‘Precisely,’ said Reinhart. ‘On the ball as usual. How’s it going?’
DeBries thrust his arms out wide and narrowly missed hitting Rooth on the chin.
‘No need to converse in semaphore, you bloody idiot,’ said Rooth.
Bollmert laughed nervously.
‘It’s going like clockwork,’ said deBries, unrepentant. ‘There are a hundred and forty-six private individuals listed in the book, and about fifty institutions or similar. Plus a dozen or so incomprehensible entries — crossings out, vague scribbles and suchlike. He’s evidently had the book for six or seven years, that’s what his girlfriend estimates anyway — although she’s only known him for three. She’s been able to identify thirty-five people so far: we’ll start checking tomorrow.’
‘Are there any people the pair of them knew who aren’t in the book?’ asked Jung.
DeBries shook his head.
‘Not really. He’s been pretty scrupulous, it seems. A bloke they met at a party only a few weeks ago is duly listed, for instance.’
‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘So you reckon the murderer is in there somewhere, among all those names?’
‘If it was somebody he knew, there’s a pretty good chance.’
‘Good,’ said Reinhart. ‘You have Moreno, Krause and Sergeant Bollmert to help you — and make bloody sure you are careful and don’t miss anything. Meet ’em all face to face and record every single conversation. A bit of idle chatter on the phone isn’t good enough, remember that. Prepare a list of questions to ask them all, and show it to me first. What their alibi is for last Tuesday, and so on. No kid gloves, right? Is that clear? It’s all we’ve got to go on for the time being.’
‘Crystal clear,’ said deBries. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘That can be an advantage sometimes,’ muttered Reinhart. He lit his pipe and blew a few thick clouds of smoke over those present.
‘What about this girlfriend of his?’ said Jung. ‘Hadn’t we better have a session with her? About the last few days, what they were doing and so on?’
‘Of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll look after that. Rooth and Jung can go back to the restaurant again — that should suit Rooth down to the ground. We’ll have a press release tomorrow that will require every bastard who set foot in that restaurant to come forward. That always produces some kind of results… If you can’t fish deep down, you have to cast your nets out wide.’
‘Wise words,’ said Rooth. ‘Mind you, ugly fish swim deep, if I’m not much mistaken. Cod, for instance.’
‘True,’ said Bollmert, who was almost born on a trawler, but didn’t think that was something to bring up here and now.
‘What the hell have codfish got to do with this?’ wondered Reinhart.
There followed a few seconds of silence while the team leader exhaled more clouds of smoke and the others watched.
‘What do you think?’ said deBries eventually. ‘Surely we need to have some kind of theory as well? Why was he killed?’
Reinhart cleared his throat.
‘I’ll tell you that when I’ve mapped out this last week in rather more detail,’ he promised. ‘Young Van Veeteren was going to meet somebody out at Dikken. He was presumably going to earn a bit of pocket money as a result, and I don’t suppose he was going to sell Christmas magazines. That is what we have to sort out just now.’
‘And he was clobbered,’ said Rooth.
‘By whoever he was going to meet, or by somebody else.’
‘Could it be the geezer he borrowed the car from?’ wondered Bollmert.
‘I reckon we can count him out,’ said Reinhart after two seconds’ thought. ‘He’s in Holte jail, and as far as we know he and young Van Veeteren haven’t been in touch for several months. And he hasn’t been out on parole for ages either.’
‘What’s he in for?’ asked Rooth.
‘All kinds of things,’ said Reinhart. ‘Robbery and white slave trading, among other things. Illegal possession of weapons. Four years. Two-and-a-half left. More or less.’
‘Okay,’ said deBries. ‘We’ll count him out. Anything else? I’m hungry, I haven’t eaten since last week.’
‘Same here.’ said Rooth.
Reinhart laid his pipe in the ashtray.
‘Just one other thing,’ he said, in a serious tone of voice. ‘I spoke to The Chief Inspector yesterday evening and I promised him that we would solve this case. I hope you all understand how extraordinary this business is. I mean what I said at the start. We must sort it out. Must! Is that understood?’
He looked round.
‘We’re not idiots,’ said deBries. ‘As I said before.’
‘It’ll sort itself out,’ said Rooth.
It’s good to have a team with self-belief, Reinhart thought: but he didn’t say anything.
Van Veeteren paused in the south-west corner of the long, narrow square. Ockfener Plejn. Shuddered, dug his hands down deeper into his overcoat pockets. Looked around. Until Saturday he hadn’t known that this was where Erich lived — or had he in fact known in some subconscious way? They had met twice during the autumn: once at the beginning of September, and then again just over three weeks ago. Despite everything, he thought as he groped around after his cigarette roller, despite everything he had socialized a little with his son. Recently. He had received Erich in his home, and they had talked to each other like civilized human beings. That was definitely the case. Something was on its way: it wasn’t clear exactly what, something confused and obscure of course, but something nevertheless… Erich had talked about Marlene Frey as well, but only in terms of a nameless young woman, as far as he could remember, and of course he might well have mentioned where they lived as well — why not? It was just that he couldn’t remember.
So he lives here… Or lived here. Almost in the centre of the old town, in this run-down nineteenth-century block of flats whose dirty facade Van Veeteren was now staring at. On the second floor, almost at the top of the building. There was a faint light in the window overlooking the tiny balcony with its rusty iron railings. He knew that she was at home, and that she was expecting him: his dead son’s fiancee whom he had never met, and he also knew — suddenly but with overwhelming certainty — that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. That he wouldn’t be able to summon up the strength to ring the bell on that shabby front door with the paint flaking off. Not today.
Instead he looked at his watch. It was almost six. The darkness that had begun to envelop the town seemed to him to be freezing cold and hostile. There was a strange smell of sulphur or phosphorus in the air. He didn’t recognize it, it somehow didn’t belong here. There was a temporary breathing space in the otherwise constant downpour, but of course rain was never far away at this time of year. He lit a cigarette. Lowered his gaze, preferring not to ask himself if it was due to shame or to something else… and having done so he noticed a cafe on the opposite corner of the square, and when he had finished his cigarette, that is where he headed. Sat down with a glass of dark beer at a table by one of the windows where it was impossible for anybody to see out or in. Rested his head on his hands and thought back over the day.
Today. The third day he had woken up in the knowledge that his son was dead.
First of all an hour at the antiquarian bookshop, where he explained the situation to Krantze and they rearranged their working hours. He didn’t dislike old Krantze, but they would never be more than business partners. Certainly not, but that’s just the way it was.
Then he paid another visit to the Forensic Laboratories, this time together with Renate and Jess. He had stayed outside the door when they went into the refrigerated room. You only need to look at a dead son once, he had told himself. And he still thought that, as he sat in the cafe and tasted the beer. Only once: there were images that time and forgetfulness would never retouch. Which never needed to be reawoken because they never slept. Jess had been in control of herself when they came out again — with a crumpled handkerchief in each hand, but controlled all the same.