Nobody seemed to have the slightest idea why Erich Van Veeteren had driven out to Dikken that fateful day.
Not his fiancee. Not the police. Not anybody else.
‘How reliable is Marlene Frey?’ asked Jung. ‘Bearing in mind drugs and all that stuff.’
‘I believe her,’ said Reinhart after a few moments’ thought. ‘It might be a misjudgement, of course, but I have the impression that she’s on our side one hundred per cent.’
‘It’s not really very odd if we don’t discover anything right away,’ said Moreno. ‘If we have in fact stumbled upon the killer somewhere among all these interviews, it would be a bit much to expect the person concerned to break down and confess simply because we’d switched on a tape recorder. Don’t you think?’
‘Why bother to do it, then?’ Rooth wanted to know. ‘Doesn’t the law say people must tell the police the truth?’
‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘You haven’t seen the point of spending a dark night in front of a tape recorder trying to catch on to a murderer’s slight slip of the tongue… But perhaps you couldn’t be expected to? Anyway, let’s press on! What do you all think? There must surely be one of us — and for the moment I’m discounting Rooth’s postage stamp theory — one of us with an idea of some sort? We’re getting paid for doing this, for Christ’s sake. Or is it just as black in your bird-like brains as it is in mine?’
He looked round the table.
‘Pitch black,’ said deBries eventually. ‘My tape recordings are available to anybody who’s interested. It only takes eighteen hours to listen to them all. No doubt there’s one-tenth of a clue somewhere among them, but Krause and I have given up.’
‘I’ll pass for the time being,’ said Rooth.
‘It might be an idea to have another chat with one or two of those closest to him,’ suggested deBries. ‘With Erich’s best friends — there are three or four who knew him pretty well. Get them to speculate a bit, perhaps?’
‘Could be,’ said Reinhart with a sombre nod. ‘Why not? Does anybody else want to raise anything?’
Nobody did. Rooth sighed and Jung tried to conceal a yawn.
‘Why are you wearing a tie?’ Rooth asked. ‘Doesn’t your shirt have any buttons?’
‘Opera,’ said Jung. ‘Maureen has won two tickets at work. I won’t have time to go home and change, I’ll have to drive straight there after work.’
‘Make sure you don’t get dirty this afternoon, then,’ said Rooth.
Jung made no comment. Reinhart lit his pipe again.
‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re certainly not making any progress. But we’re bloody brilliant at being patient.’
‘How poor are they that have not patience,’ said Rooth.
‘Have you spoken to The Chief Inspector lately?’ asked Moreno.
‘Not for a few days,’ said Reinhart.
Van Veeteren took the tram out to Dikken. There was something about the car park there that prevented him from even thinking about taking the car.
Perhaps it was the risk that he would happen to park at the very spot where his son was killed.
It was just as empty and deserted as it usually was at this time of year, apparently. Only four cars, plus a chocked-up trailer from a long-distance lorry of which there was no trace. He didn’t know precisely where the body had been found — there were several hundred metres of undergrowth to choose from. He didn’t want to know anyway. What would have been the point?
He hurried across the empty space and into the Trattoria Commedia. The bar was immediately in front of the entrance door. Two elderly men in crumpled jackets were sitting there, drinking beer. The bartender was a young man in a yellow shirt, with a ponytaiclass="underline" he was busy, but nodded to Van Veeteren.
Van Veeteren nodded back and continued into the restaurant section. Three of the eighteen tables were occupied; he chose one with a good view of the bar and sat down.
Maybe this is the very table that Erich was sitting at, he thought.
He ordered the dish of the day from a waitress with blonde plaits: lamb cutlet with potatoes au gratin. And a glass of red wine.
It took half an hour, waiting to be served and then eating the meal. It didn’t taste bad at all, he decided. He had never set foot inside the place before, and for obvious reasons would never do so again; but as far as he could see they served decent food. Golfers in general probably couldn’t be fobbed off with any old rubbish, he assumed.
He gave the dessert a miss. Ordered a coffee and a little cognac in the bar instead.
Perhaps this is exactly where the murderer sat, he thought. Maybe I’m sitting on the very chair my son’s killer had occupied.
When the yellow-shirted barman came to top up his coffee, he took the opportunity of asking if he’d been on duty that evening.
Yes, the young man admitted. He had been. Why was he asking?
Van Veeteren thought for a moment before replying.
‘Police,’ he said.
‘What, another one?’ said the barman, looking somewhat amused.
‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I can imagine they’ve been here like a swarm of flies. I’m from a quite different branch.’
‘Which branch?’ the barman wondered.
‘Special Branch,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Maybe we could have a friendly little chat?’
The bartender hesitated for a moment.
‘Okay, I’m not exactly rushed off my feet at the moment,’ he said.
‘This sausage is a gift from the gods to mankind,’ said Rooth.
‘I can see you’re enjoying it,’ said Jung, eyeing his colleague who was chewing away with his eyes half-closed and an expression of celestial bliss. ‘I’m glad to see you have a spiritual side as well.’
‘It’s the garlic that does it,’ said Rooth, opening his eyes. ‘An excellent old medicinal plant. I have a theory.’
‘You don’t say?’ said Jung. ‘Is it the postage stamp again?’
‘Better than that,’ said Rooth, shovelling some potato salad into his cheek pouches.
Jung waited.
‘Can you make up your mind whether you’re going to eat or to talk?’ he said. ‘That would make it easier to eat my lunch.’
Rooth nodded and chewed away.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Something occurred to me as we were sitting upstairs, discussing the case.’
‘Go on,’ said Jung.
‘Blackmail,’ said Rooth.
‘Blackmail?’ said Jung.
‘Exactly. It would fit. Listen. Erich Van Veeteren is the blackmailer. He has some kind of hold on somebody, and has named a price for his silence. He drives out to Dikken in order to collect his cash. But his victim doesn’t want to pay up, and kills him instead. It’s as plain as a pikestaff, correct me if I’m wrong.’
Jung thought it over.
‘It’s not impossible,’ he said. ‘It’s a credible theory. Why didn’t you say anything about it during the run-through?’
Rooth looked a bit embarrassed.
‘I only thought of it towards the end,’ he said. ‘You lot didn’t seem all that amenable. I didn’t want to drag things out.’
‘You mean you were hungry?’ said Jung.
‘You said that, not me,’ said Rooth.
16
‘If you regard it as a sort of cancer,’ said Reinhart, ‘it becomes quite clear.’
‘White man, he speak with forked tongue,’ said Winnifred, who was a quarter aboriginal.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Explain.’
They were lying in the bath. The fact that Winnifred Lynch, born in Australia but grown up and awarded a doctorate in England, had moved in with Reinhart and given birth to his child was largely due to that bath. At least, that’s what she usually claimed when he asked her if she really loved him.