Reinhart said nothing.
‘As you know I never interfere in your operational work, but if you want to discuss the way things are going with me, just say the word. And resources, as I said. No limits. Point of honour. Is that clear?’
Reinhart got up from the spongy visitor chair.
‘Crystal clear,’ he said. ‘But you don’t solve equations by using tanks.’
‘Eh?’ said the chief of police. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
‘I’ll explain some other time,’ said Reinhart, opening the door. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, if you’ll excuse me.’
Jung and Moreno were sitting in his office, waiting for him.
‘Greetings from the Fourth Floor,’ said Reinhart. ‘The master gardener has a new suit again.’
‘Has he been on the telly?’ Jung wondered.
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Moreno. ‘But perhaps he’s going to?’
Reinhart flopped down on his chair and lit his pipe.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s the situation?’
‘I still haven’t got hold of her,’ said Jung. ‘She’s with her boyfriend somewhere. She won’t be back at work until tomorrow afternoon. I’m sorry.’
‘Damn and blast,’ said Reinhart.
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Moreno.
‘Edita Fischer, of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘That nurse who implied to the other nurse that Vera Miller had implied something… Huh, what a wishy-washy set-up, for Christ’s sake! Any luck with the list of doctors?’
‘Tip-top,’ said Moreno, handing him the file she’d had on her knee. ‘You have there the names and photographs of all the hundred-and-twenty-six doctors who work at the Gemejnte. Plus a handful who left during the last year — they are all marked. Date of birth, date of appointment, medical qualifications, specialist training and everything else you could possibly want to know. Even civil status and family members. They are well organized at Gemejnte Hospital.’
‘Not bad,’ said Reinhart, leafing through the files. ‘Not bad at all. Are they split up according to clinic and ward as well?’
‘Of course,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ve already put a cross by those who worked on Ward Forty-six, Vera Miller’s ward. There are six doctors permanently linked, and another seven or eight who work there from time to time. There’s quite a lot of movement from ward to ward, not least among the specialists — anaesthetists for instance.’
Reinhart nodded as he continued thumbing through the documents, studying the series of smiling faces of men and women in white coats. It was evidently part of the routine to be photographed in this way. The background was the same in most of the pictures, and everybody — the vast majority in any case — were sitting with their heads at the same angle and their mouths fixed in a broad smile. Apparently the same photographer: he wondered what awful joke he must have told them to make them all roar with laughter the way they seemed to be doing.
‘Not bad,’ he said for the third time. ‘So here we have the murderer complete with photograph and personal details down to shoe size. It’s just a pity we don’t know which of them it is. Which one of the hundred-and-twenty-six…’
‘If we’re still sticking to Rooth’s hypothesis,’ said Moreno, ‘we can eliminate forty of them.’
‘Really?’ said Reinhart. ‘Why?’
‘Because they are women. But I don’t know how we should proceed with this — it seems a bit much to interrogate the whole lot of them, rather than thinning them down a little. Even if they look friendly enough in the photos, they might well be rather more difficult to deal with in reality. Especially when they catch on to what we suspect them of… Not to mention esprit de corps and goodness knows what else.’
Reinhart nodded.
‘Let’s start with those most closely connected,’ he said. ‘Only them for the time being. What was it you said? Six attached to the clinic and a few more who keep dropping in. We ought to be able to deal with them before Jung’s witness turns up again. Who should we send to deal with this?’
‘Not Rooth,’ said Jung.
‘Okay, not Rooth,’ said Reinhart. ‘But I can see two reliable police officers before my very eyes just now. Get on with it — good hunting.’
He closed the file and handed it back. As Jung left the room first, he was able to put a question to Inspector Moreno.
‘Have you been sleeping well lately?’
‘Better and better,’ said Moreno, and she actually smiled. ‘What about you?’
‘I get my deserts,’ said Reinhart, cryptically.
26
Tuesday’s post comprised a few bills and a couple of letters.
One was from the Spaarkasse, informing him that his loan had been granted. The sum of 220,000 had already been credited to his account.
The other letter was from his opponent.
A different kind of envelope this time. Simpler, cheaper. The letter paper itself was a folded page, apparently torn out of a spiral pad. Before he began reading he wondered if this in itself was a sign of something, if it had some sort of significance, this reduction in quality.
He failed to find a satisfactory answer; and the instructions were just as simple and clear as before.
Your last chance. My patience is soon at an end. The same procedure as last time.
Place: the rubbish bin behind the grill bar at the junction of Armastenstraat and Bremers Steeg.
Time: the early hours of Friday, 03.00.
Stand by your telephone in your home at 04.00. Don’t try transferring calls to your mobile — I have taken measures to protect myself from that. If I don’t have my money by Friday morning, you are a goner.
A friend
This business concerning his mobile phone had already occurred to him. He’d rung and investigated the possibility of doing that, but it gradually became clear to him that the caller could always establish whether the call had been diverted from one number to another. Otherwise, of course, he would have been very tempted to hide himself some twenty metres into Bremers Steeg, which he knew was a dark, narrow alley… To stand there and wait for his opponent, with the pipe hidden inside his overcoat. Very tempted.
Another thing that struck him when he read the instructions again was the sheer damned self-confidence of the blackmailer. How could he be certain, for instance, that his victim wouldn’t use an assistant, just as he had done out at Dikken? How could he be so sure of that? It was even possible that he could arrange for the assistance of a good friend without needing to reveal what it was all about. He could get somebody else to answer the telephone, for instance. Or did his opponent know his voice so well that he would recognize such a move immediately? Was he so well acquainted with him?
Or had he refined his tactics this time? Polished them in some way? It looked like it. Perhaps the telephone call would involve further instructions to guarantee that the money could be collected behind the grill bar in peace and quiet.
But how, in that case? What instructions might they be, for Christ’s sake? Would he be armed?
That last point cropped up without his having thought about it, but it soon became clear that it was the most significant of them all. Would his opponent have a weapon, and — in the worst-case scenario — would he be prepared to use it in order to collect his money?
A pistol in his jacket pocket in a dark corner in Bremers Steeg?
He put the letter back into its envelope and checked the clock.
Eleven thirty-five. Less than sixteen hours left.
Time was short. Very short, and this was the last round now. No further delays were conceivable.
Time to run away? he thought.
27
Moreno and Jung spoke to a dozen doctors on the Thursday morning. Including three women — if for no other reason than to avoid raising suspicions.