Why do I do this? Moreno thought when she had come home.
She kicked off her shoes in irritation and threw her jacket into the basket chair.
Why do I tell Reinhart to go to hell and slam the door behind me? Am I becoming a man-hater? A bitch?
He was right, after all. Absolutely right. There had been something going with Munster — even if she couldn’t be more precise about it than Reinhart had been.
Only something. It had come to an end when Munster had been stabbed up in Frigge last January, and very nearly lost his life. Since then he had been in hospital for months, and was now mixed up in some dodgy inquiry at the ministry, filling in time until he was fit for battle again. That would be a few more months yet, if rumour was correct.
Hell and damnation, she thought. And when he’s back on duty, what then? Presumably in February. What would happen then?
Nothing at all, of course. Intendent Munster had gone back to his wife and children — and he had never left them in the first place, not for a second. What had she imagined? What was she waiting for? Was she really waiting for something? She had only met him a couple of times since it happened, and there hadn’t been the slightest trace of any vibrations. Not even a flutter in the air… Well, maybe a little one that first time, when she and Synn were both sitting at his bedside… There had been something in the air then.
But no more than that. A slight flutter. Once.
And who the hell was she to come between Munster and his wonderful Synn? And the children?
I’m losing the plot, she thought. I’m becoming just as dotty as all the rest of the lonely spinsters. Did it really take no longer than that to become an old maid? Was it really as simple as that? To be sure, when she left that shit-head Claus she had been furious with him, and the wasted five years she’d spent with him. But she hadn’t tarred all men with the same brush. Not Munster, at least. Certainly not him.
But now she had more or less told Reinhart to fuck off. Just because he had happened to tread on the right toe. To be sure, Reinhart was not her type (was there such a creature?), but she had always regarded him as a good person and a good police officer.
And a man.
I must do something about all this, she told herself as she turned on the shower in the hope of washing all the horrors away.
Maybe not right away, but in the long run I really must. Thirty-one and an embittered man-hater?
Or a desperate hunter? Even worse, much worse. No, there are — there must be — better strategies for the future.
But not just at the moment. This evening she had neither the time nor the strength. And no ideas, either. Better to get down to something different. To the challenge she had presented him with, perhaps?
Ten possible links between Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller.
Ten? she thought. What hubris.
Let’s see if I can find three.
Or two.
Or even one, at least?
Winnifred had just started her period, and Joanna had finally accepted the blessings bestowed by penicillin, so as far as Reinhart was concerned it was neither one thing nor the other. Instead he sat down on the sofa to watch an old Truffaut film while Winnifred prepared the next day’s seminar in the study. She woke him up when the film had finished. They spent a quarter of an hour comparing the relative attractions of Leros and Sakynthos with an eye to a possible trip at Easter, and when they eventually went to bed he was unable to sleep.
Two thoughts were buzzing around in his head.
The first concerned Van Veeteren. He was due to meet The Chief Inspector the next day and would be forced to admit that they were still marking time on square one. That after three weeks’ work they still hadn’t a single lead, not even the slightest sniff of one, in their hunt for his son’s murderer. Needless to say he would report on the strange circumstance regarding the blow to the back of Vera Miller’s head, but there wasn’t a lot to say about that.
We simply don’t know what lay behind it, he would have to admit. What a bloody mess, Reinhart thought.
The other thought concerned Ewa Moreno.
I’m a cretin, he thought. Not always, but now and then. He had promised her ten plausible scenarios to explain a connection he hadn’t the slightest idea about, and then he had insulted her.
Insulted her and stuck his nose into matters that were nothing at all to do with him.
Another bloody mess.
He got up at two o’clock and phoned her.
‘Were you asleep?’ he asked. ‘It’s Reinhart.’
‘I can hear that,’ said Moreno. ‘No, I was awake in fact.’
‘I want to apologize,’ said Reinhart. ‘I mean, I’m ringing to apologize… I’m a bloody cretin.’
She said nothing for a moment.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For the apology, that is. But I don’t think you’re all that much of a cretin. I wasn’t myself, it was my fault.’
‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Very clever. And uplifting. Two grown-up people exchanging apologies on the telephone in the middle of the night. It must have something to do with sun-spots — I’m sorry I rang
… No, for Christ’s sake! Now I’ve put my foot in it again.’
Moreno laughed.
‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ Reinhart asked.
‘I’m trying to think of ten plausible connections.’
‘Oh dear. How many have you got?’
‘None,’ said Moreno.
‘Excellent,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with. Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow under a cold star.’
‘Good night, Chief Inspector,’ said Moreno. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, incidentally?’
But Reinhart had already hung up.
23
Van Veeteren stared at the phosphorescent second hand making its leisurely way round the face of the clock. He had been doing that for quite some time, but every new circuit was a new experience even so. He suddenly remembered that a long time ago, in pre-puberty — if he had in fact ever been through such a phase — he used to occupy himself when he couldn’t sleep by taking his pulse. He decided he’d try that now.
Fifty-two the first minute.
Forty-nine the second one.
Fifty-four the third.
Good Lord, he thought. My heart is collapsing as well.
He lay there for a few more minutes without taking his pulse. Wished he’d had Ulrike by his side, but she was sleeping over with her children out at Loewingen. Or at least, with one of them. Jurg, aged eighteen, and the last one to fly the nest. She obviously needed to spend some time with him as well, he realized that. Even if he seemed to be an unusually level-headed young man. As far as he could judge, at least: they had only met three times, but everything seemed to point in that direction.
Apart from the fact that he wanted to become a police officer.
Van Veeteren sighed, and rolled over in order to avoid having to look at the confounded clock. Put one of the pillows over his head.
A quarter past two, he thought. I’m the only person in the whole world who’s awake.
He got up an hour later. It was impossible to sleep — the last few nights he had managed no more than two to three hours on average, and no known medicines helped.
Nor did beer. Nor wine. Nor even Handel.
It was just as bad with other composers, so it wasn’t Handel’s fault.
It’s not possible, he thought as he stood in the bathroom, splashing cold water into his face. It’s not possible to sleep — and I know why, for Christ’s sake. Why don’t I just admit it? Why don’t I stand on the mountain-top and shout it out so loudly that all mankind can hear it?
Revenge! Show me the father who can lie at peace in his bed while the search for his son’s murderer is going on out there!
It was as simple as that. Embedded deep down in the black hole of biology. He had known that when he wrote about it in his diary a few hours ago, and he knew it now. Action was the only effective antidote. Homo agentus. In all situations. Illusory or real. Do something, for God’s sake!