‘Not much in the way of lines to follow up yet,’ said Reinhart. ‘Or what do you think? Damn and blast.’
‘No, not a lot,’ said Moreno. ‘Although it does seem as if he had a date with his murderer out at Dikken. Even if he didn’t really know what was going to happen. The odd thing is that he sat in the restaurant by himself, waiting. Assuming we can trust what Jung and Rooth say, that is. That could suggest that the person he was waiting for didn’t turn up according to plan.’
‘Possibly,’ said Reinhart ‘But it could have happened much more straightforwardly, we mustn’t forget that.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Moreno, taking a sip of her mulled wine.
‘A no-frills robbery,’ said Reinhart. ‘A junkie with a hammer who thought he could do with a bit of cash. The victim’s pockets were emptied, even his fags and keys were nicked — that ought to tell us something.’
Moreno nodded.
‘Do you think that’s what happened?’ she asked.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Reinhart. ‘Besides, it doesn’t need to have been the same person — the one who killed him and the one who went through his pockets, that is. The character who rang to report finding the body didn’t exactly give the impression of being a blue-eyed innocent, did he?’
‘Hardly,’ said Moreno. ‘But in any case, I’m inclined to think it wasn’t just a case of a mugging that went wrong. I reckon there’s more to it than that — but whether or not I think that because of who the victim was, I don’t know… I suppose it’s a bit warped to think along those lines.’
‘A lot of thinking is warped when you look closely at it,’ said Reinhart. ‘Intuition and prejudice smell pretty much alike in fact. But we can start off with this, no matter what.’
He took out the well-thumbed address book Marlene Frey had lent them — on condition they returned it as soon as they had copied it.
‘This must mean that they really were on the straight and narrow path nowadays,’ said Moreno. ‘Who hands a whole address book over to the police of their own accord if they have something on their conscience?’
Reinhart leafed through the book and looked worried.
‘There’s a hell of a lot of people in here,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I think we’d better talk to her again and get her to narrow it down a bit.’
‘I’ll do that tomorrow,’ Moreno promised. ‘Anyway, I think I ought to be moving on. I don’t think we’re going to lay any golden eggs this evening.’
Reinhart looked at the clock.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘But one thing is crystal clear in any case.’
‘What’s that?’ wondered Moreno.
‘We must solve this. If we don’t solve another single bloody case between now and the next century, we must make absolutely certain that we sort out this one. That’s the least we can do for him.’
Moreno leaned her head on her hands and thought.
‘If it were anybody else, I’d think you were nattering on in the spirit of romanticized boy scout mentality,’ she said. ‘But I must admit that I agree with you. It’s bad enough as it is, but it’ll be even worse if we let the murderer get away with it. Will you be contacting him tomorrow? I suppose he’ll want to know how things are going.’
‘I’ve promised to keep him informed,’ said Reinhart. ‘And I shall do just that. Whether I want to or not.’
Moreno nodded sombrely. Then they emptied their glasses, and left the cafe and the town and the world to their fate.
For a few hours, at least.
9
He woke up and looked at the clock.
A quarter to five. He had slept for twenty minutes.
Erich is dead, he thought. It’s not a dream. He’s dead, that’s reality.
He could feel his eyes burning in their sockets. As if they wanted to force their way out of his head. Oedipus, it occurred to him. Oedipus Rex… Wandering around blind for the rest of my life, seeking God’s grace. Perhaps that would be an idea. It might give things a meaning. Erich is dead. My son.
It was remarkable how the same thought could fill up the whole of his consciousness, hour after hour. The same three words — not even a thought, strictly speaking: just this constellation of words, as impenetrable as a mantra in a foreign language: Erich is dead, Erich is dead. Minute after minute, second after second; every fraction of every moment of every second. Erich is dead.
Or perhaps it wasn’t remarkable at all. Presumably this was exactly as it had to be. As it would always be from now on. This was the keystone for the rest of his life. Erich was dead. His son had finally taken possession of him: thanks to his death he had finally captured the whole of his father’s attention and love. Erich. That’s how it was. Quite simply.
I shall fall short, Van Veeteren thought. I shall fall to pieces and sink to the bottom, but I don’t care. I ought to have made sure I died at the right time.
The woman by his side stirred and woke up. Ulrike. Ulrike Fremdli. The one who had become his woman despite all the uncertainties and convulsions of the mind. His convulsions, not hers.
‘Have you slept all right?’
He shook his head.
‘Not at all?’
‘Half an hour.’
She stroked his chest and stomach with her warm hand.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? I can go and make you one.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Do you want to talk?’
‘No.’
She turned over. Crept up closer to him, and after a while he could hear from her breathing that she had fallen asleep again. He waited for a few more minutes, then got up cautiously, tucked the covers round her, and went out into the kitchen.
The red digital numbers on the transistor radio in the window said 04.56. It was still pitch black outside: only a few faint streaks of light from a street lamp fell onto the corner of the building on the opposite side of the street. Guijdermann’s, the bakery that had closed down. The objects he could make out in the kitchen were wreathed in this same pale, shadowy half-light. The table, the chairs. The cooker, the sink, the shelf over the larder, the pile of copies of the Allgemejne in the basket in the corner. He opened the refrigerator door, then closed it again. Took a glass from a cupboard and drank some ordinary tap water instead. Erich is dead, he thought. Dead.
He went back to the bedroom and got dressed. As he did so, Ulrike moved restlessly in the bed but she didn’t wake up. He stole out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Put on his shoes, a scarf and an overcoat. Left the flat and tiptoed down the stairs and out into the street.
Light rain was falling — or rather, drifting around to form a soft curtain of floating, feathery drops. The temperature must have been seven or eight degrees above freezing. No wind to speak of either, and the streets deserted — as if a long-awaited bomb attack were now imminent. Dark and self-absorbed, caught up in the all-embracing sleep of the surrounding buildings.
Erich is dead, he thought, and started walking.
He returned an hour and a half later. Ulrike was sitting in the murky kitchen, waiting for him with her hands wrapped round a cup of tea. He could sense an aura of reproachful worry and sympathy, but it affected him no more than a wrong number or a formal condolence.
I hope she can cope, he thought. I hope I don’t drag her down with me.
‘You’re wet,’ she said. ‘Did you go far?’
He shrugged and sat down opposite her.
‘I walked out towards Lohr and back,’ he said. ‘It’s not raining all that hard.’
‘I fell asleep,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I needed to get out.’
She nodded. Half a minute passed: then she stretched her hands out over the table. Left them lying half-open a few centimetres in front of him, and after a while he took hold of them. Wrapped his own hands round them and squeezed them tentatively. He realized that she was waiting for something. That he needed to say something.
‘There was an old couple when I was a little boy,’ he began. ‘They were called Bloeme.’