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‘I understand,’ said Constable Krause, and then he received all the details he needed. It took two minutes at most, but after the call was completed Krause remained seated at his desk for five times as long, staring at the information he had written down and trying to make sense of it.

When he was forced to accept that this was not possible, he picked up the phone again and rang Chief Inspector Reinhart.

Synn put her hand over the receiver for a moment before handing it to Munster. Mouthed a name, but he couldn’t make it out. He forced himself up into a half-sitting position, and took the receiver.

‘Reinhart here. How are things?’

‘Thanks for asking,’ said Munster. ‘It’s been quite a while.’

‘Are you still in bed?’ Reinhart asked.

‘It’s Sunday,’ Munster pointed out. ‘It’s not even nine o’clock yet. What’s on your mind?’

‘Something bloody catastrophic has happened,’ said Reinhart. ‘I need your help.’

Munster thought for a couple of seconds.

‘Are you that short of staff?’ he asked. ‘I’m still tied up with that inquiry, have you forgotten that? I won’t be back at work until February at the earliest.’

‘I know,’ said Reinhart.

‘What’s it all about, then?’

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Chief Inspector Reinhart cleared his throat and explained what had happened.

‘Hell’s bells!’ said Munster. ‘I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour. Of course I shall help.’

‘Let’s take the long way there,’ said Reinhart. ‘I need a bit of time.’

‘So do I,’ said Munster. ‘How did it happen?’

‘A heavy blow to the head,’ said Reinhart. ‘Manslaughter or murder, probably the latter.’

‘When?’

‘Tuesday, it seems.’

‘Tuesday? It’s Sunday today.’

‘They only found him yesterday. He didn’t have any papers on him that could identify him. I thought I recognized him, but I’ve only ever seen him once or twice… Anyway, that woman rang this morning to report him missing. She’s already been to identify him. There’s no doubt about it, unfortunately.’

Munster said nothing, studied the movement of the windscreen wipers.

Oh hell! he thought. Why did something like this have to happen? What’s the point?

He knew they were futile questions, but the fact that they always cropped up might indicate something even so. Something to do with hope and positivism. A sort of refusal to surrender to the powers of darkness? Perhaps that was a way of looking at it, perhaps that was how one should interpret that eternal why.

‘Have you had much contact with him lately?’ Reinhart asked when they had crossed the river and started to approach the high-rise apartment buildings out at Leimaar.

Munster shrugged.

‘A bit,’ he said. ‘About once a month. We usually have a beer now and again.’

‘No badminton?’

‘Twice a year.’

Reinhart sighed deeply.

‘How is he?’

‘Not too bad, I think. So far. He’s found himself a woman as well.’

Reinhart nodded.

‘I’m grateful to you for agreeing to join me.’

Munster made no reply.

‘Bloody grateful,’ said Reinhart. ‘I don’t know if I’d be able to cope with it on my own.’

Munster took a deep breath.

‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer. Have you rung to check that he’s at home?’

Reinhart shook his head.

‘No. But he’s at home all right, I can feel it. This isn’t something we can avoid.’

‘No,’ said Munster. ‘We can’t. Nor can he.’

There was a shortage of parking places around Klagenburg. After circling the block a few times Reinhart finally found a space on the corner of Morgenstraat and Ruyder Alle, but they had to walk a couple of hundred metres through the rain before they were able to ring the bell on the door of number four.

At first there was no reaction from inside; but after a second more insistent ring, they could hear somebody coming down the stairs. Before the door opened, Munster noted that despite the wet conditions his mouth was absolutely dry, and he began to wonder if he would be in a fit state to force even a single word past his lips. The door opened slightly.

‘Good morning,’ said Reinhart. ‘May we come in?’

Van Veeteren was dressed in something dark blue and red that presumably was — or had been — a dressing gown, and something brown that was certainly a pair of slippers. He didn’t look as if he had just woken up, and was carrying a newspaper folded up under his arm.

‘Reinhart?’ he exclaimed in surprise, and opened the door wide. ‘And Munster? What the hell?’

‘Yes,’ Munster managed to utter, ‘you can say that again.’

‘Come in,’ said Van Veeteren, gesturing with the newspaper. ‘All this bloody rain is a pain. What’s the matter?’

‘Let’s sit down first,’ said Reinhart.

They all walked up the stairs, the visitors were ushered into the cosy-looking living room and flopped down into armchairs. Van Veeteren remained standing. Munster bit his lip and plucked up courage.

‘It’s your son,’ he said. ‘Erich. I’m sorry, but Reinhart says he’s been murdered.’

Looking back, he was convinced that he’d closed his eyes as he said that.

8

When Jung and Rooth parked outside the Trattoria Commedia at about two o’clock on Sunday afternoon it had stopped raining for the moment. Two forensic officers were still working on the abandoned Peugeot, supervised by Inspector le Houde: the car had been cordoned off by red-and-white police tape, as had the spot where the body was found some ten metres away. Plus a narrow corridor between the two. Rooth paused and scratched his head.

‘What do they think they’ll find in the car?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘He’d had it on loan for a few months from that jailbird mate of his — maybe he’s involved as well in some way?’

‘It can’t have been Elmer Kodowsky who bashed his head in,’ said Rooth. ‘He hasn’t been out on parole for eight weeks — it would be hard to get a better alibi than that.’

‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Jung. ‘Shall we go in and attack the barman then, or do you intend standing here and searching for nits a bit longer?’

‘I’ve finished now,’ said Rooth. ‘God, but I don’t like this bloody business. I don’t like it when crimes affect one of us. Somebody like VV should have the right to immunity, for fuck’s sake.’

‘I know,’ said Jung. ‘Don’t go on about it. Let’s go in and do our job, then we can go for a coffee somewhere.’

‘All right,’ said Rooth. ‘I’m with you there.’

The barman’s name was Alois Kummer, and he looked anything but happy.

He was young, suntanned and athletic-looking, so Jung didn’t really understand why. They sat down opposite him in the bar, which was deserted — as long as no customers turned up they might just as well sit here and talk. Both Jung and Rooth agreed on that, and apparently herr Kummer as well, as he made no objection.

‘So you were on duty last Tuesday evening, is that right?’ Jung began.

‘Only until nine o’clock,’ said Kummer.

‘Let’s concentrate on that time,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you have many customers?’

Kummer displayed his teeth. They looked strong and healthy, and presumably were expressing an ironic grin.

‘How many?’ asked Jung.

‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘At most. Can I get you anything?’

Jung shook his head. Rooth laid out the photographs on the counter.

‘What about this person?’ he asked. ‘Was he there? Don’t answer until you’re sure.’

The barman studied the pictures for ten seconds, pulling at his earring.

‘I believe so,’ he said.

‘You believe so?’ echoed Rooth, ‘Are you religious?’

‘I like it,’ said Kummer. ‘Yes, he was here. He sat eating at one of the tables through there. I didn’t pay much attention to him.’