‘True,’ said Rooth. ‘There are only eight people working in the wooden leg workshop, but they all say that Keller’s a bloody pig-headed mule.’
‘Do they really say that?’ asked Jung.
‘They don’t express themselves quite as colourfully as I do,’ said Rooth, ‘but that’s the gist of it.’
Reinhart circulated a copy of the note Moreno had found in Keller’s waste-paper basket.
‘What do you say to this?’ he asked. ‘We found it in Keller’s place.’
Nobody spoke for a few moments.
‘Well, what do you reckon bo stands for?’
‘The boy,’ said deBries. ‘There’s no other possibility.’
‘Of course there is,’ Rooth protested. ‘Loads of them… Bosun, boxer, bowmaker…’
‘Bowmaker?’ said Jung, ‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Makes bows,’ said Rooth. ‘You use them for shooting arrows.’
‘Very clever, Mr Sleuth,’ said Reinhart. ‘But I don’t think I can recall a bowmaker being found murdered. Nor a bosun nor a boxer, come to that — not lately, at least. Nor a bodybuilder nor a bobble-hat vendor… Okay, there are several other possibilities. We can agree on that, but for the moment let’s stick with the boy. There’s no doubt that’s the most likely. We can assume that Clausen killed a boy some time around the beginning of November, and that’s what set the whole thing off. We don’t know exactly when Keller wrote this note, but if we think in terms of an incident around the end of October-stroke-beginning of November — a week or so either way — let’s see what we can come up with.’
‘So it couldn’t refer to Erich Van Veeteren?’ wondered deBries.
Reinhart thought for a moment.
‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘He was almost thirty. And the time doesn’t fit in… “Several weeks since you murdered the bo”… No, that’s out of the question.’
‘All right,’ said deBries.
‘A murdered boy?’ said Jung. ‘Surely we must know if a lad was killed around that time? It can hardly have escaped the attention of the police. Not if it was in this district, that is…’
‘It doesn’t need to have been in Maardam,’ said Moreno. ‘And there doesn’t have to have been somebody suspected of a crime. It could have been something else. Something at the hospital he tried to brush under the carpet. Clausen, that is. And nearly got away with it.’
‘Not the hospital again…’ said Rooth. ‘The very thought makes me feel ill.’
Nobody said anything for a while.
‘He isn’t a surgeon, is he, this Clausen?’ said deBries. ‘So he doesn’t do operations?’
Reinhart checked the information he had on a sheet of paper.
‘Internal medicine,’ he said. ‘But you can kill somebody in that line of business as well. If you’re a bit careless, for instance. We must find out about deaths that took place on his ward during this period. Rooth and Jung can go back to the Rumford — it should be enough to speak to the doctor in charge. Or take a look at the journals, perhaps?’
‘A boy who died unexpectedly?’ said Jung.
‘A young male patient who died during the night,’ said Rooth. ‘Despite enormous efforts to save him. They have a fantastic esprit de corps, don’t forget that… And I think it would be best if you do the talking with Leissne. I seem to have got into his bad books.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Jung. ‘That’s astonishing.’
‘And what are you and I going to do?’ asked Moreno when their colleagues had trooped off.
Reinhart placed his hands on his desk and straightened his back.
‘I have a date with a certain Oscar Smaage,’ he said. ‘Convener of Verhouten’s Angels. You stay here and see if we have any unsolved deaths. Missing persons as well… It’s not certain that it has anything to do with the hospital, even if there’s plenty to suggest it might have.’
‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘I hope Smaage has something to contribute, though I can’t see what. I think everything depends on one thing, in fact.’
‘Thursday?’ said Reinhart.
‘Yes. What the hell happened last Thursday evening? It seems obvious that’s when he was supposed to hand over the money. Or what do you think?’
‘Definitely,’ said Reinhart. ‘It would be remarkable if nobody turns up who’s seen or heard about them — or one of them at least — after the handover. We just need to bide our time. Have some patience — didn’t somebody recommend that some time ago?’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Moreno.
It took her no more than an hour to find what she was looking for. In any case, she felt instinctively that it was right, when the name came up on her computer screen. Her heart missed a beat, and the hairs on her forearms stood on end — those were usually sure signs.
Tell-tale signs of female intuition. Hers at least.
Wim Felders, she read. Born 17.10.1982. Died 5.11.1998. Or possibly 6.11. Found by a passing cyclist on road 211 between Maardam and the suburb of Boorkhejm at six o’clock in the morning. The investigation carried out by the traffic police (headed by Chief Inspector Lintonen) showed that he had probably been struck by a vehicle and died after hitting his head against a concrete culvert at the side of the road. A Wanted notice had been publicized in all the media, but no perpetrator had come forward. No witnesses of the accident. No suspects. No tip-offs. The guilty driver had disappeared and refused to make himself known.
She remembered the incident. Recalled reading about it, and seeing reports in news bulletins on the television. The sixteen-year-old-boy had been on his way home to Boorkhejm. He had been visiting his girlfriend somewhere in the town centre, and was assumed to have missed the last bus.
He had evidently been walking along the side of the road in bad weather, both fog and rain, and been hit by a driver who had fled the scene.
It could have been anybody at all.
It could have been Clausen.
Keller could have passed by shortly afterwards and seen it all. Or been sitting next to Clausen in the passenger seat, if they knew each other… Although so far there was nothing to suggest that they did.
A road accident?
That was certainly a possibility. When she began thinking about how probable it seemed, she noticed that she found it difficult to feel certain. Perhaps it was no more than a coincidence, a fleeting fantasy: but in any case, the thread needed to be followed up until it broke.
Intuitively, she knew that this was exactly what had happened. She had found the first link. No doubt about it.
She saw that it was now half past five, and wondered what to do next. Decided to go home and phone Reinhart later that evening. If it could be established that Clausen had been driving home from the town centre on that day, at that time — on evidence supplied by Wim Felders’ girlfriend they knew that the accident had happened shortly before midnight — well, there could be no more doubts.
How it would be possible to establish or be certain that Clausen had been driving the car was another thing altogether: but as they had already linked him with two other murders, perhaps that didn’t matter.
On the other hand, if he had indeed been in central Maardam that evening, surely he must have met somebody? Somebody who could provide evidence.
Let’s hope it wasn’t Vera Miller, she thought. It would be better if it were those angels, whatever they were called. Verhouten’s…?
But more important than all that was finding Clausen. Naturally.
And Keller.
Having got that far, Ewa Moreno switched off the computer and went home. However she looked at it, she reckoned she had done a good day’s work.
33
She had just completed the phone call to Reinhart when there was a ring on her door.
Half past eight, she thought. What on earth…?