Could it really be that at this very moment she was lying with her head cut off somewhere in the town or its vicinity? A slowly decomposing corpse just waiting to be discovered. Was that possible to imagine? She, the woman he had so nearly…
He swallowed and kicked at an empty cigarette pack that had evidently avoided the attention of the road sweeper.
And this afternoon he would be reunited with Synn and the children.
He had to ask himself how she could have made the decision to come here without the slightest warning-a sudden impulse, she had explained over the telephone-and just right now?
A quarter to eight last Friday evening.
It must have been more or less exactly the moment when…
During the long time they had been working together, on two or three occasions Van Veeteren had started talking to him about the patterns in life. About hidden connections, orches trated incidents and similar phenomena-determinants, what ever they are; but this one must surely surpass most others.
He shuddered, and held open the door for the oracle.
“We’ve got him,” said Bausen.
“Got who?” said Van Veeteren, with a yawn.
“Podworsky, of course,” said Kropke. “He’s in one of the cells down below. We picked him up half an hour ago, in the harbor.”
“In the harbor?”
“Yes. He’s been out fishing since yesterday morning-or so he says, at least. Hired a boat from Saulinen, it seems, evidently does now and then.”
Van Veeteren flopped down on a chair.
“Have you confronted him?” he asked.
“No,” said Bausen. “He has no idea what it’s all about.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “Let him stew a bit longer,
I’d say.”
“I agree entirely,” said Bausen. “I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves this time.”
Miss deWitt came in with a coffee tray.
“As Sylvie’s is closed on Sundays,” she explained, revealing two aromatic Rillen cakes.
“Bramble?” asked Bausen.
Miss deWitt nodded and tried to suppress a smile.
“Irmgaard, you’re a star,” said Bausen, and the others mumbled polite agreement.
“What’s new since yesterday?” asked Van Veeteren, wiping his mouth clean.
“I’ve spoken to Melnik,” said Bausen. “He’s busy looking into that barroom brawl, of course, but he doubted if he’d be able to find out very much. It never became a police matter, after all. He’s only dug up one witness, a woman who was pres ent, but she has no idea what started it. Perhaps it was just a drunken brawl, a quarrel over something completely insignifi cant that got out of hand for some reason. In any case, it’s no doubt best if we try to press Podworsky on the matter our selves.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“And the Spain thing?” asked Munster.
Bausen shrugged and looked doubtful.
“As we said yesterday, it seems to be pure coincidence.
Bleuwe wasn’t one of Ruhme’s inner circle in Aarlach. Neither of them had any known links with Spain, and the bombing seems to have been purely a terrorist outrage. ETA claimed responsibility, and they normally do that only when they were, in fact, behind it.”
“And Grete Simmel had no idea what Bang was talking about,” said Kropke.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean much,” said Bausen.
“Pure chance, then,” said Van Veeteren, contemplating his empty plate. “There seems to be a lot of that around.”
Bausen lit his pipe.
“Anything else before we confront Podworsky?”
Kropke cleared his throat.
“Well, nothing important,” he said. “But I’ve also retraced
Moerk’s steps. I jogged the same route this morning.”
“And?” said Bausen.
“I didn’t find anything either,” said Kropke.
“Really?” said Van Veeteren.
“Podworsky, then,” said Bausen. “How shall we approach this?”
Munster looked around the table-Kropke, Mooser and
Bausen. Van Veeteren and himself. Constable Bang had evi dently overslept, or perhaps the chief of police had granted him the day off-nothing very startling about that, when you think about it.
Van Veeteren spoke up.
“If you’ve nothing against it,” he said, “I’d like to take the first round, along with Munster.”
It’s possible that Kropke looked slightly put out, but Bausen merely nodded and went to fetch the tape recorder.
38
Eugen Podworsky certainly looked as if he was in a very bad mood. When Kropke and Mooser brought him to the inter view room, his furrowed face was red with indignation; and to make his attitude crystal clear, he thumped his enormous fists on the table.
“Get these fucking things off my wrists!” he bellowed.
Van Veeteren gave the signal. Kropke unlocked the hand cuffs and left the room, together with Mooser.
“Please sit down,” said Van Veeteren. “My name is Detec tive Chief Inspector Van Veeteren.”
“I couldn’t give a shit what your name is,” said Podworsky, sitting down on the chair. “What the hell is all this?”
“I’m going to ask you some questions in connection with the murders of Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel and Maurice Ruhme.”
“What the fuck?” said Podworsky. “Again?”
Van Veeteren indicated that Munster should start the tape recorder. Munster pressed the appropriate button, and his superior went through the formalities. Podworsky answered mainly by snorting or swearing, but once he’d been allowed to light a cigarette, he started-at least as far as Munster could see-to be a little more cooperative.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s move it, and get this out of the way; I have half a ton of fish starting to go bad.”
“What were you doing last Friday evening?” asked Van Veeteren to set the ball rolling.
“Last Friday?” said Podworsky. “What the hell do you want to know what I was doing last Friday for? It’s ages since the last of them died, surely-?”
“If you answer my questions instead of repeating them, it will go more quickly,” said Van Veeteren. “I thought you said you were in a hurry.”
Podworsky opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“All right,” he said, and seemed to be thinking back.
Van Veeteren didn’t move a muscle.
“Nothing special in the evening,” Podworsky eventually decided. “I went around to chat with Saulinen about the boat in the afternoon-got the keys and so on. Then I drove home.
Next question, please!”
“What were you doing the night Simmel was murdered?”
“I’ve already explained that to the skirt who’s supposed to be a cop. I was at home asleep. That’s what I usually do at night.”
“Can anybody confirm that?” asked Munster.
“My cats,” said Podworsky.
“And when Ruhme died?” asked Van Veeteren.
“When was that?”
“The night between the eighth and ninth of this month.”
“God only knows. The same, I suppose.”
“Did you know Heinz Eggers?”
“No.”
“Any alibi for the Eggers murder?”
“I was in Chadow. Stop pissing around and asking me things I’ve already told you guys!”
“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “What were you doing in Aarlach in March 1983?”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“Aarlach in 1983?”
“Stop messing me around,” snorted Van Veeteren. “You were in the hospital for a week, for God’s sake.”
“Ah,” grunted Podworsky. “You mean that damn business.
What the hell has that got to do with this?”
“Is it you or me who’s asking the questions?”
Podworsky groaned.
“You’re a real ugly bastard!”
“I think we’ll take a pause there,” said Van Veeteren. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I gather they eat rotten fish in some countries-Sweden, unless I’m much mistaken.”
“Hang on, for fuck’s sake!” said Podworsky. “Aarlach-of course I can tell you about that, if you damn well insist. Sit down!”
Van Veeteren sat down. Podworsky lit another cigarette and scratched his head.