“Well?” said Van Veeteren.
“What’s the time limit on proceedings for illegal distilling?” asked Podworsky.
“You’ll be all right,” said Van Veeteren.
“Sure?”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Never trust the fucking cops,” said Podworsky. “Switch that fucking machine off!”
Van Veeteren nodded, and Munster switched off the tape recorder. Podworsky gave a hoarse laugh.
“All right. Here you have it. I’d hit upon a consignment of spirits that needed selling on-”
“Hit upon?” said Van Veeteren.
“Let’s call it that,” said Podworsky.
“How much?”
“Quite a lot.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“And you see, I had this pal, a Dane, in Aarlach who had a buyer, a fucking medic, as it turned out, who wasn’t too fond of paying what he owed.”
“What was his name?” interrupted Munster.
“His name? Fuck knows. I can’t remember. Well, some thing beginning with B. Bloe-something-”
“Bleuwe?” suggested Van Veeteren.
“Yeah, that’s probably it-one of those academic assholes who thought he could make some easy cash by selling booze to his snotty pals. We’d reached agreement on everything, the delivery was arranged, everything fixed up, all that remained now was payment-”
“And?” said Van Veeteren.
“That was what we were going to sort out at that pub… and this little prick sits there with his pal and thinks he can pull a fast one on me! What do you reckon the odds are on that,
Constable?”
“How much are we talking about?” asked Munster.
“Quite a bit,” said Podworsky. “We’d sunk a fair amount, and I got a bit annoyed, of course. I only regret one thing-”
“What?” said Van Veeteren.
“That I didn’t wait for the Dane before I went for them,” said Podworsky, succumbing to a sudden coughing fit. He had to turn away and double up with his hands over his mouth, and it lasted for nearly half a minute. Munster looked at Van Veeteren. Tried to work out what he was thinking, but that was impossible, as usual. As for himself, he thought Pod worsky’s story sounded pretty plausible; at least he didn’t give the impression of making it up as he went along.
Although you could never be sure, of course. He’d seen this kind of thing before. And got it wrong before, as well.
“What was the name of his pal?” asked Van Veeteren when Podworsky had finished coughing.
“Eh?”
“Bleuwe’s mate. What was he called?”
“No idea,” said Podworsky.
“Did he ever introduce himself?” asked Munster.
“He might have, but I’m fucked if I can remember the name of somebody I punched on the nose twelve years ago.”
“Ten,” said Van Veeteren. “What was his name?”
“What the fuck?” said Podworsky. “Are you not all there, and what’s going on?”
Van Veeteren waited for a few seconds while Podworsky stared at them, shifting his gaze from one to the other as if he were asking himself how on earth he could have landed in front of two idiots instead of two police officers.
Mind you, in his world the difference probably wasn’t all that great, Munster conceded.
“His name was Maurice Ruhme,” said Van Veeteren.
Podworsky gaped at him.
“Oh, fuck,” he said.
He leaned back in his chair and thought things over for a while.
“OK,” he said eventually. “Let’s be clear about one thing-I didn’t manage to kill the bastard in that goddamn bar, and I haven’t succeeded in doing it since then either. Any more ques tions?”
“Not right now,” said Van Veeteren, standing up again. “But you can sit here and think this over, and maybe we’ll get back to you.” He knocked on the door and Kropke and Mooser returned with the cuffs.
“You fucking bastards,” said Podworsky, and there’s no doubt that it sounded as if he meant it.
39
The decision to release Eugen Podworsky, and as soon as pos sible inform the media of the disappearance of Inspector Moerk, was taken at about nine p.m. on Sunday evening, by a majority vote of three to one. Bausen, Munster and Van Vee teren were in favor, Kropke against. Mooser abstained, possi bly because he was somewhat overwhelmed by the sudden and very definitely onetime adoption of democratic procedures.
“I’ll speak to Cruickshank now, tonight,” said Van Veeteren.
“I’ve promised him a bit of advance information. Press confer ence tomorrow afternoon?”
Bausen agreed.
“Three o’clock,” he decided. “And we can expect the whole parade, as I said before-television, radio, the lot. It’s not all that common for a murderer to put the cuffs on the police, you have to say.”
“The general public reckon it ought to be the other way around,” said Van Veeteren. “One can see their point, it has to be admitted.”
“What shall we say about Podworsky?” wondered Kropke.
“Not a goddamn word,” said Bausen. “Mouths shut is the order of the day.” He looked around the table. “DCI Van Veeteren and I will talk to the press, nobody else.”
“Typical,” muttered Kropke.
“That’s an order,” said Bausen. “Go home and get some sleep now. Tomorrow is another day, and we’re certain to be on TV. It might help if we looked like normal human beings.
I’ll release Podworsky.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Van Veeteren. “It might be useful for there to be more than one of us.”
It was past eleven before the kids finally went to bed. They opened a bottle of wine and put on a Mostakis tape, and after several failed attempts, they finally managed to get a fire going.
They spread the mattresses out on the floor and undressed each other.
“We’ll wake them up,” said Munster.
“No, we won’t,” said Synn. She stroked his back and crept down under the blankets. “I put a bit of a sleeping pill into their hot chocolate.”
“Sleeping pill?” he thundered, trying to sound outraged.
“Only a little bit. Won’t do them any lasting harm. Come here!”
“OK,” said Munster, and restored relations with his wife.
Monday announced its arrival with a stubborn and persistent downpour that threatened to go on forever. Van Veeteren woke up at about seven, contemplated the rain for a while and decided to go back to bed. This place changes its weather more often than I change my shirt, he thought.
By a quarter past nine he was sharing a breakfast table in the dining room with Cruickshank, who seemed to be remark 2 5 1 ably invigorated and in a strikingly good mood, despite the early hour and the fact that he must have been up working for most of the night.
“Phoned it through at three this morning,” he said enthusi astically. “I’ll be damned if the night desk didn’t want to stop the presses, but they eventually settled for the afternoon edi tion. Talk about Jack the Ripper hysteria!”
Van Veeteren looked decidedly miserable.
“Cheer up!” said Cruickshank. “You’ll soon have cracked it.
He’s gone too far this time. Did she really have some idea who he was?”
“Presumably,” said Van Veeteren. “That’s what he must have thought, at least.”
Cruikshank nodded.
“Have you sent out the press release yet?” he asked, looking around the empty dining room. “I don’t notice any of my col leagues rushing in for the kill.”
Van Veeteren checked his watch.
“Another quarter of an hour, I think. Must finish breakfast and then go into hiding. It’s pissing out there.”
“Hmm,” said Cruickshank, chewing away at a croissant.
“It’ll be shit over the ankles down there.”
“Down where?”
“On the beach and in the woods, of course. With all the photographers and private dicks.”
“You’re probably right,” said Van Veeteren, sighing again.
“Anyway, I think it’s time I went to the police station and locked myself in.”
“Good luck,” said Cruickshank. “I’ll see you this after noon. I expect I’ll still be here, waiting for my fellow union members.”