who'd called. What was the point of hesitating? A month was a month, after all.

“Would you be happy with five hundred guilders?” she asked. “It's a bit of a nuisance having to advertise again when you move out.”

“Five hundred guilders would be fine,” he said without hesitation, and the deal was done.

After lunch she drew a map and wrote instructions. One kilometer after the church in Wahrhejm, take a left when you come to the hand-painted sign. Two hundred meters through the trees toward the lake, no more. Three cottages. The one nearest the lake on the right was hers.

Keys and an explanation of how to make the awkward water pump work. The stove and the electric mains. The boat and the oars.

She had only just finished when he arrived. Rather a pale young man. Not very tall, and with polished manners, she thought. She offered him coffee, of course-it was already brewed. But he declined. He couldn't wait to get out there and start writing. She understood perfectly.

He wasn't the least bit impolite or cocky. On the contrary. He was courteous, as she would explain later to Beatrix Hoelder and Marcela Augenbach. Courteous and polite.

And a writer. When he'd left, she tasted the word several times. “Writer.” There was something sweet about it, that had to be admitted. She liked the idea of having somebody sitting and writing in her little cottage by the lake, and perhaps she even entertained the hope that at some point in the future he would remember her and send her a copy of the book. When it was finished, of course. That would take time, she imagined. What with publishers and all the rest of it. Perhaps he would dedicate the book to her, even? She made up her mind to go to the library before long and see if he was represented on the shelves.

Mühlen, was that his name? Yes, that's what it said on the contract they had both signed. Alfons Mühlen, if she had read it correctly. He seemed a bit effeminate, she had to say, and she wondered if he might be homosexual. A lot of writers were, even if they pretended not to be, according to what Beatrix had maintained once. But then again, she maintained all kinds of things.

She'd never heard of him, that was for sure. Neither had Beatrix nor Marcela, but he was a young man, after all.

Still, he'd paid in cash, without quibbling. Five hundred guilders. She would have been satisfied with three.

So, it was an excellent deal, all things considered.

Alfons Müller?

Ah, maybe she had heard the name after all.

38

He felt cold.

For the fifth morning in succession, he was woken up by feeling freezing cold.

For the fifth morning in succession, it took him less than one second to remember where he was.

For the fifth morning in succession, he felt for his pistol and looked out the window.

The house was still there in the hesitant light of dawn. Just as untouched, just as unvisited and unaware as when he had fallen asleep at some point during the night.

Unmolested. She wasn't coming. She hadn't come last night, either. The cold made his body ache all over. It was inconceivable how impossible it was to keep warm up here, despite the abundance of quilts and blankets. Every morning he had woken up in the early stages of dawn, frozen stiff. Checked the state of everything by looking out the window, then gone downstairs and into the house and the warmth created by the stove. He always made a big fire in the evenings when he came back from the inn. A really roaring fire in the iron stove in the kitchen, making sure that it would retain its heat until well into the following morning.

He followed the same routine this morning. Carefully scrutinized the whole area, outside in the raw morning air and inside the house. Gun in hand. With the safety catch off.

Then he sat down at the kitchen table for coffee. Took a couple of drams of whiskey as well, to drive the cold out of his body. Listened to the seven o'clock news on the radio while he made plans for the coming day. Pistol close at hand on the worn, fifty-year-old waxed tablecloth. Back against the wall. Invisible from the window.

Getting through the day was becoming harder and harder. He couldn't endure more than three or four hours at a time in the forest, and when he came back in the early afternoon, on the alert as ever, he generally sat down on the sofa again. Or lay down in the loft for an hour or two, waiting.

He would sit or lie there and glance through something from his father's library, which was not exactly voluminous and not particularly varied. Adventure stories. Brash, cheap literature bought by the meter at auctions or at sales time. He would quite like to read the occasional one, to be honest, but found it hard to concentrate.

Other things nagged and disturbed him. Other things.

Then he would go out for another walk, for an hour or so. As dusk drew in he would come back home in the dark. It felt like something he was waiting for, this darkness: a confidant and an ally. He knew that he had the upper hand as soon as night fell. If they were to confront each other while it was dark, he was at an advantage. He might need it.

Then he would have dinner in the dark kitchen. He never switched on a light-the worst-case scenario would be if she came across him in a lit-up window.

He had been into the village only once, to do some shopping. He tried to avoid it, during daylight hours at any rate. Nor did he go there during the evenings those first few days, but he soon realized that the isolation would be intolerable if he couldn't at least spend an hour at the inn with a beer.

He went there on the third evening. He made a risk assessment before setting out, and realized that the dangerous part would be returning home. On the way in, he could make sure he was walking behind hedges, through private gardens, or along the village street, which had no lighting. Inside the inn, lots of the drinkers had a clear view of the door. That fact would hardly present her with an opportunity, even if she found out where he was.

But walking back home was a different matter. Dangerous. If she knew he'd been at the inn, she had every opportunity of setting up an ambush, and so he took every possible precaution on his walk back to the house. Avoided the road. Dashed out of the inn and around the corner of the building, staying in the shadows there for quite a while. Then he would head for home cross-country, over terrain he had known in detail since he was a boy-changing direction, zigzagging irrationally, and approaching the house from a different direction every night. Extremely carefully, and gun in hand. Every sense on red alert.

But nothing happened.

Night after night, and absolutely nothing happened.

Not a single dodgy incident. Not the slightest indication. Nothing suspicious at all.

Two things nagged at him when he went to bed.

The first was a headache, caused by a whole day of tension and strain. To cope with that, every night he would take two tablets, washed down with a swig of whiskey in the dark kitchen.

That helped to some extent, but it didn't cure it.

The other thing was a thought. The thought that she might not come at all. The possibility that while he was spending these days in isolation and on red alert, she was actually somewhere else. Somewhere a long way away.

In an apartment in Maardam. In a house in Hamburg. Anywhere at all.

The possibility that this was the punishment she had decided to give him. Simply to let him wait. Wait for the murderer who never came. Wait for death, whose visit had been postponed.

And as one evening followed another, both these things grew in stature. The headache and the thought. A little bigger every evening, it seemed.

And neither tablets nor whiskey could do anything to help.

She pulled up beside an elderly man walking along the side of the road. Leaned over the empty passenger seat, wound down the window, and attracted his attention.

“I'm looking for Mr. Biedersen. Do you know where his house is?”

This was the second time she'd driven through the village. Dark outside. Quite dark inside the car as well, hat pulled down over her eyes, and a minimum of eye contact. A calculated risk, that's all. As they say.

“Yes, of course.”

He pointed out the house and explained where it was. It wasn't far away. Nothing in the village was far away. She memorized what he had said, thanked him, and continued on her way.

It's all so easy, she thought. Still just as easy.

She knew that the car gave her all the camouflage she needed; and it was indeed from inside the car-the hired Fiat that had been another expense but also a necessity-that she discovered him. That same evening. Parked in the darkness and drizzle opposite the inn. It was still a calculated risk, but there wasn't much of an alternative. In a place like this a stranger couldn't turn up many times before questions started to be asked. Who? Why?

Unnecessary and dangerous. There was no point in driving around, looking for him. But it was important to find him even so. Before he found her.

This time she had an opponent, not merely prey. There was a difference.

She watched him go in. Didn't see him come out.

The next evening, the same thing. While he was in there, she paid a visit to the house. Scrutinized it from the road for several minutes before driving back.

Thought about how to go about it.

He must know.

He had gone out of his way to entice her here; she had realized that from the start.

The third evening she went a step further. Drove into the village and parked the car behind the church. Walked down to the inn. Went in without hesitation and bought some cigarettes at the bar. She could see him sitting right at the back, out of the corner of her eye. A beer and a whiskey. He seemed alert and tense, but paid her no attention. There were more people in there than she'd expected, in fact. Twenty or so, half of them in the bar, the rest in the restaurant.

Three evenings out of three, she thought.

That meant that in all probability, it would be the same on day four and day five.

It was obvious what to do next. She had the upper hand again.

It was about time. All the waiting and the passage of time had been to her advantage, that was clear. But now things were coming to a head. The money she had left was committed, down to almost the last guilder. Every day cost money, and she no longer had the option of holding back, for the sake of it.

Just one opportunity She wouldn't get another. Making a mistake was no longer a possibility either. It was clear that she would have no second chance of putting things right, if she made a mess of it.

So: what she must do was arrange things the best way she could. In line with the others, and making this a worthy conclusion.

It was quite a long time since she had started out on this mission. There was only one of them left. Just one of them still alive, she thought as she returned to the little cottage by the lake.

And in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp she arranged his death.

Later, at first light, she woke up and was unable to fall asleep again. So she got up and dressed. Went down to the lake and walked out onto the jetty. Stood there for quite a while, gazing out over the dark water and the mists, and trying to recall the almost ecstatic rapture she had felt in the beginning. Trying to weigh that against the calm she felt now.

The superior feeling of perfection and control.

She could find no real balance-but nor could she find any objections. Everything was falling into place. Soon it would be over. Everything.

Two more days, she decided. In two more days. That might be a good time, bearing in mind the date as well.

Then she went back indoors, and sat down at the table. Started writing.

At my mother's interment…

39

Melgarves? Something about this Melgarves rang a bell…

Jung fished around among the papers cluttering up his desk.

“Did you serve Maureen breakfast in bed today, then?”

Jung looked up.

“Eh? Why on earth should I do that?”

“You mean you don't know what day it is today?” said Moreno, glaring at him.

“No.”

“International Women's Day. March eighth.”

“Good God,” said Jung. “I'd better buy her something. Thank you for letting me know. Did you get breakfast in bed?”

“Of course,” said Moreno with a smile. “And a bit more besides.”

Jung wondered for a moment what that might imply, then returned to his lists of incoming tips.

“This Melgarves character,” he said. “I don't understand why he's ended up on this list.”

“André Melgarves?”

“Yes indeed. He's one of the group. He's phoned in and passed on some information or other, but he's been bracketed with all the others… Krause must have missed his significance.”

“That's not like him,” said Moreno.

She crossed the room and read the brief notes over Jung's shoulder, frowned, and started chewing the pencil she had in her hand… A certain Mr. André Melgarves had phoned from Kin-sale in Ireland and announced that he had information that could be of interest to the ongoing investigation. They were welcome to give him a call. His address and telephone number were duly recorded.

“When did this come in?” Moreno asked.

Jung looked at the back of the card.

“The day before yesterday,” he said. “I think it's probably as well for the chief inspector to take this himself-what do you reckon?”

“I think so,” said Moreno. “Go and show him now-but don't mention that it came in two days ago. He seemed a bit grumpy this morning, I thought.”

“You don't say?” said Jung, getting to his feet.

The young man was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with “Big Is Beautiful” printed on it. He was very suntanned, and his short-cropped hair looked like a field of ripe wheat. He was chewing away at something, and staring at the floor.

“Name?” said Van Veeteren.

“Pieter Fuss.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Occupation?”

“Messenger.”

“Messenger?”

“For a security company.”

I see, thought Van Veeteren. Almost a colleague. He swallowed a feeling of impotence.

“Anyway, I'm not the officer in charge of your case,” he explained, “but I have a few things to say about it and I'd like to have an answer to a question. Just one.”

Pieter Fuss looked up, but as soon as he caught the chief inspector's eye he reverted immediately to examining his sneakers.

“On Friday, February twenty-third,” said Van Veeteren, “at half past midnight, I was walking toward Rejmer Plejn. I was on my way home after an evening with some good friends of mine. I suddenly found my way blocked by you and four other young men. One of your friends pushed me up against a wall. You punched me in the face. You eventually forced me down onto the sidewalk. You hit me and kicked me. You had never seen me before. My question is: Why?”

Pieter Fuss's expression did not change.

“Have you understood my question?”

No reply.

“Why did you attack an unknown person? Punch him and kick him? There must be a reason, surely?”

“I don't know.”

“Can you speak a little louder? I'm recording this.”

“I don't know.”

“I don't understand. Are you saying you don't know why you do things?”

No answer.

“You were five against one. Do you think that was the right thing to do?”

“No.”

“So you do things that you think are wrong?”

“I don't know.”

“If you don't know, who does?”

No answer.

“What do you think your punishment ought to be?”

Pieter Fuss mumbled something.

“Louder!”

“I don't know.”

“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Listen to me. If you can't give me a sensible answer to the question why, I shall see to it that you get at least six months for this.”

“Six months?”

“At least,” said Van Veeteren. “We can't have people running around who don't know why they do what they do to their fellow human beings. You can have two days to think about this in peace and quiet…”

He paused. For a moment it looked as if Fuss was about to say something, but then there was a knock on the door and Jung poked his head inside.

“Are you busy, Chief Inspector?”

“No, not at all.”

“I think we've had a tip that could be of interest.”

“What, exactly?”

“One of the group has rung from Ireland. We thought you might like to follow it up yourself?”

He handed over the card.

“Okay,” said the chief inspector. “Can you escort this promising young man down to the duty officer? Be a bit careful-he's not all that sure what he's doing.”

Fuss stood up and slunk away with Jung. Van Veeteren read what it said on the card.

André Melgarves? he thought with a frown.

Then he contacted the switchboard and asked them to phone him. Ten minutes later he had Melgarves on the line.

“My name is Van Veeteren. I'm in charge of this case. You've said that you have information to give us.”

“I don't really know if it's significant,” Melgarves said, and his doubt seemed more obvious on the crackly line than the words themselves.

“Let's hear it,” said Van Veeteren. “It would help if you could speak a bit louder, I think we have a bad line.”

“ Ireland,” explained Melgarves. “The tax is advantageous, but everything else is rubbish.”

“I see,” said Van Veeteren, pulling a face.

“Anyway something occurred to me. I've received your letters and instructions. And I spoke on the phone to somebody. I've got some idea of what's been going on, despite being miles away. My sister has sent me some newspapers and cuttings. And, well, if I can be of any help, then obviously, I'm at your disposal. It's an awful business.”

“It certainly is,” said Van Veeteren.

“What struck me,” said Melgarves, “is only a minor detail, but it's something that Malik, Maasleitner, and Innings were mixed up in. It might be irrelevant, but if I understand the situation aright, you've had trouble in finding a link between them.”

“We have had certain problems,” admitted Van Veeteren.

“Well, it was in connection with our demob party,” said Melgarves.

“Demob party?”

“Yes, we had a big farewell do in Maardam. Arno 's Cellar-I don't think it exists any longer…”

“No, it's closed down,” said Van Veeteren.

“Just two days before we were released. Yes, it was a party that everybody attended-and some of the officers and lecturers as well. No women, men only. We'd rented the whole place and… well, there was quite a lot of drinking going on, obviously.”

“The link?” wondered the chief inspector.

Melgarves cleared his throat.

“I'm coming to that. We kept going until rather late-two, half past two, I'd say; quite a few were pretty drunk. Some passed out. To be honest, I wasn't completely sober myself, but it was one of those evenings, you might say. And it was allowed-we didn't have any duties until the following afternoon, and… well, only two more days before demob, and all that…”

“I understand,” said Van Veeteren with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Perhaps you'd like to come to the point, Mr. Melgarves?”

“Well, afterward,” said Melgarves, “that's when I saw them. Those of us who'd stayed on to the very end staggered out of Arno 's. We were in groups, and kicking up a bit of a row, I'm sorry to say. Making our way back to Löhr-and that's when I happened to see them. I'd gone into an alley to, er, relieve myself, and when I'd finished I ran into them. They were in a doorway, and they had this girl with them-no more than seventeen or eighteen, I'd say. And they were giving her a rough time.”

“Giving her a rough time? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, trying to talk her into it, I suppose.”

“Talk her into what?”

“Oh come on, you know.”

“I suppose so. And?”

“Anyway, they were standing around her. They were pretty soused, and I don't suppose she was all that interested, or however you might put it. In any case, they were going on at her, and laughing, and wouldn't let her go.”

“Did she want to go?”

Melgarves hesitated.

“I don't know. I think so, but I don't really remember. I've thought about it, of course, but I stayed there only a few seconds, and then I ran to catch up with the others. Not that they would have been what you might call desirable company.”

Van Veeteren thought it over.

“And she wasn't a prostitute?” he asked.

“Could be, but maybe not,” said Melgarves.

“How come you remember all this after thirty years?”

“I can understand why you ask me that. I suppose it's because of what happened the next day.”

“The next day? What happened then?”

“Well, it was as if something had happened. Innings was really the only one I was acquainted with, just a bit, and he didn't seem to be himself for a couple of days afterward. He just wasn't himself, somehow… He seemed to be evasive. I recall asking him what had happened to the girl, but he didn't answer.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don't know,” said Melgarves. “I mean, we were demobbed the following day, and we had other things to think about.”

“Of course you had,” said Van Veeteren. “When exactly was this party can you remember that?”

“It must have been May twenty-ninth,” said Melgarves. “We were demobbed at the end of the month.”

“May 29, 1965,” said the chief inspector, and suddenly felt his temples pounding as he prepared to ask his next question.

And anticipated the answer. He cleared his throat.

“So, Malik, Maasleitner, and Innings,” he said. “Was there anybody else?”

“Yes,” said Melgarves. “There were four of them. That Biedersen was with them as well.”

“Biedersen?”

“Yes. He and Maasleitner were probably the ones behind it all. Biedersen rented a room in town as well.”

“A room in town?”

“Yes. For the last few months we were allowed permanent night leave, as they called it. In other words, we didn't need to be in our billets at night. Biedersen had a student room. He threw a few parties there, I gather, but I didn't go to any of them.”

The line started crackling something terrible, and the chief inspector was forced to bellow out his final questions in order to overcome the noise.

“These three, plus Werner Biedersen. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“With a young woman?”

“Yes.”

“Did anybody else see this?”

“Could be. I don't know.”

“Have you spoken to anybody else about it? Then or now?”

“No,” said Melgarves. “Not as far as I recall, at least.”

Van Veeteren thought for a few more seconds.

“Many thanks,” he said eventually. “Thank you for some extremely useful information, Mr. Melgarves. I'll get back to you.”

He hung up.

Now, he thought. We're almost there.

“What the hell do you mean?” he roared ten minutes later. “Do we still not know where he is?”

Münster shook his head.

“Hell and damnation!” bellowed the chief inspector. “What about his wife?”

“Not at home,” Münster explained. “DeBries keeps on phoning all the time.”

“Where do they live?”

“Saaren.”

“Saaren?” said Van Veeteren. “Up north… it all fits in. How far is it to there? A hundred and fifty kilometers? Two hundred?”

“Something like that,” said Münster.

Van Veeteren took out four toothpicks. Broke them in two and threw the bits on the floor. Reinhart appeared in the doorway.

“Have we got him?” he asked.

“Got him?” roared Van Veeteren. “Have we hell! He's been off the map for several weeks, and his missus is out shopping!”

“But it is Biedersen?” said Reinhart.

“Biedersen,” said Münster. “Who's next, that is. Yes.”

“Have you got a cigarette?” asked Van Veeteren.

Reinhart shook his head.

“Afraid not. Just my old briar. What do we do now, then?”

The chief inspector clenched his hands and closed his eyes for two seconds.

“Okay,” he said, opening his eyes again. “This is what we do. Reinhart and I drive up to Saaren. The rest of you keep on chasing after his wife from here. If you find her, tell her to stay at home until we come, or she'll be jailed for life. Then we shall have to see what happens next.”

Reinhart nodded.

“Ask her if she knows where he is,” he added. “And keep us informed. We'll try to find her as well, of course.”

Münster made a note.

“So, we're off now,” said Van Veeteren, gesturing toward Reinhart. “Go down to the pool and collect a car. I'll be at the entrance five minutes from now. I just need to collect a few things first.”

“Are you sure that it's so damned urgent?” asked Reinhart when Van Veeteren had settled into the passenger seat.

“No,” said Van Veeteren, lighting a cigarette. “But when you've been in a straitjacket for seven weeks, I'll be damned if it isn't time to stretch a bit.”

40

He woke up with a start and fumbled for his pistol. Took hold of it and looked out the window. Noted that everything looked the same as before-except that the sun was shining.

He realized that it must be the sun that had warmed up the loft. He was lying just underneath the ceiling, but it wasn't at all the same all-pervading chill he'd experienced so far. On the contrary it was nice and warm-and it was a few minutes to ten.

Ten! It dawned on him that he had slept for over nine hours on end. He had snuggled down in bed shortly after half past twelve the previous night, and he didn't recall having lain awake for very long. No sleepless periods during the night, either.

So he'd been lying here for nine hours. And what had been the point? He'd have been much more of a helpless victim than a guard dog, that was for sure. Would he have even woken up if she had come creeping up the stairs?

He rolled over onto his side and opened the window wide. The sunshine was very bright out there. Small birds were fluttering around in the shrubbery outside the kitchen door. The sky was blue, dotted here and there with tufts of scudding cloud.

Spring? he thought. What the hell am I doing here?

He recalled the previous evening. He'd stayed at the inn until eleven o'clock, and then thrown caution to the wind on the way back home. He'd simply stood up and left. Taken the main street-the chapel, Heine's, Van Klauster's-and then the narrow lane home to his cottage.

He'd had his pistol in his hand all the time, to be sure-with the safety catch off. But still…

He'd even entertained the thought of using the real bed, but something had held him back.

It was a week now. Eight days, to be precise, and as he brewed some coffee and buttered some bread in the kitchen, he decided that this would have to do. Today would have to be the last day. He would have to face up to the facts and acknowledge that he was wasting his time. It wouldn't bear fruit. He would have fuck-all to show for it, so that was that.

He might just as well have left right away, before lunch; but Korhonen had promised to show him some pictures of his new Thai girlfriend, and so he'd said he would be there tonight as well.

But after that, he'd draw the line. The realization that it had been a mistake to come here had been growing inside him for some time now-the realization that it was pointless, and that these weren't the circumstances in which she intended to confront him.

His telephone call to his wife four days ago-and her mention of the woman from Copenhagen who had been trying to contact him-had naturally been an indication and a confirmation. But not that she intended turning up here. Merely that she knew where he was.

It must have been her-he'd realized that right away: he didn't have any female business contacts in Copenhagen. Nor any male ones, come to that. But this delay… these days that passed by without anything happening. The only way he could interpret it was that she had declined his invitation. Refused to meet him on his terms.

The cowardly bitch, he thought. You murdering whore, I'll get the better of you, no matter what!

Nevertheless, he didn't relax his safety procedures this final day. Despite his recognition of the fact that his calculations had failed, he spent his accustomed hours out in the forest. Ate his meals as usual, did a bit of packing after dark, and was aware of the fact that he mustn't be reckless.

On his guard, as usual. His gun was always within reach. And he kept himself hidden.

Only one more night. Just one.

He didn't bother to think about how he would go about things in the future. He didn't have the strength, after all those efforts that had led nowhere.

He would leave here tomorrow.

He would make some new decisions tomorrow.

He listened to the eight o'clock news, then sneaked out into the darkness. Paused as usual outside the front door, pistol in hand, eyes skinned and ears cocked; then he set off for the village and the inn. The air was still warm, and it seemed to him that the spring he'd woken up to that morning had decided to stay on. At least for a few more days.

“Shouldn't we contact the police in Saaren?” said Reinhart when they'd been driving for forty kilometers and the chief inspector hadn't said a word.

“Have you forgotten who's chief of police there?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Oh my God! Yes, of course. Mergens. No, it would be best to keep him out of this.”

Van Veeteren nodded and lit his third cigarette within twenty minutes.

“What the hell would we say to him, anyway?” he said after a while. “Ask him to come down like a ton of bricks on Mrs. Biedersen, and lock her up until we get there?”

Reinhart shrugged.

“He'd like that,” he said. “No, you're right. We'll deal with this ourselves.”

“Can't you go a bit faster?” Van Veeteren wondered.

It was a quarter past eight before deBries managed to get through to Dagmar Biedersen. She had just gotten back from a shopping spree and a last-minute visit to the hairdresser, and she sounded tired. When contact was made with Van Veeteren and Reinhart, it transpired that they were only about ten minutes away from Saaren, and so it was decided that it wasn't necessary to involve other police districts at this stage.

“Good timing,” said Reinhart. “We'll go straight to her place. Tell her we'd like a couple of beers.”

“But what exactly are you implying?” wondered Mrs. Biedersen, placing two protective hands over her new hairdo.

“Can't we sit down somewhere and discuss the whole business quietly and calmly?” Van Veeteren suggested.

Reinhart led the way into the living room and sat down on a red plush sofa. The chief inspector invited Mrs. Biedersen to sit down in one of the armchairs, while he remained standing.

“We have reason to believe that your husband is in danger,” he began.

“In danger?”

“Yes. It's connected with those earlier deaths. Can you tell us where he is at the moment?”

“What? No… well, perhaps, but surely it can't be…”

“I'm afraid it can,” said Reinhart. “Where is he?”

Without warning, Dagmar Biedersen burst into tears. Something had given way inside her, and her meager chest was convulsed by sobbing. Tears came flooding forth.

Oh, hell! Van Veeteren thought.

“My dear Mrs. Biedersen,” he said, “all we want to know is where he is, so that we can sort everything out.”

She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I'm being silly.”

You certainly are, Van Veeteren thought. But answer the question, for Christ's sake.

“He's probably… up at the cottage, I assume. That's where he called me from a few days ago, at least.”

“The cottage?” wondered Reinhart.

“Yes, we have a holiday cottage, or whatever you'd like to call it-it's where he grew up, in fact. We go there sometimes. He often spends time there on his own, as well…”

“Where?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Oh, excuse me. In Wahrhejm, of course.”

“Wahrhejm? And where is Wahrhejm?”

“Excuse me,” she said again. “It's between Ulming and Oostwerdingen. Just a little village. It's about a hundred kilometers from here.”

Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

“Are you sure he's there?”

“No, as I said… But I think so.”

“Is there a telephone in the cottage?”

“No, I'm afraid not. He usually phones from the inn. He likes to be undisturbed when he's up there.”

Van Veeteren sighed.

“Just our damned luck,” he said. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a couple of minutes, Mrs. Biedersen? The inspector and I need to exchange a few words.”

“Of course,” she said, and vanished into the kitchen.

“Now what?” asked Reinhart when she was out of earshot.

“I don't really know,” said Van Veeteren. “I have the feeling that it's urgent-but, of course, there's nothing to say that it really is.”

“No,” said Reinhart. “I have the same feeling, of course. But you're the boss.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Van Veeteren. “And you're the one who does whatever I say. Go and phone the police in Ulming-they must be the nearest-and tell them to get out there and nab him.”

“Nab him?”

“Yes, arrest him.”

“On what grounds?”

“I couldn't care less. Make something up, whatever you like.”

“With pleasure,” said Reinhart.

While Reinhart was doing what he'd been told to do in Biedersen's study, the chief inspector turned his attention to the worried wife, in the hope of extracting further information.

“To be absolutely honest with you,” he said, “it's probable that this woman is aiming to kill your husband, Mrs. Biedersen. Naturally, we hope to stop her.”

“Oh my God,” said Dagmar Biedersen.

“When did you last see him?”

She thought for a moment.

“A couple of weeks ago-almost three weeks, in fact.”

“Does anybody else know that he's there?”

“Er, I don't know.”

“Is there any possibility that this woman has found out that he's there? Somehow or other?”

“No-but…”

He could see how the realization suddenly dawned on her. The color drained from her face, and she opened and closed her mouth several times. Her hands wandered back and forth over the buttons of her rust-red blouse without finding a resting place.

“That… er… that woman,” she said.

“Well?”

“She phoned.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Go on!”

“A woman phoned from Copenhagen. She claimed to be a business acquaintance of my husband's, and then…”

“And then?”

“And then she asked if I knew where he was. Where she could get in touch with him.”

“And so you told her?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Yes,” said Dagmar Biedersen, slumping back in the armchair. “I told her. Do you think…?”

Reinhart returned.

“Done,” he said.

“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Let's go. We'll be in touch, Mrs. Biedersen. You'll be staying at home tonight, we hope?”

She nodded, and was breathing heavily, her mouth open wide. Van Veeteren gathered that she would be barely capable of getting up from the sofa, never mind anything else.

“The place is full of women,” said Biedersen, looking around the bar.

“Don't you know what day it is today?”

“No.”

“International Women's Day,” said Korhonen. “This is what usually happens every year. Every woman in the village turns up.”

“A damned silly invention,” said Biedersen.

“Of course, but it's good for business. Anyway, you can sit here in the corner as usual, and avoid having to get too close to them. A beer and a whiskey chaser, as usual?”

“Yes please,” said Biedersen. “Have you got the photos of your Thai girlfriend?”

“I'll come and show you them in just a minute or two,” said Korhonen. “I just have to serve the ladies first.”

“Okay,” said Biedersen. Took both his glasses and sat down at the empty table in the corner between the bar counter and the kitchen door.

Hell and damnation, he thought. This is an opportunity for camouflage if ever I saw one. I'd better play it safe tonight.

And he felt in his jacket pocket.

41

“What the hell's going on?” wondered Ackermann.

“I don't know,” said Päude, starting the car. “In the middle of the match as well.”

“The match?” said Ackermann. “Fuck the match. I was just about to start pulling her panties down when he phoned. That delicious little Nancy Fischer, you know.”

Päude sighed and switched on the radio to hear the end of the soccer report, instead of having to listen to an account of his colleague's love life-he was treated to enough of that on a regular basis.

“Halfway in, you might say,” said Ackermann.

“What do you think of this Biedersen character?” asked Päude in an attempt to change the subject.

“Cunning,” said Ackermann. “Do you reckon we should just arrest him for vagrancy and wait for further orders? You don't think he's dangerous, do you?”

“Munckel said he wasn't.”

“Munckel can't tell the difference between a hand grenade and a beetroot.”

“Okay, we'd better be a bit careful then. How far is it to Wahrhejm?”

“Eighteen kilometers. We'll be there in ten minutes. Shall we put the siren on, or the light at least?”

“Good God, no! Discretion, Munckel said. But I don't suppose you know what the word means?”

“Of course I do,” said Ackermann. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Another one?” said Korhonen.

“Yes, of course,” said Biedersen. “Must just go and take a leak first. But that's a good-looking piece of skirt you've got there. A hell of a good-looking piece of skirt.”

“Easy to maintain as well,” said Korhonen, smirking.

Biedersen stood up and noticed that he was a bit tipsy. Perhaps it'll be as well to cut out the whiskey and stick to good old beer, he thought as he worked his way past a contingent of women sitting at two long tables and disturbing the peace. Laughing and singing. Apart from himself there were only two male customers in the whole of the bar. The old school janitor who was sitting at his usual table with a newspaper and a carafe of red wine. And an unaccompanied man in a dark suit who had arrived a quarter of an hour ago.

All the rest were women, and he held on to the gun in his jacket pocket as he passed them, with his back to the wall.

Women's Day, he thought as he stood and allowed the beer to take the natural way out. What a bloody silly idea!

The door opened and the man in the dark suit came in. He nodded at Biedersen.

“At least we can get a bit of peace in here,” said Biedersen, gesturing with his head at all the commotion outside. “I've nothing against women, but…”

He broke off and reached for his jacket pocket, but before he had a chance to grab his pistol he heard the same plopping sound twice, and knew it was too late. A dark red flood washed over his eyes, and the last thing he felt, the very last thing of all, was a terrible pain below the belt.

Päude pulled up outside the inn.

“Go in and ask the way,” he said. “I'll wait here.”

“Okay,” said Ackermann with a sigh. “His name's Biedersen, right?”

“Yes,” said Päude. “Werner Biedersen. They're bound to know where he lives.”

Ackermann got out of the car and Päude lit a cigarette. It's a relief to be rid of him for a few minutes, he thought.

But Ackermann was back after ninety seconds.

“Stroke of luck,” he said. “I bumped into a guy on his way out who knew where he lives. Keep going straight ahead, a hundred and fifty meters or so.”

“All right,” said Päude.

“Then turn left,” added Ackermann.

Päude followed the instructions and came to a low stone wall with an opening in it.

“Looks dark in there,” said Ackermann.

“But there's a house there in any case. Take the flashlight and have a look. I'll wait here. I have the window open so you only need to shout if you need me.”

“Wouldn't it be better if you went?” wondered Ackermann.

“No,” said Päude. “Get going.”

“Okay,” said Ackermann.

I'm seven years older, after all, thought Päude as Ackermann got out of the car. With a wife and children, and all that.

The radio suddenly crackled into life.

“Hello. Päude here!”

“Munckel! Where the hell are you?”

“In Wahrhejm, of course. We've just gotten to his house. Ackermann's gone in and…”

“Get him out again! Biedersen's been shot dead in the john at the inn. Get your asses there and cordon the place off!”

“Oh, shit!” said Päude.

“Make sure that not a soul leaves the premises! I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Roger,” said Päude.

More crackling, then Munckel vanished. Päude shook his head.

Oh, shit, he thought again. Then he got out of the car and shouted for Ackermann.

42

It can't be true, I'm dreaming! was the thought that Van Veeteren had sat wrestling with for the last twenty-five minutes. Ever since he heard the report on the radio.

This kind of thing simply doesn't happen. It must be a hoax, or a misunderstanding.

“I swear to God I thought I was dreaming!” said Reinhart as he pulled up. “But we're there now. It looks as if what they said was right.”

Two police cars were already in place. Nose to nose diagonally across the road, with their blue lights flashing. Presumably to inform everybody in the village who had the good fortune to miss the news broadcast, Van Veeteren thought as they hurried into the inn. A uniformed officer was guarding the door, and several others were inside the premises, where the mood of fear and anxiety seemed to be tangible. The customers-almost exclusively women, he was surprised to see-had been herded together behind two tables, and their whispers and low-voiced discussions reached Van Veeteren's ears in the form of an unar-ticulated but long-suffering lament. A fleeting image of cattle about to be slaughtered flashed before his eyes. Or prisoners in concentration camps on their way to the showers. He shuddered, and tried to shake off any such thoughts.

Stop it! he commanded his own thoughts. It's bad enough without you making it any worse.

A man with thinning hair about the same age as Van Veeteren came up to him.

“Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?”

He nodded and introduced Reinhart.

“Munckel. Well, this is a cartload of shit if ever I saw one. He's in there. We haven't touched anything.”

Van Veeteren and Reinhart went to the men's room, where one of the constables was stationed.

“Ackermann,” said Munckel, “let these gentlemen in.”

Van Veeteren peered inside. Studied the lifeless corpse for a few seconds before turning to Reinhart.

“Ah well,” he said. “Exactly the same as usual. We might as well leave him lying there until the forensic team gets here. We can't do anything for him.”

“The silly bugger,” muttered Reinhart.

“When did it happen?” asked the chief inspector.

Munckel looked at the clock.

“Shortly after nine,” he said. “We were alerted at a quarter past-it was Mr. Korhonen who phoned. He's the bartender.”

A dark-haired man in his fifties stepped forward and introduced himself.

“It happened less than an hour ago,” said Van Veeteren. “How many people have left the premises since then?”

“I don't really know,” said Korhonen hesitantly.

“Who found him?”

“I did,” said an elderly man with a loud voice and a checked shirt. “I just went to the john for a pee, and there he was. Shot in the balls as well. A cartload of shit…”

A shudder seemed to pass through the group of women.

Oh yes, dammit! It had eventually dawned on Van Veeteren. International Women's Day, March 8. That was why they were all here. Macabre-she couldn't have hit upon a better day.

“So when did Biedersen go in there?” Reinhart asked.

Korhonen cleared his throat nervously.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I think I know who did it. It must have been that other guy.”

“Who are you referring to?” said Munckel. “Why haven't you said anything before now?”

“That other guy,” he said again. “The one sitting over there…”

He pointed.

“He went to the bathroom immediately after Biedersen-I remember now.”

“A man?” said Van Veeteren.

“Yes, of course.”

“Where is he?” said Reinhart.

Korhonen looked around. The man in the checked shirt looked around. All the women looked around.

“He's left, of course,” said Munckel.

“He's gone!” shouted one of the women. “I saw him leave.”

“You can bet your life he didn't hang around,” muttered Reinhart.

“Is one of you called Van Veeteren?” asked a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties.

“Yes, why?”

“This was lying on his table. I noticed it just now.”

She came up and handed over a white envelope. Van Veeteren took it and stared at it in bewilderment.

I'm dreaming, he thought again, and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Open it!” said Reinhart.

Van Veeteren opened it.

“Read it!” said Reinhart.

Van Veeteren read it.

“Where is there a telephone?” he asked, and was directed to the lobby by Korhonen. Reinhart went with him, signaling to Munckel that he should keep everybody where they were in the restaurant.

“What the hell's going on?” he whispered as the chief inspector dialed the number. “Give me the letter!”

Van Veeteren handed it over, and Reinhart read it.

I'm. waiting for you. Jelena Walgens

can tell you where I am.

Two lines. No signature.

What the hell? thought Reinhart. And then he said it out loud.

43

They parked at what seemed to be a safe distance, and got out of the car. It wasn't completely dark yet, and it was easy to pick out the outlines of the houses at the edge of the lake. The wind was now no more than a distant whisper in the forests to the northeast, and the air felt almost warm, Van Veeteren noticed.

Spring? he thought, somewhat surprised. Reinhart cleared his throat.

“It must be that cottage farthest away,” he said. “There doesn't seem to be anybody at home in any of them.”

“Some people occasionally manage to sleep at night,” said Van Veeteren.

They continued walking along the narrow dirt road.

“Do you think she's in there?”

“I don't dare to think anything about this case anymore,” said Van Veeteren, sounding somewhat subdued. “But no matter what, we need to get in there and take a look. Or do you think we should summon Ryman's heavy tank brigade?”

“Good God, no,” said Reinhart. “It takes four days to mobilize them. Let's go in. I'll lead the way if you like.”

“The hell you will,” said Van Veeteren. “I'm oldest. You can keep in the background.”

“Your word is my command,” said Reinhart. “For what it's worth, I don't think she's at home.”

Crouching down, and with quite a long distance between them, they approached the ramshackle gray house with the sagging roof. Slunk slowly but deliberately over the damp grass, and when there was only another ten meters or so still to go, Van Veeteren launched the attack by rushing forward and pressing himself up against the wall, right next to the door. Reinhart followed him and doubled up under one of the windows.

This is ridiculous, Van Veeteren thought as he tried to get his breath back, keeping tight hold of his standard-issue pistol. What the hell are we doing?

Or is it serious business?

He forced the door open with a bang and charged in. Ran around for a few seconds, kicking in doors, but he soon established that the cottage was just as empty as Reinhart had anticipated.

If she was going to shoot us, she'd have done so long ago, he thought, putting his pistol away in his pocket.

He went into the biggest of the three rooms, found a switch, and turned on the light. Reinhart came in and looked around.

“There's a letter here, addressed to you,” he said, pointing to the table.

The chief inspector came forward to pick it up. Weighed it in his hand.

The same sort of envelope.

The same handwriting.

Addressed to the same person.

Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, Maardam.

And the feeling that he was dreaming simply refused to go away.

The precision, Van Veeteren thought. It's this damned precision that makes it all so unreal. There's no such thing as coincidence, Reinhart had said; but in fact the reverse was true. He understood that now. When the feeling of coincidence suddenly disappears completely, that's when we find it difficult to rely on our senses. To have faith in what they tell us about happenings and connections.

Yes, that must be how things work, more or less.

There were two basket chairs in the room. Reinhart had already sat down on one of them and lit his pipe. The chief inspector sat on the other one and started to read.

It took him only a couple of minutes, and when he had finished, he read it once again. Then he looked at the clock and handed the letter to Reinhart without a word.

At my mother's interment there was only a single mourner. Me.

Time is short, and I shall express myself briefly. I don't need your understanding, but I want you to know who these men were, the men I have killed. My mother told me-a week before she died-about how I was conceived.

My father was four men. It was the night of May 29-30, 1965. She was seventeen years old, and a virgin. They raped her repeatedly for two hours in a student room in Maardam, and in order to stop her screaming they had stuffed one of the men's underpants into her mouth. One of the other men's tie was knotted around her mouth and the back of her neck. They also played music while I was being made. The same record, over and over again-afterward she found out what the tune was called, and bought it. I still have it.

Once they had finished impregnating my mother, they carried her out and dumped her in some bushes in a nearby park. One of my fathers said that she was a whore, and that he'd kill her if she told anybody what had happened.

My mother duly kept silent, but after two months she began to suspect that she was pregnant. After three, she was certain. She was still at school. She tried to kill me, using various tricks and methods she had heard about, but failed. I just wish she had managed it better.

She spoke to her mother, who didn't believe her.

She spoke to her father, who didn't believe her and gave her a good hiding.

She spoke to her clever elder sisters, who didn't believe her either, but advised her to have an abortion.

But it was too late. I wish it hadn't been.

My grandfather gave her a small sum of money in order to get rid of us, and I was born a long way away in Groenstadt. That's also where I grew up. My mother had found out my fathers' names, and was given some money by them when she threatened to expose them. When I was ten, she threatened them again, and received some more money, but that was all. They paid. They could afford it.

I knew from an early age that my mother was a whore, and I knew that I would become one as well. And the same applied to drinking and drug-taking

But I didn't know why things were as they were, not until she told me about my fathers shortly before she died.

My mother was forty-seven when she died. I am only thirty, but I've been whoring and taking drugs for so long that I look at least ten years older. I received my first clients before my fifteenth birthday.

In addition, I have the urge to kill inside me. I was told the facts in October, and when I got to know my fathers a bit later on, I made up my mind.

It was a good decision.

My mother's life was a torment. Torment and indignity.

So was my own. But it was good to understand, to understand at last. I could see the logic. What else could possibly be the outcome of a night of lovemaking like the one when my fathers brought me to life?

What life?

I am the ripe fruit that grew out of a gang bang. It is that same fruit that is now killing its fathers.

That is completing the circle.

To be sure, that sounds like a sort of dark poetry. In a different life I could have become a poet instead. I could have written and read-I had the ability inside me, but never had the opportunity.

When I have finished, nothing living involved in that night will have survived. We shall all be dead. That is the logical outcome.

My mother-who had my father's underpants stuffed into her mouth while the act of love took place-gave me the task, and in her name I have murdered them all. Doing so has given me great joy, more joy than anything else in my life. At no point have I felt any guilt or regret, and nobody will ever come and call me to account.

I am also pleased that my mother saved some of the money she extracted from my fathers. It has been a great help to me, and I like the thought that in this way they have paid for their own deaths.

I say again: it has given me great satisfaction to kill my own fathers. Very great satisfaction.

I have been very precise all the time, and want to continue in that way to the very end. I am writing for two reasons. In the first place, I want the real reasons to be known. In the second place, I need to gain time-that is also why I left a note at the inn as well. If you are reading this letter at the time I intended and am hoping for, I have achieved my aims.

At ten p.m. I shall be on the ferry that leaves Oostwerdingen and heads for the islands; but I shall not be on board when it calls at its first port.

I shall be carrying substantial weights that will drag me down to the bottom of the sea, where I hope the fish will soon have chewed away my tainted flesh.

I never want to come to the surface again. Not one single part of me.

Reinhart folded the sheets of paper and put them back into the envelope. Then he sat for some time without speaking while he lit his pipe, which had gone out.

“What is there to say?” he said eventually.

The chief inspector was leaning back in the chair and had closed his eyes.

“Nothing,” he said. “You don't need to say anything at all.”

“No signature.”

“No.”

“It's a quarter to one.”

Van Veeteren nodded. Sat up and lit a cigarette. Inhaled a few times. Stood up, walked across the room, and switched off the light.

“What's the first port of call?” he asked when he had sat down again.

“Arnholt, I think,” said Reinhart. “At around one.”

“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “That sounds about right. Go out to the car and try to make contact with the ferry. They can search the ship when it docks. She might have changed her mind.”

“Do you think she did?” asked Reinhart.

“No,” said Van Veeteren. “But we must continue playing our roles to the very end.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Reinhart. “The show must go on.”

Then he went out and left the chief inspector alone in the darkness.

44

She locked the door, and almost immediately the ferry set off. Through the oval, convex porthole she could watch the harbor lights glide past before disappearing. This was her final extravagance: a single cabin up on B-deck. It had cost her more or less everything she had left; but this was no mere whim. This too was a necessity and a logical requirement. She needed to be alone in order to make the final preparations, and there was no other way of ensuring that.

She checked her watch: seven minutes past ten. She sat down on the bed and felt the newly laundered sheet and the warm, red blanket with the shipping line's logo. She unscrewed the bottle and threw the cap into the waste bin, then drank directly from the bottle. Half a liter of cognac. Four star. An inferior sort would have served the same purpose, of course, but there had been just enough money. Four-star cognac. Single cabin with a wine-red blanket and wall-to-wall carpet. The final extravagance, as mentioned.

She had two hours to spare; that was in accordance with her timetable. Calculated from the moment she had seen the police car on the road outside the inn. No matter how efficiently they worked-and hitherto they hadn't exactly displayed much in the way of proficiency-it would be impossible for them to trace her here before midnight. First of all there was the crime scene, and the chaos at the inn; then they would have to find Jelena Wal-gens, conduct a confusing conversation with her, and then drive back to Wahrhejm-she was convinced that this chief inspector wouldn't delegate anything of this nature to his subordinates. Then the telephone call to the ferry… No, anything less than two hours was out of the question.

Half past eleven, to be on the safe side. Ninety minutes in her own cabin on B-deck, that would have to be enough. It felt remarkably satisfying to be able to plan her own demise at last, not only that of others. She tipped the contents of her bag onto the floor. It would be as well to prepare things right away, in case anything went wrong. She found the end of the steel chain, and pulled up her sweater in order to expose her torso. Took another swig of cognac. Lit a cigarette before starting to wind the pliable steel around her waist. Slowly and methodically, round and round, exactly as she'd done it when practicing.

Heavy, but easy to handle. She had chosen the chain carefully. Seven meters long and eighteen kilos. Steel links. Cold and heavy. When she had finished winding she tightened it a little bit more, then fixed it in place with the padlock. She stood up and checked the weight and her ability to move.

Yes, everything was in order.

Heavy enough to make her sink. But not too heavy. She needed to be able to walk. And clamber over the rail.

Another cigarette.

A drop more cognac.

A warm and conclusive wave of intoxication had started to flow through her body. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Listened to, or rather felt, the vibrations of the heavy engines that were transmitted through her skull like a distant and pointless attempt at communicating. Nothing else. The drink and the smoke, nothing more. And the vibrations.

One more hour, she thought. It will be all over in another hour.

Just one more hour.

The wind took hold of her and threatened to throw her backward. For a moment she was afraid that she might have miscalculated, but then she caught hold of the stair rail and recovered her balance. Stood up straight and closed the door.

The darkness was compact and the wind roared. She slowly worked her way into the wind, down the narrow, soaking-wet passageway along the length of the ship.

Farther and farther forward. The rail was no more than chest high, and there were crossbars to climb up on. More or less ideal, for whatever reason. All that remained was to choose the right place. She continued a bit farther. Came to a staircase with a chain across it; a sign swaying and clanking in the wind indicated that passengers were forbidden to venture up the stairs.

She looked around. No sign of a soul. The sky was dark and motionless, with occasional patches of light. The sea was black; no reflections. When she leaned out and looked down, she could barely make it out.

Darkness. Darkness everywhere.

The muffled vibrations of the ship's engines. Gusts of wind and salt spray. Waves whipped up by the rotating propellers.

All alone. Cold, despite the cognac.

No other passengers had been bold enough to venture out on deck at this time of night. Not in this weather. They were all inside. In the bars. In the wine-red restaurant. At the disco or in their warm cabins.

Inside.

She clambered up. Sat on the rail for a second before kicking off with all the strength she could muster and flinging herself outward.

She entered the water curled up in the fetal position, and the slight fear she had had of being sucked in by the propellers faded away as she was rapidly-much more rapidly than she had been able to imagine-dragged down into the depths.

45

While they were waiting for the expected call, two others came.

The first was from the duty officer in Maardam and concerned information from Inspector Heinemann about another possible link on the basis of bank-account information. It was by no means certain, but there was evidence to suggest that a certain Werner Biedersen had made an unmotivated transaction transferring money from his firm to a private account (with subsequent withdrawals) in the beginning of June, 1976; however, Heinemann had not yet been able to find a withdrawal corresponding to the amount in question.

Mind you-it was admitted-it could well be a question of a gambling debt or a few fur coats for his wife or some mistress, or God only knows what. In any case, the inspector would be in touch again within the next few days.

“Good timing,” said Reinhart for the second time that evening, but the chief inspector didn't even sigh.

“Say something sensible,” he said instead, after a few minutes of silence in the darkness.

Reinhart struck a match and went to considerable lengths to light his pipe before answering.

“I think we're going to make a child,” he said.

“A child?” said the chief inspector.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Me,” said Reinhart. “And a woman I know.”

“How old are you?” asked the chief inspector.

“What the hell does that have to do with it?” said Reinhart. “But she'll soon be forty, so it's about time.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said the chief inspector.

Another minute passed.

“Well, I suppose I ought to congratulate you,” said the chief inspector eventually. “I didn't even know you had a woman.”

“Thank you,” said Reinhart.

The other call was from Munckel, who reported the result of the preliminary medical examination. Werner Biedersen had been killed by a Berenger-75; three bullets in the chest, fired from a distance of about one meter. Two further bullets below the belt from about ten centimeters. Death had been more or less instantaneous, and had taken place at about ten minutes past nine.

Van Veeteren thanked the caller and hung up.

“There was something about that scene,” he said after a while.

Reinhart's chair creaked in the darkness.

“I know,” he said. “I've been thinking about it.”

The chief inspector sat in silence for some time, searching for words. The clock on the wall between the two rectangular windows seemed to make an effort, but didn't have the strength to strike. He looked at his watch.

Half past one. The ferry must have been moored in Arnholt for at least half an hour by now. They ought to hear from there any minute now.

“That scene,” he said again.

Reinhart lit his pipe for the twentieth time.

“All the women in there… International Women's Day…,” Van Veeteren went on. “A man shot below the belt in the toilets… by his daughter, dressed as a man… a thirty-year-old rape… International Women's Day…”

“That's enough,” interrupted Reinhart. “Let's talk about something else.”

“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Probably just as well. But it was stage-managed, that's obvious.”

Reinhart inhaled deeply several times.

“It always is,” he said.

“Eh?” said the chief inspector. “What do you mean?”

“I don't know,” said Reinhart.

Van Veeteren suddenly seemed to be annoyed.

“Of course you do, stop pretending! What the hell do you know, in fact? You and I are sitting here in this godforsaken ramshackle house out in the sticks, in the middle of the night, God only knows where, waiting for… well, would you kindly tell me what exactly we are waiting for!”

“For dotting the i's and crossing the t's,” said Reinhart.

The telephone rang and Van Veeteren answered. Reinhart listened in on earphones.

“Yes?”

“Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?”

“Yes.”

“Schmidt. Harbor police in Arnholt. We've been through the ship now and…”

“And?”

“… and what you say seems to be right. There is a passenger missing.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as it's possible to be. Obviously she might have managed to hide away somewhere on board, but we don't think so. We've been pretty thorough. In any case, we'll continue searching when the ferry sets sail again: if she is on board, we'll find her before we get to the next port of call.”

He paused, but the chief inspector didn't say anything.

“Anyway it's a woman,” said Schmidt. “She had a first-class ticket, single cabin. She embarked, collected her key from Information, and evidently spent an hour in her cabin.”

“Do you have her name?”

“Yes, of course. The ticket and the cabin were booked in the name of Biedersen.”

“Biedersen?”

“Yes. But they never ask for ID proof when the passenger pays cash, which she did, so it could be a false name.”

Van Veeteren sighed deeply.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else, or can we allow them to set sail? They are over an hour late now.”

“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “Cast off and get under way.”

The call was terminated. Reinhart took off the earphones. Crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back, making the chair creak.

Van Veeteren put his hands on his knees and got to his feet with difficulty Walked back and forth over the creaking floorboards before pausing in front of one of the windows. Rubbed the pane with the sleeve of his jacket and peered out into the darkness. Dug his hands down into his trouser pockets.

“What do you think she was called?” asked Reinhart.

“It's started raining again,” said Van Veeteren.