January 20-29
He could have sworn that he'd disconnected the phone before going to bed, but what was the point of swearing? The telephone-the devil's own invention-was ensconced on his bedside table and was intent on etching its blood-soaked sound waves onto his cerebral cortex.
Or however you might prefer to express it.
He opened one reluctant eye and glared at the confounded contraption in a vain attempt to shut it up. It kept on ringing even so. Ring after ring carved its way through his dawn-gray bedroom.
He opened another eye. The clock on the aforementioned table indicated 7:55. Who in hell's name had the nerve to wake him up on a Saturday morning when he wasn't on duty he wondered. Who?
In January.
If there was a month he hated, it was January-it went on forever with rain or snow all day long, and a grand total of half an hour's sunshine.
There was only one sane way of occupying oneself at this lugubrious time of year: sleeping. Period.
He stretched out his left hand and lifted the receiver.
“Van Veeteren.”
“Good morning, Chief Inspector.”
It was Reinhart.
“Why the flaming hell are you ringing to wake me up at half past five on a Saturday morning? Are you out of your mind?”
But Reinhart sounded as incorruptible as a traffic warden.
“It's eight o'clock. If you don't want to be contacted, and refuse to buy an answering machine, you can always pull out the plug. If you'd like to listen, Chief Inspector, I can explain how you-”
“Shut up, Inspector! Get to the point!”
“By all means,” said Reinhart. “Dead body in Leufwens Allé. Stinks of murder. One Ryszard Malik. The briefing's at three o'clock.”
“Three?”
“Yes, three o'clock. What do you mean?”
“I can get from here to the police station in twenty minutes. You could have phoned me at twelve.”
Reinhart yawned.
“I was thinking of going to bed for a bit. I've just left there. Been at it since half past one… I thought you might like to go there and have a look for yourself.”
Van Veeteren leaned on his elbow and raised himself to a half-sitting position. Tried to see out through the window.
“What's the weather like?”
“Pouring down, and windy. Fifteen meters a second, or thereabouts.”
“Excellent. I'll stay at home. I suppose I might turn up at three, unless my horoscope advises me not to… Who's in charge now?”
“Heinemann and Jung. But Jung hasn't slept for two nights, so he'll probably need some rest soon.”
“Any clues?”
“No.”
“How did it happen?”
“Shot. But the briefing is at three o'clock, not now. I think it's a pretty peculiar setup. That's why I rang. The address is Leufwens Allé 14, in case you change your mind.”
“Fat chance,” said Van Veeteren, and hung up.
Needless to say it was impossible to go back to sleep. He gave up at a quarter to nine and went to lie down in the bath instead. Lay there in the half-light and thought back to the previous evening, which he'd spent at the Mephisto restaurant with Renate and Erich.
The former wife and the lost son. (Who had still not returned and didn't seem to have any intention of doing so.) It had been one of Renate's recurrent attempts to rehabilitate her guilty conscience and the family that had never existed, and the result was just as unsuccessful as one might have expected. The conversation had been like walking on thin ice over dark waters. Erich had left them halfway through dessert, giving as an excuse an important meeting with a lady. Then they had sat there, ex-husband and ex-wife, over a cheese board of doubtful quality, going through agonies as they tried to avoid hurting each other any more than necessary. He had seen her into a taxi shortly after midnight and walked all the way home in the pious hope that the biting wind would whip his brain free from all the murky thoughts lurking inside it.
That had failed completely. When he got home he had slumped into an armchair and listened to Monteverdi for an hour, drunk three beers, and not gone to bed until nearly half past one.
A wasted evening, in other words. But typical, that was for sure. Very typical. Mind you, it was January. What else could he have expected?
He got out of the bath. Did a couple of tentative back exercises in front of the bedroom mirror. Dressed, made breakfast.
Sat down at the kitchen table with the morning paper spread out in front of him. Not a word about the murder. Naturally enough. It must have happened as the presses were rolling… Or whatever the presses did nowadays. What was the name of the victim? Malik?
What had Reinhart said? Leufwens Allé? He had a good mind to phone the inspector and ask a few questions, but pricks of conscience from his better self, or whatever it might have been, got the upper hand, and he refrained. He would find out all he needed to know soon enough. No need to hurry. Better to make the most of the hours remaining before the whole thing got under way, perhaps. There hadn't been a murder since the beginning of December, despite all the holidays, and if it really was as Reinhart said, an awkward-looking case, no doubt they would have their hands full for some time to come. Reinhart generally knew what he was talking about. More so than most of them.
He poured himself another cup of coffee, and started studying the weeks chess problem. Mate in three moves, which would presumably involve a few complications.
“All right,” said Reinhart, putting down his pipe. “The facts of the case. At six minutes past one this morning, an ambulance driver, Felix Hald, reported that there was a dead body at Leufwens Allé 14. They'd gone there because the woman of the house, Ilse Malik, had phoned for an ambulance. She was extremely confused, and had failed to contact the police even though her husband was as dead as a statue… Four bullet wounds, two in his chest, two below the belt.”
“Below the belt?” wondered Inspector Rooth, his mouth full of sandwich.
“Below the belt,” said Reinhart. “Through his willy, if you prefer. She'd come home from the theater, it seems, at about midnight or shortly before, and found him lying in the hall, just inside the door. The weapon seems to be a Berenger-75; all four bullets have been recovered. It seems reasonable to suspect that a silencer was used, since nobody heard anything. The victim is fifty-two years old, one Ryszard Malik. Part owner of a firm selling equipment for industrial kitchens and restaurants, or something of the sort. Not in our records, unknown to us, no shady dealing as far as we are aware. Nothing at all. Hmm, is that it, Heinemann, more or less?”
Inspector Heinemann took off his glasses and started rubbing them on his tie.
“Nobody noticed a thing,” he said. “We've spoken to the neighbors, but the house is pretty well protected. Hedges, big yards, that sort of thing. It looks as if somebody simply walked up to the door, rang the bell, and shot him when he opened up. There's no sign of a struggle or anything. Malik was alone at home, solving a crossword and sipping a glass of whiskey while his wife was at the theater. And then, it seems the murderer just closed the door and strolled off. Quite straightforward, if you want to look at it from that point of view.”
“Sound method,” said Rooth.
“That's for sure,” said Van Veeteren. “What does his wife have to say?”
Heinemann sighed. Nodded toward Jung, who gave every sign of finding it difficult to stay awake.
“Not a lot,” Jung said. “It's almost impossible to get through to her. One of the ambulance men gave her an injection, and that was probably just as well. She woke up briefly this morning. Went on about Ibsen-I gather that's a writer. She'd been to the theater, we managed to get that confirmed by a woman she'd been with… a Bernadette Kooning. In any case, she can't seem to grasp that her husband is dead.”
“You don't seem to be quite with it either,” said Van Veeteren. “How long have you been awake?”
Jung counted on his fingers.
“A few days, I suppose.”
“Go home and go to bed,” said Reinhart.
Jung stood up.
“Is it okay if I take a taxi? I can't tell the difference between right and left.”
“Of course,” said Reinhart. “Take two if you need them. Or ask one of the duty officers to drive you.”
“Two?” said Jung as he staggered to the door. “No, one should do.”
Nobody spoke for a while. Heinemann tried to smooth down the creases in his tie. Reinhart contemplated his pipe. Van Veeteren inserted a toothpick between his lower front teeth and gazed up at the ceiling.
“Hmm,” he said eventually. “Quite a story, I must say. Has Hiller been informed?”
“He's away by the seaside,” said Reinhart.
“In January?”
“I don't think he intends to go swimming. I've left a message for him in any case. There'll be a press conference at five o'clock; I think it would be best if you take it.”
“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I'll need only thirty seconds.”
He looked around.
“Not much point in allocating much in the way of resources yet,” he decided. “When do they say his wife is likely to come around? Where is she, incidentally?”
“The New Rumford Hospital,” said Heinemann. “She should be able to talk this afternoon. Moreno 's there, waiting.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “What about family and friends?”
“A son at university in Munich,” said Reinhart. “He's on his way here. That's about all. Malik has no brothers or sisters, and his parents are dead. Ilse Malik has a sister. She's also waiting at the Rumford.”
“Waiting for what, you might ask?” said Rooth.
“Very true,” said Van Veeteren. “May I ask another question, gentlemen?”
“Please do,” said Reinhart.
“Why?” said Van Veeteren, taking out the toothpick.
“I've also been thinking about that,” said Reinhart. “I'll get back to you when I've finished.”
“We can always hope that somebody will turn himself in,” said Rooth.
“Hope springs eternal,” said Reinhart.
Van Veeteren yawned. It was sixteen minutes past three on Saturday, January 20. The first run-through of the Ryszard Malik case was over.
Münster parked outside the New Rumford Hospital and jogged through the rain to the entrance. A woman in reception dragged herself away from her crochet work and sent him up to the fourth floor, Ward 42; after explaining why he was there and producing his ID, he was escorted to a small, dirt-yellow waiting room with plastic furniture and eye-catching travel posters on the walls. It was evidently the intention to give people the opportunity of dreaming that they were somewhere else. Not a bad idea, Münster thought.
There were two women sitting in the room. The younger one, and by a large margin the more attractive of the two, with a mop of chestnut-brown hair and a book in her lap, was Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno. She welcomed him with a nod and an encouraging smile. The other one, a thin and slightly hunchbacked woman in her fifties, wearing glasses that concealed half her face, was fumbling nervously inside her black purse. He deduced that she must be Marlene Winther, the sister of the woman who had just been widowed. He went up to her and introduced himself.
“Münster, Detective Inspector.”
She shook his hand without standing up.
“I realize that this must be difficult for you. Please understand that we are obliged to intrude upon your grief and ask some questions.”
“The lady has already explained.”
She glanced in the direction of Moreno. Münster nodded.
“Has she come around yet?”
Moreno cleared her throat and put down her book. “She's conscious, but the doctor wants a bit of time with her first. Perhaps we should…?”
Münster nodded again: they both went out into the corridor, leaving Mrs. Winther on her own.
“In deep shock, it seems,” Moreno explained when they had found a discreet corner. “They're even worried about her mental state. She's had trouble with her nerves before, and all this hasn't helped, of course. She's been undergoing treatment for various problems.”
“Have you interviewed her sister?”
Moreno nodded.
“Yes, of course. She doesn't seem all that strong either. We're going to have to tiptoe through the tulips.”
“Hostile?”
“No, not really. Just a touch of the big-sister syndrome. She's used to looking after little sister, it seems. And evidently she's allowed to.”
“But you haven't spoken to her yet? Mrs. Malik, I mean.”
“No. Jung and Heinemann had a go this morning, but they didn't seem to get anywhere.”
Münster thought for a moment.
“Perhaps she doesn't have all that much to tell?”
“No, presumably not. Would you like me to take her on? We'll be allowed in shortly in any case.”
Münster was only too pleased to agree.
“No doubt it would be best for her to talk to a woman. I'll stay in the wings for the time being.”
Forty-five minutes later they left the hospital together. Sat down in Münster's car, where Moreno took out her notebook and started going through the meager results of her meeting with Ilse Malik. Münster had spoken to Dr. Hübner-an old, white-haired doctor who seemed to have seen more or less everything-and understood that it would probably be several days before the patient could be allowed to undergo more vigorous questioning. Assuming that would be necessary, that is.
Hübner had called it a state of deep shock. Very strong medicines to begin with, then a gradual reduction. Unable to accept what had happened. Encapsulation.
Not surprising in the circumstances, Münster thought.
“What did she actually say?” he asked.
“Not a lot,” said Moreno with a sigh. “A happy marriage, she claimed. Malik stayed at home yesterday evening while she went to see A Doll's House at the Little Theater. Left home about half past six, drank a glass of wine with that friend of hers afterward. Took a taxi home. Then she starts rambling. Her husband had been shot and lay in the hall, she says. She tried to help him but could see that it was serious, so she called an ambulance. She must have delayed that for getting on an hour, if I understand the situation rightly. Fell asleep and managed to injure herself too. She thinks her husband is in this same hospital and wonders why she's not allowed to see him… It's a bit hard to know how to handle her: the nurse tried to indicate what had happened, but she didn't want to know. Started speaking about something else instead.”
“What?”
“Anything and everything. The play-a fantastic production, it seems. Her son. He hasn't time to come because of his studies, she says. He's training to be a banking lawyer, or something of the sort.”
“He's supposed to be arriving about an hour from now,” said Münster. “Poor bastard. I suppose the doc had better take a look at him as well.”
Moreno nodded.
“He'll be staying with his aunt for the time being. We can talk to him tomorrow.”
Münster thought for a moment.
“Did you get any indications of a threat, or enemies, or that kind of thing?”
“No. I tried to discuss such matters, but I didn't get anywhere. I asked her sister, but she had no suspicions at all. Doesn't seem to be hiding anything either. Well, what do we do next, then?”
Münster shrugged.
“I suppose we'd better discuss it on Monday with the others. It's a damned horrific business, no matter which way you look at it. Can I drive you anywhere?”
“Home, please,” said Ewa Moreno. “I've been hanging around here for seven hours now. It's time to spend a bit of time thinking about something else.”
“Not a bad idea,” Münster agreed, and started the engine.
Mauritz Wolff opted to be interviewed at home, an apartment in the canal district with views over Langgraacht and Megsje Bois and deserving the description “gigantic.” The rooms were teeming with children of all ages, and Reinhart assumed he must have married late in life-several times, perhaps-as he must surely be well into his fifties. A large and somewhat red-faced man, in any case, with a natural smile that found it difficult not to illuminate his face, even in a situation like this one.
“You're very welcome,” he said. “What an awful catastrophe. I'm really shocked, I have to say. I can't take it in.”
He shooed away a little girl clinging on to his trouser leg. Reinhart looked around. Wondered if a woman ought to put in an appearance from somewhere or other before long.
“Not a bad apartment you have here,” he said. “Is there anywhere we can talk in peace and quiet?”
“Follow me,” said Wolff, clearing a way through a corridor to a room that evidently served as a library and study. He closed the door and locked it. Invited Reinhart to sit down on one of two armchairs by a low smoking table, and sat down heavily in the other one.
“Too awful,” he said again. “Have you any idea who might have done it?”
Reinhart shook his head.
“Have you?”
“Not the remotest.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Inside out,” said Wolff, holding out a pack of cigarettes. Reinhart took one. “Would you like anything to drink, by the way?”
“No thank you. Go on.”
“Well, what can I say? We've worked together for sixteen years. Ever since we started the firm. And we knew each other before that.”
“Did you mix privately as well?”
“Do you mean families and so on?”
“Yes.”
“Well, not really. Not since I met Mette, my new wife, at least. It must be absolutely awful for Ilse. How is she? I've tried to call her…”
“Shocked,” said Reinhart. “She's still in the hospital.”
“I understand,” said Wolff, and tried to look diplomatic. Rein-hart waited.
“She can be a bit nervy,” Wolff explained.
“I've heard it said, yes,” said Reinhart. “How's the firm going?”
“So-so. We're keeping going. A good niche, even if it went better in the eighties. But what the hell didn't?”
He started laughing, then checked himself.
“Can it have something to do with work?” Reinhart asked. “The firm, I mean?”
The question was badly formulated, and Wolff didn't understand it.
“Can the murder of Malik have some connection with your business?” Reinhart spelled it out.
Wolff shook his head uncomprehendingly.
“With us? No, how could that be?”
“What do you think it could be, then? Did he have a mistress? Any dodgy business deals? You knew him better than anybody else.”
Wolff scratched the back of his head.
“No,” he said after a while. “Neither of those things. If Malik had been seeing other women I'd have known about it. And I can't imagine him being involved in anything illegal.”
“So he's a model of virtue, then,” Reinhart established. “How long have you known him, did you say?”
Wolff tried to work it out.
“We met for the first time about twenty-five years ago… that was through work as well. We were both with Gündler and Wein, and eventually we pulled out and started up on our own. There were three of us to start with, but one left after six months.”
“What was his name?”
“Merrinck. Jan Merrinck.”
Reinhart made a note.
“Can you remember if anything unusual has happened recently? If Malik behaved oddly in some way or other?”
Wolff thought it over.
“No. No, there hasn't been anything as far as I can recall. I'm sorry, but there doesn't seem to be all that much I can help you with.”
Reinhart changed tack.
“What was his marriage like?”
“Malik's?”
“Yes.”
Wolff shrugged.
“Not all that good. But he hung in there. My first was worse, I reckon. Malik was strong. A confident and reliable man. A bit dry, perhaps. My God, I can't understand who could have done this, Inspector. It must be a madman, don't you think? Some lunatic? Have you got a suspect?”
Reinhart ignored the question.
“What time did he leave the office yesterday?”
“A quarter to five,” answered Wolff without hesitation. “A bit earlier than usual as he had to collect his car from a repair shop. I stayed there on my own until half past five.”
“And he didn't behave unusually in any way?”
“No. I've said that already.”
“This Rachel deWiijs, who works for you. What have you to say about her?”
“Rachel? A treasure. Pure gold, through and through. Without her we wouldn't survive for more than six months…” He bit his lip and drew at his cigarette. “But everything has changed now, of course. Hell.”
“So Malik didn't have anything going with her, then?”
“Malik and Rachel? No, you can bet your life that he didn't.”
“Really?” said Reinhart. “Okay, I'll take you at your word, then. What about you yourself? Did you have any reason to want him out of the way?”
Wolff's jaw dropped.
“That was the most fucking-”
“There, there, don't get overexcited. You must realize that I have to ask that question. Malik has been murdered, and the fact is that most victims are killed by somebody they know. And you are the person who knew him best, I thought we'd agreed on that already?”
“He was my business partner, for Christ's sake. One of my best friends…”
“I know. But if you had a motive even so, it's better for you to tell us what it is yourself rather than leaving us to find out about it later.”
Wolff sat in silence for a while, thinking about that one.
“No,” he said eventually. “Why the hell should I want to kill Malik? His share in the firm goes to Ilse and Jacob, and all that will do is to make a mess of everything. You must understand that his death is a shock for me as well, Inspector. I know I sometimes sound a bit brusque, but I'm grieving over his death. I'm missing him as a close friend.”
Reinhart nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “I think we'll leave it at that for today, but you'll have to count on us turning up again before long. We are very eager to catch whoever did this.”
Wolff stood up and flung out his arms.
“Of course. If there's anything I can do to help… I'm at your disposal at any time.”
“Good,” said Reinhart. “If anything occurs to you, let us know. Go back to the kids now. How many have you got, incidentally?”
“Six,” said Wolff. “Three from before and three new ones.”
“Go forth and multiply, and replenish the earth,” said Rein-hart. “Isn't it a bit of a strain? Er, looking after them all, I mean.”
Wolff smiled and shook his head.
“Not at all. The tipping point is four. After that, it makes no difference if you have seven or seventeen.”
Reinhart nodded, and resolved to bear that in mind.
In their eagerness to sell a few extra copies to casual readers with nothing better to do over the weekend, the Sunday papers made a meal of the Ryszard Malik murder. Bold-print headlines on billboards and front pages, pictures of the victim (while still alive, smiling) and his house, and a double-page spread in both Neuwe Blatt and Telegraaf. Detailed and noncommittal, but needless to say they were pitching it right-what the hell did people have to keep them occupied on a damp and windy day in January apart from sitting indoors and lapping up the story of somebody who had suffered even more than they were doing?
Van Veeteren had a subscription to both papers and had no need to stick his nose outside the door in order to buy one. Instead he stayed in all day, reading selected chapters of Rimley's Famous Chess Games and listening to Bach. He had paid a brief visit to Leufwens Allé on Saturday evening and established that there was nothing useful for him to do there. The technicians and crime-scene boys had run a fine-tooth comb over both house and garden, and for him to imagine he would be able to find something they'd missed would be to overestimate his abilities. Although it had happened before.
And in any case, it was not even certain that he would need to bother about it. Hiller would no doubt decide when he emerged from the sea on Monday morning; perhaps he would judge it best for Reinhart and Münster to continue pulling the strings. That would be good, he had to admit. A blessing devoutly to be wished, he thought-if he'd been able to choose a month in which to hibernate or to spend in a deep freeze, he would have gone for January without hesitation.
If he could pick two, he would take February as well.
On Monday his car refused to start. Something to do with damp somewhere or other, no doubt. He was forced to walk four blocks before he was able to scramble into a taxi, soaking wet, at Rejmer Plejn; and he was ten minutes late for the run-through.
Reinhart, who was in charge, arrived a minute later, and the whole meeting was not exactly productive.
The forensic side was done and dusted, and had uncovered nothing they didn't know already. Or thought they knew. Ryszard Malik had been shot at some time between half past seven and half past nine on Friday evening, with a 7.65-millimeter Berenger. As none of the neighbors had heard a shot, it could be assumed that the killer had used a silencer.
“How many Berengers are floating around town?” asked Münster.
“Le Houde guesses about fifty” said Rooth. “Anybody can get one in about half an hour if he has a bit of local knowledge. There's no point in starting to look, in any case.”
Van Veeteren sneezed and Reinhart carried on describing the wounds, the angles, and similar melancholy details. The murderer had probably fired his gun at a distance of between one and one and a half meters, which could suggest that he hadn't even bothered to step inside first. The door opened inward, and in all probability he'd have been standing ready to shoot the moment Malik opened it. Two shots in the chest, then, each of which would have been fatal-one through the left lung and the other through the aorta. Hence all the blood.
And then two below the belt. From a bit closer.
“Why?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Well, what do you think?” said Reinhart, looking around the table.
Nobody spoke. Heinemann looked down at his crotch.
“A professional job?” asked Münster.
“Eh?” said Reinhart. “Oh, you mean the fatal shots… No, not necessarily. A ten-year-old can shoot accurately with a Berenger from one meter away. Assuming you're ready for a bit of a recoil, that is. It could be anybody. But the shots below the belt ought to tell us something, or what do you think?”
“Yes, sure,” said Rooth.
For a few seconds nobody spoke.
“Don't feel embarrassed on my account,” said Moreno.
“Could be a coincidence,” said Münster.
“There's no such thing as coincidence,” said Reinhart. “Only a lack of knowledge.”
“So the shots in the chest came first, is that right?” Heinemann asked, frowning.
“Yes, yes,” sighed Reinhart. “The other two were fired when he was already lying on the floor-we've explained that already. Weren't you listening?”
“I just wanted to check,” said Heinemann.
“It doesn't seem to make much sense, shooting somebody's balls off after you've already killed him,” said Rooth. “Seems a bit mad, I'd say. Sick, in a way.”
Reinhart nodded and Van Veeteren sneezed again.
“Are you cold, Chief Inspector?” Reinhart wondered. “Shall we ring for a blanket?”
“I'd prefer a hot toddy,” grunted Van Veeteren. “Is the forensic stuff all finished? I take it they didn't find any fingerprints or dropped cigarette butts?”
“Not even a grain of dandruff,” said Reinhart. “Shall we run through the interviews instead? Starting with the widow?”
“No, starting with the victim,” said Van Veeteren. “Even though I assume he didn't have much to say for himself.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Reinhart, producing a loose sheet of paper from his notebook. “Let's see now… Ryszard Malik was fifty-two years of age. Born in Chadów, but has lived in Maardam since 1960 or thereabouts. Studied at the School of Commerce. Got a job with Gündler & Wein in 1966. In 1979 he started his own firm together with Mauritz Wolff and Jan Merrinck, who jumped ship quite early on-Merrinck, that is. Aluvit F/B, and for God's sake don't ask me what that means. Malik married Ilse, née Moener, in 1968. One son, Jacob, born 1972. He's been reading jurisprudence and economics in Munich for several years now. Anyway, that's about it…”
He put the sheet of paper back where it came from.
“Anything off the record?” Rooth wondered.
“Not a dickie bird,” said Reinhart. “So far, at least. He seems to have been a bit of a bore, as far as I can see. Boring marriage, boring job, boring life. Goes on vacation to Blankenbirge or Rhodes. No known interests apart from crossword puzzles and detective novels, preferably bad ones… God only knows why anybody should want to kill him, but apart from that I don't think there are any unanswered questions.”
“Excellent,” said Van Veeteren. “What about the widow? Surely there's a bit more substance to her, at least?”
Münster shrugged.
“We haven't been able to get much out of her,” he said. “She's still confused and doesn't want to accept what's happened.”
“She might be hiding something, though,” said Heinemann. “It's not exactly anything new to pretend to be mad. I recall a Danish prince…”
“I don't think she is,” interrupted Münster. “Neither do the doctors. We know quite a lot about her from her sister and her son, but it doesn't seem to have anything much to do with the murder. A bit pitiful, that's all. Bad nerves. Prescribed drugs on and off. Taken in for therapy once or twice. Finds it hard to get on with people, it seems. Stopped working at Konger's Palace for that reason, although nobody has said that in so many words… As far as we can see, Malik's firm produces enough cash to keep the family going. Or has done until now, I should say.”
Van Veeteren bit off the end of a toothpick.
“This is more miserable than the weather,” he said, spitting out a few fragments. “Has Moreno anything to add?”
Ewa Moreno smiled slightly.
“The son is rather charming, actually,” she said. “In view of the circumstances, that is. He flew the nest early, it seems. Left home as soon as he'd finished high school and he doesn't have much contact with his parents, especially his mother. Only when he needs some money. He admits that openly. Do you want to know about the sister as well?”
“Is there anything for us to sink our teeth into?” asked Rein-hart with a sigh.
“No,” said Moreno. “Not really. She also has a stable but rather boring marriage. Works part-time in an old folks' home. Her husband's a businessman. They both have alibis for the night of the murder, and it seems pretty unlikely that either of them could be involved-completely unthinkable, in fact.”
All was quiet for a while. Rooth produced a bar of chocolate from his jacket pocket and Heinemann tried to scrape a stain off the table with his thumbnail. Van Veeteren had closed his eyes, and it was more or less impossible to make out if he was awake or asleep.
“Okay,” said Reinhart eventually. “There's just one thing I want to know. Who the hell did it?”
“A madman,” said Rooth. “Somebody who wanted to test his Berenger and noticed that the lights were on in the house.”
“I reckon you've hit the nail on the head,” said Heinemann.
“No,” said Van Veeteren without opening his eyes.
“Oh, really?” said Reinhart. “How do you know that?”
“By the prickings of my thumb,” said Van Veeteren.
“Eh?” said Heinemann. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Shall we go and get some coffee?” suggested Rooth.
Van Veeteren opened his eyes.
“Preferably a hot toddy, as I said before.”
Reinhart checked the time.
“It's only eleven,” he said. “But I'm all for it. This case stinks like a shit heap.”
On the way home from the police station that gloomy Monday, Reinhart stopped off at the Merckx shopping center out at Bossingen. It was really against his principles to buy anything in such a temple of commerce, but he decided to turn a blind eye to the crassness of it all today. He simply didn't feel up to running around from one little shop to the next in the center of town, after rooting about in the unsavory details of Ryszard Malik's background.
Half an hour later he had acquired a lobster, two bottles of wine, and eleven roses. Plus a few other goodies. That would have to do. He left the inferno and a quarter of an hour later went through the front door of his apartment in Zuyderstraat. Put away his purchases in their appointed places, then made a phone call.
“Hi. I've got a lobster, some wine, and some roses. You can have them all if you get yourself here within the next hour.”
“But it's Monday today,” said the woman at the other end.
“If we don't do anything about it, it'll be Monday for the rest of our lives,” said Reinhart.
“Okay,” said the woman. “I'll be there.”
Winnifred Lynch was a quarter Aboriginal, born in Perth, Australia, but raised in England. After a degree in English language and literature in Cambridge and a failed and childless marriage, she'd landed a post as guest lecturer at Maardam University. When she met Reinhart at the Vox jazz club in the middle of November, she'd just celebrated her thirty-ninth birthday. Reinhart was forty-nine. He went home with her, and they made love (with the occasional pause) for the next four days and nights-but to the surprise of both of them, given their previous experiences, it didn't end there. They carried on meeting. All over the place: at concerts, restaurants, cinemas, and, above all, of course, in bed. As soon as the beginning of December it was clear to Reinhart that there was something special about this slightly brown-skinned, intelligent woman, and when she went back to England for the Christmas holidays he felt withdrawal symptoms, the like of which he hadn't experienced for nearly thirty years. A sudden reminder of what it was like to miss somebody. Of the fact that somebody actually meant something to him.
The feeling scared him stiff, no doubt about that; it was a warning, but when she came back after three weeks he couldn't help but go to meet her at the airport. Stood waiting with a bunch of roses and a warm embrace, and of course it started all over again.
This Monday was the fifth-or was it the sixth?-occasion since then, and when he thought about it he realized that it could hardly have been more than ten days since she'd returned from vacation.
So you could bet your life that he had something special going.
“Why did you become a policeman?” she asked as they lay back in bed afterward. “You promised you'd tell me one day.”
“It's a trauma,” he said after a moment's thought.
“I'm human, you know,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?”
She didn't answer, but after a while he imagined that he understood.
“All right,” he said. “It was a woman. Or a girl. Twenty years old.”
“What happened?”
He hesitated, and inhaled deeply twice on his cigarette before answering.
“I was twenty-one. Reading philosophy and anthropology at the university, as you know. We'd been together for two years. We were going to get married. She was reading languages. One night she was going home after a lecture and was stabbed by a lunatic in Wollerim's Park. She died in the hospital before I got there. It took the police six months to find her killer. I was one of them by that time.”
If she has the good sense to say nothing, I want to spend the rest of my life with her, he thought out of the blue.
Winnifred Lynch put her hand on his chest. Stroked him gently for a few seconds, then got up and went to the bathroom.
That does it, then, Reinhart acknowledged in surprise.
Later on, when they'd made love again and then recovered, he couldn't resist asking her a question.
“What do you have to say about a murderer who fired two shots into the groin of a victim who's already lying dead?”
She thought for a moment.
“The victim's a man, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think the murderer is a woman.”
Well, I'll be damned, Reinhart thought.
The weekend spent by a stormy sea had had an invigorating effect on Police Chief Hiller, and when he returned to work on Monday morning he promptly ordered full steam ahead on the Malik case.
What that meant in practice was no fewer than six officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, with Van Veeteren in charge, plus whatever foot soldiers were around, all of them expected to work full-time on finding the murderer. Senior officers in addition to Van Veeteren were Reinhart, Münster, Rooth, Heinemann, and Moreno. Jung had succumbed to influenza after his succession of sleepless nights and was expected to be sidelined for several more days yet. DeBries was on vacation.
Van Veeteren had nothing in principle against having so many people working on the case. The only problem was that there wasn't very much for them to do that made sense. Trying to trace the murder weapon via narks and contacts in the so-called underworld was a hopeless, Sisyphean task, as he knew. In order to increase the chances of success to twenty-five percent, it would mean assigning a hundred police officers to that job for a hundred days-plus generous overtime money. That kind of staffing was resorted to only when a prime minister had been murdered. It was widely believed by the senior officers that Ryszard Malik had not been prime minister.
That left the wife. Van Veeteren charged Moreno and Heinemann with keeping an eye on Ilse Malik's gradual return to full consciousness and emergence from the shadows. It was decided that they might as well have somebody at the hospital around the clock, seeing as they had enough officers available for once. You could never tell, and if there was anybody who might be able to come up with something relevant to this business, she was the one.
The only other thing to do was to cast bread upon the waters. That was always a possibility. Call on anybody who had any kind of link with Malik-neighbors, business acquaintances, old and new friends-and ask them questions, in accordance with the proven method used with pigs searching for truffles; i.e., if you continue rooting around in the ground for long enough, sooner or later you'll come across something edible.
Van Veeteren gave this less than stimulating task to Rooth and Reinhart to begin with (together with at least three otherwise unoccupied probationers of somewhat variable ability). Van Veeteren was naturally well aware that there was little point in telling Reinhart what to do, but as Hiller was revelling in his newly awakened zeal and wanted a sheet of paper on his brightly polished desk no later than Tuesday afternoon, that is of course what he would get.
Despite a rather troublesome cold, Van Veeteren himself went to play badminton with Münster. This was not mentioned on the list of duties on the document placed before the chief of police.
By the time Hiller's full steam ahead was throttled back on Friday and the team was reduced, due to an armed robbery resulting in a fatality in the suburb of Borowice, nothing much had been discovered. Under the supervision of Rooth and Reinhart-and later Münster as well-some seventy interviews had taken place, and the only outcome was that the image of Malik as a somewhat wooden but also reliable person used to taking responsibility had been fully established. Eighty kilos of decency with two left brains, as Reinhart preferred to express it.
And precisely in line with Dr. Hübner's forecast, Ilse Malik had begun to float up toward the surface of the real world out at the New Rumford, even if it was a somewhat precarious journey. In any case, on Wednesday morning she had finally accepted as fact the murder of her husband. Her memories of that Friday evening consequently became a little more consistent in outline, and she was also able to tell them relatively coherently what she had been doing during the day of the murder. It is true that she occasionally relapsed into attacks of hysterical sobbing, but what more could one expect? Her son, Jacob, was present by her side more or less all the time, and if what Moreno had suggested was true-that he had cut himself loose from his mother's apron strings somewhat precipitately-he now seemed to be making up for his youthful rebellion. Of course, he had little choice but to make the most of the hand fate had dealt him.
On Thursday morning something new crept into Ilse Malik's memory. To be sure, the son maintained immediately-in conversation with Heinemann and Moreno, who had also taken up residence at the bedside, with at least one of them permanently present-that it was a typical example of his mother's paranoia. He had heard about similar things before and recommended strongly that the officers shouldn't pay too much attention to it.
However, what Ilse Malik claimed was that somebody had clearly had designs on her husband's life in the week before that fatal Friday. To begin with, they had received strange telephone calls, on two different occasions: on Tuesday and Thursday, if she remembered rightly. Someone had phoned without saying a word-she had only heard music through the receiver, despite the strong words she had used, especially the second time. Ilse Malik had no idea what the music was and what it was supposed to mean, but she was pretty sure that it had been the same tune both times.
Whether or not her husband had received similar calls she had no idea. He certainly hadn't said anything about it.
The other evidence of a plot to take Ryszard Malik's life was that a white Mercedes had attempted to kill him by crashing into his Renault as he was on his way home from work. For want of anything else to follow up, this information was also checked; but in view of the relatively slight damage done to Malik's car, both Heinemann and Moreno decided that the suspicions had no foundation in fact. The owner of the Mercedes in question was a sixty-two-year-old professor of limnology from Geneva, and when they contacted the Swiss police they found no reason to suspect that he might have had murderous intentions when he skidded into Malik's rear end.
As for the rest of Mrs. Malik's revelations, they were mainly a distinctly humdrum description of a humdrum life and marriage, and in view of the changed circumstances with regard to staffing, Van Veeteren decided on Friday to cancel the hospital watch. By this time both Heinemann and Moreno were so bored by the job they had been given that they both volunteered to join the bank-robbery team, which was being led by Reinhart, who was also released from the Malik case-for the time being, at least. Jung and Rooth were also transferred to the newly established team, despite strong objections, especially from the latter, to the prospect of having to work over the weekend.
Which left Van Veeteren and Münster.
Also left was the necessity of attempting to achieve something vaguely reminiscent of a result.
“Have you got any ideas?” ventured Münster as they sat over an early Friday evening beer at Adenaar's.
“None at all,” muttered Van Veeteren, glaring at the rain pattering against the windowpane. “I don't normally have any ideas in this accursed month of the year. We'll have to wait and see.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Münster. “Funny, though. Reinhart thinks the killer is a woman.”
“It's very possible,” sighed the chief inspector. “It's always hard to find a woman. Personally, I've been trying to find one all my life.”
Coming from Van Veeteren and on an occasion such as this, that was almost to be regarded as a heroic attempt at humor. Münster was obliged to cough away a smile.
“At least we can have the weekend off,” he said. “What a relief that we didn't have to go after the bank robber.”
“Maybe. It's a relief for him, too, not to be pestered by us.”
“I expect they'll get him all the same,” said Münster, draining his glass. “There were witnesses, after all. Anyway, I'd better be heading for home. Synn will have left for work by now, and the babysitter gets paid by the hour.”
“Oh dear,” said Van Veeteren. “There's always a cloud on the horizon.”
On Monday it became clear that Münster's prediction had been correct. The bank robber-an unemployed former traffic warden-had been arrested by Rooth and Heinemann early on Sunday morning, following a tip from a woman who had been extremely well dined in one of the best restaurants in town on Saturday evening. The confession came after less than an hour, thanks to some unusually effective interrogation by Reinhart, who was evidently keen to get home as quickly as possible as something important was awaiting him there.
There had been no developments in the Malik case, apart from the fact that Jacob Malik had returned to his studies in Munich. His mother had been on a short visit to her sister's, where she would also be staying until the funeral, which had been fixed for February 3. Some twenty tips had been received from the general public, but none of them was considered to be of any significance for the investigation. When the general run-through and reports took place in the chief of police's leafy office, it was decided to reduce the level of activity to routine, with Van Veeteren in charge. On Saturday there had been a robbery at a jeweler's in the city center-this time, luckily, nobody had been injured; a racist gang had run amok through the immigrant district beyond Zwille and caused a certain amount of damage; and in the early hours of Monday morning an unhappy farmer out at Korrim had shot dead his wife and twelve cows. Obviously, all these incidents required careful investigation.
By now Ryszard Malik had been dead for nearly ten days, and just about as much was known about who had killed him as on the day he died.
Absolutely nothing, zilch.
And January was still limping along.
The feeling of satisfaction was greater than she had expected.
More profound and genuine than she could ever have imagined. For the first time in her adult life she had discovered meaning and equilibrium-or so she imagined. It was hard to put her finger on exactly what it was, but she could feel it in her body. Feel it in her skin and in her relaxed muscles; a sort of intoxication that spread among her nerve fibers like gently frothing bubbles, and kept her at a constantly elevated level of consciousness, totally calm and yet with a feeling of being on a high. As high as the sky. An orgasm, she thought in a state of exhilaration, an orgasm going on for an absurdly long period of time. Only very slowly and gently did it ebb away, subsiding lazily into expectation and anticipation of the next occasion. And the one after that.
To kill.
To kill those people.
Some years ago she had been touched by religion, had been on the point of joining one of those religious sects that were springing up like mushrooms from the soil (or like mildew from the brain, as somebody had said), and she recognized her state from the way she had felt then. The only difference was that the religious bliss had passed over. Three or four days of ecstasy had given way to regret and a hangover, just like any other intoxication.
But not now. Not this time. It was still there after ten days. Her whole being was filled with strength, her actions with determination and significance; on every occasion, no matter how trivial-like eating an apple, cutting her nails, or standing in line at the checkout of the local supermarket. Awareness and determination characterized everything she did, for even the most insignificant action was of course also another step on the way, another link in the chain leading ultimately to the next killing.
To kill, and to kill. And eventually to close the circle that had been her mother's past and her own life. Her mission. There was a point to everything, at last.
She read about her first deed in the newspapers. Bought the Neuwe Blatt, Telegraaf, and several others, and lay in her room studying all the speculations. She was surprised by all the attention it had attracted. How much would they write next time? And the time after that?
She was slightly annoyed at the fact that she didn't have a television set; she even toyed with the idea of buying a little one, but decided not to. Or at least, to postpone doing so; perhaps she would be unable to resist the temptation of seeing and hearing about herself on the news on the next occasion, but it was best to bide her time. She could have sat in a café and watched, of course, but that didn't feel sufficiently attractive. Not sufficiently private.
Because no matter what-this was a private affair, all of it. Between herself and her mother.
Just her, her mother, and the names on the list.
She had crossed one of them out now. Drawn a red circle around the one next in line. Late on Monday evening, she decided that the period of waiting should come to an end now. The scene was set. The stage design completed. Time to go out again. First the preludes, and then the act itself.
The killing.
A feeling of well-being spread underneath her skin, and when she closed her eyes, through the yellowish, fading glimmer, she could make out her mother's face.
Her tired, but imperative, expression.
Do something, my girl.