Had they noticed anything else of interest?
No — such as?
Had they noticed any customers sitting in the bar?
No, they couldn’t see the bar from their table.
Was there anybody there when they passed through on the way out?
Maybe, they weren’t sure. Oh yes, a little man in a dark suit, that’s right. A bit dark-skinned, in fact. An Arab, perhaps. Or an Indian or something like that.
Rooth ground his teeth. Jung thanked them, and promised — in response to fru Schwartz’s pressing request — that they would make sure they had the murderer under lock and key in a trice.
Because it was terrible. In Dikken of all places. Did they recall that whore who was crucified there a few years ago?
Yes, they did — but thank you very much, they must now talk to the next representative of that great detective, the general public.
Her name was Lisen Berke. She was in her forties, and had been in the bar at the Trattoria Commedia between a quarter to six and half past, approximately. She declined to explain why she had gone there — she had the right to go for a drink wherever she liked if she felt like it, for God’s sake.
‘Of course you do,’ said Jung.
‘Or two,’ said Rooth. ‘Come to that.’
‘Do you recognize this person?’ Jung asked, showing her the photographs.
She studied them for three seconds then shook her head for four.
‘He was sitting at one of the tables in the restaurant, between-’
‘Is he the one who’s been killed?’ she interrupted.
‘Yes,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No. I was sitting reading my paper.’
‘I see,’ said Rooth.
‘You see?’ said Berke, eyeing Rooth over the top of her octagonal spectacles.
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘Were there any other customers in the bar?’
She dragged her eyes away from Rooth, and thought that one over.
‘Two, I think… Yes, first of all there was a fat managerial type hanging around, but he didn’t stay long. Then a very different type appeared. Long hair and beard. Dark glasses as well, I seem to remember… Looked like some kind of rock star. Macho, out and out. Depraved.’
‘Did you speak to him?’ Jung asked.
Lisen Berke snorted contemptuously.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘And he didn’t try to talk to you?’ said Rooth.
‘I was reading my newspaper.’
‘Quite right too,’ said Rooth. ‘You shouldn’t get involved with men you don’t know in bars.’
Jung gave him a withering look to shut him up. For Christ’s sake, he thought. Why don’t they send him on a diplomacy course?
Berke gritted her teeth and glared at Rooth as well, as if he were an unusually nasty piece of dog shit she had accidentally trodden on and which was difficult to scrape off the sole of her shoe. A male dog, needless to say. Rooth looked up at the ceiling.
‘How long did he stay?’ asked Jung. ‘This depraved rock musician.’
‘I don’t remember. Not all that long, I don’t think.’
‘What did he drink?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But he left the bar before you did, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
Jung pondered.
‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘No. He didn’t have any features. Just a mass of hair and glasses.’
‘I understand,’ said Jung. ‘Many thanks, froken Berke: I’ll be getting back to you, if you don’t mind. You’ve been extremely helpful.’
‘What did you mean by that last remark?’ Rooth asked when they had closed the door after Lisen Berke. ‘“Extremely helpful”? What kind of crap is that?’
Jung sighed.
‘I was just trying to apply a bit of balsam after your charm offensive,’ he explained. ‘Besides, this character in the bar could well be of interest. We must ask if the barman remembers him as well.’
‘Once chance in ten,’ said Rooth. ‘But maybe those are the best odds we can hope for in this match.’
‘Have you anything else to suggest?’ asked Jung.
Rooth thought that one over.
‘If we drive out there, we can take the opportunity of having a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘So that we can work out a few new angles of approach and so on.’
‘Depraved?’ said Jung. ‘Is “depraved” the word she used?’
Ewa Moreno flopped down in the visitor’s chair in Reinhart’s office.
‘So you’re still at work, are you?’
Reinhart looked at the clock. Half past six. He wished it had been a bit less.
‘I need to summarize a few things. I didn’t get hold of froken Frey until quite late. How are things going for you?’
‘Not all that well,’ said Moreno with a sigh. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think the strategy we’re following is exactly top-notch.’
‘I know,’ said Reinhart. ‘But if you have a better one you should have come out with it before you crossed the threshold. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Yep,’ said Moreno. ‘No doubt I should have done. But whatever: it’s pretty hard going. We’ve chatted to sixteen friends of Erich Van Veeteren so far… In accordance with the list of priorities his fiancee gave us. All of them here in Maardam — we’ve sent Bollmert out into the sticks, and he’s due back on Friday. Nobody has come up with anything of interest yet, and nobody seems to be hiding anything. Nothing to do with the case, that is.’
‘Alibis?’ said Reinhart.
‘How nice of you to ask,’ said Moreno. ‘You don’t exactly make yourself popular when you ask people to provide alibis — but then, maybe it isn’t our job to make ourselves popular, as The Chief Inspector used to say. Anyway, everything seems above board so far. We haven’t had a chance to check anything yet, of course — but I suppose that’s not the point?’
‘Not so long as we don’t suspect there’s something nasty hiding in the woodwork,’ said Reinhart. ‘I take it there are a few dodgy characters among these names?’
‘There are all sorts,’ said Moreno. ‘No doubt some of them are not exactly pleased at the fact that Marlene Frey handed the address book over to the enemy without further ado. But we are ignoring everything that has nothing to do with the case. As instructed.’
‘As instructed,’ agreed Reinhart. He leaned back in his desk chair and thought for a while with his hands clasped behind the back of his neck. ‘If you’d like to have a session with Marlene Frey instead, that’s fine by me,’ he said. ‘There are two things that have wounded her in life: police officers and men. At least you’re only half of that.’
Moreno nodded and said nothing for a while.
‘What do you think?’ she said eventually. ‘What do you think happened to Erich?’
Reinhart bit the stem of his pipe and scratched his temples.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea, that’s the worrying bit. We usually have some kind of suspicion of what’s going on… An indication, at least.’
‘But you haven’t a clue?’
‘No,’ said Reinhart. ‘Do you?’
Moreno shook her head.
‘Does Marlene Frey know something that she’s holding back?’ she asked.
Reinhart pondered again. Tried to replay the afternoon’s conversation for his inner ear.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Mind you, you might have a different impression — who knows what to make of female intuition?’
‘I know all about that,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you spoken to The Chief Inspector again?’
‘Not since yesterday,’ said Reinhart. ‘I might ring him this evening. It feels really uncomfortable, poking our noses into his son’s dealings. I mean, he hasn’t exactly been your blue-eyed innocent. It’s not nice, sifting through that dirty linen, and it can’t be much fun for him sitting at home mourning, and knowing what we’re up to. Holy shit, what a mess!’
‘Is it really all that dirty nowadays?’ Moreno asked. ‘His linen, I mean.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Reinhart, standing up. ‘It was a bit dirtier a few years ago at any rate. It’s possible that it’s exactly how she says it is, froken Frey — that they are following the straight and narrow nowadays. It’s just a pity that he didn’t get a bit further along that path. But then, you have to agree with Strindberg and feel sorry for the human race.’