‘Unless of course the murderer is acquainted with both of them,’ Rooth pointed out, ‘but is being crafty and not letting on.’
‘Not impossible,’ said Reinhart offhandedly. ‘Incidentally I’ve spent some time trying to find a plausible link between Erich Van Veeteren and fru Miller — how they might theoretically be connected — but I have to say it’s not easy. Mainly airy-fairy hypotheses… Cock and bull stories…’
He made eye contact with Moreno, who smiled and shook her head: he understood that she shared his opinion. He raised his hand to switch off the tape recorder, but paused. Jung was waving a pencil and looking thoughtful.
‘With regard to hypotheses,’ he said, ‘I’ve been looking into Rooth’s hypothesis.’
‘Rooth?’ said Reinhart, raising his eyebrows. ‘Hypothesis?’
‘Which one do you mean?’ wondered Rooth.
‘The postage stamp gang,’ said deBries.
‘No, the stethoscope syndrome,’ said Jung.
Now Reinhart switched off the tape recorder.
‘What the devil are you on about?’ he said. ‘Wait while I wind the tape back.’
‘Sorry,’ said deBries.
‘I’m serious,’ said Jung. ‘It’s like this…’
He waited until Reinhart had pressed the record button again.
‘What Rooth suggested was that this bloke — always assuming that Vera Miller did have another bloke — would most probably be a doctor. You know what they say about nurses and men in white coats and all that…’
He paused and looked round to see if there was any reaction.
‘Go on,’ said Reinhart.
‘Well, I thought it might be worth looking into whether she might have been having an affair with one of the doctors at the Gemejnte. Nearly everybody who’s unfaithful does it with somebody at work, according to what I’ve read… So I went to hear what Liljana had to say this morning.’
‘Liljana?’ said Reinhart. ‘Who the hell is Liljana?’
He could have sworn that Jung blushed.
‘One of Vera Miller’s workmates,’ he said. ‘I spoke to her for the first time yesterday.’
‘I’ve seen her,’ said Rooth. ‘A veritable bombshell… From the Balkans as well, but not in that way…’
Reinhart glared at him and then at the tape recorder, but let it pass.
‘Go on,’ he said again, ‘What did she have to say?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ said Jung. ‘But she reckons it’s not impossible that Vera Miller had something going with a doctor. She had the impression that another colleague had hinted at that, but she wasn’t absolutely sure.’
‘Another colleague?’ said Moreno. ‘And what did she have to say? I assume it’s a she.’
‘Yes,’ said Jung. ‘A trainee nurse. But I haven’t been able to get hold of her. She’s off work today and tomorrow.’
‘Shit,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, we’ll dig her out, of course. We might as well get to the bottom of this. I have to say that it sounds quite likely, when you think about it. A nurse and a doctor — we’ve heard about that before.’
‘They say there are quite a few white coats at the Gemejnte,’ said deBries.
Reinhart sucked at his pipe and looked ready to kill.
‘This is what we’ll do,’ he said after a few seconds’ thought. ‘I’ll phone the head doctor, or the hospital’s CEO, or whatever the hell he’s called. He can supply us with the full list of employees — let’s hope he’s got photographs as well. It would be a bit of a bugger if we didn’t get a bit of joy out of this… I don’t suppose Inspector Rooth has a little theory about a possible link to Erich Van Veeteren as well?’
Rooth shook his head.
‘I seem to recall that I did have,’ he said. ‘But I can’t remember what it was.’
DeBries sighed loudly. Reinhart pressed the stop button, and the run-through was finished.
He had chosen Vox again — bearing in mind Van Veeteren’s positive memory from the previous time — but this evening there was no velvet-voiced chanteuse to look forward to. No music at all, in fact, as it was a Tuesday. Monday and Tuesday were low season, and apart from Reinhart and Van Veeteren there was only a handful of listless customers sitting at the shiny metal tables. The Chief Inspector was already installed when the chief inspector arrived. For the first time — the first time ever, as far as he could remember — Reinhart thought he was looking old.
Or perhaps not old, rather resigned in that way a lot of elderly people gave the impression of being. As if some strategic muscles in the spine and the back of the head had finally had enough and contracted for the last time. Or snapped. He assumed Van Veeteren must be sixty by now, but he wasn’t sure. There were a lot of mysterious circumstances surrounding The Chief Inspector, and one of them was the question of his real age.
‘Good evening,’ said Reinhart, sitting down. ‘You look tired.’
‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘No, I don’t sleep at night any more.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Reinhart. ‘When the Good Lord robs us of our sleep, he doesn’t exactly do us any favours.’
Van Veeteren opened the lid of his cigarette-rolling machine.
‘He stopped doing us favours hundreds of years ago. The devil only knows if he ever did us any.’
‘Could well be,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ve just been reading about God’s silence after Bach. Two Dunckel, please.’
The latter request was addressed to a waiter who had just emerged from the shadows. Van Veeteren lit a cigarette. Reinhart started filling his pipe.
Hard going, he thought. It’s going to be hard going this evening.
He took the tape out of his jacket pocket.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a Gospel for you either,’ he said. ‘But if you want an indication of where we are, you can always listen to this. It’s a recording of today’s discussions. Not exactly a climactic experience, of course, but you know what it’s usually like. The voice you won’t recognize is a detective-sergeant called Bollmert.’
‘Better than nothing,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Ah well, I’m not finding it easy to keep my nose out of things.’
‘Perfectly understandable,’ said Reinhart. ‘As I’ve said before.’
He took out the photograph of Vera Miller.
‘Do you recognize this woman?’
Van Veeteren looked at the picture for a couple of seconds.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do, in fact.’
‘What?’ said Reinhart. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
‘If I’m not much mistaken,’ said Van Veeteren, handing the photograph back to Reinhart. ‘A nurse at the Gemejnte. Looked after me when I had my colon operation a few years ago. A very pleasant woman — how have you come across her?’
‘That’s Vera Miller. The woman who was found murdered out at Korrim last Sunday morning.’
‘The woman who’s linked with Erich somehow or other?’
Reinhart nodded.
‘It’s only a hypothesis. Extremely shaky so far — but perhaps you can confirm it?’
The waiter came with the beers. They each took a swig. Van Veeteren looked at the photograph again, then slowly shook his head and looked sombre.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s sheer coincidence that I happen to remember her. Have I understood it rightly, and that it’s Meusse who has indicated this link?’
‘Meusse, yes. He thinks the blow to the back of the head suggests a connection. It indicates a degree of expertise, he says. In both cases… Well, you know Meusse.’
Van Veeteren was lost in silence. Reinhart lit his pipe and allowed him to ponder to his heart’s content. Suddenly felt extreme anger bubbling up inside himself. A fury directed at whoever had killed The Chief Inspector ’s son. Who had killed Vera Miller.
Was it the same person, or two different ones? Who cares? A fury directed at this murderer or these murderers, but also at all killers, whoever they might be… And so the coldest and darkest of all his memories began to stir. The murder of Seika. Of his own girlfriend. Seika, whom he should have married and built up a family with. Seika, whom he had loved like no other. Seika with the high cheekbones, the half-Asian eyes and the most beautiful laugh the world has ever heard. It was almost thirty years ago now: she had been lying in that accursed grave out at Linden for three decades. Nineteen-year-old Seika who ought to have been his wife.