Why can’t you at least admit that you can’t remember if you killed her or not?”
“I wouldn’t forget something like that.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wouldn’t forget having drowned my wife. I don’t remember having killed her. . ergo, I didn’t kill her.”
Ruger blew his nose. It might have been an attempt to divert attention from Mitter’s last words. If so, it failed because Ferrati repeated them, albeit somewhat distortedly.
Standing in front of the jury, only an arm’s length away, he intoned: “I don’t remember, therefore I’m not guilty! Might I request, members of the jury, that you consider these words carefully, and weigh their significance. What do you conclude?
I can see that you know the answer already-they weigh less than air! And that is characteristic of the whole case for the defense! Air, nothing but hot air!”
He turned to look at Mitter again.
“Mr. Mitter, for the last time. . why don’t you confess to killing your wife, Eva Ringmar, by drowning her in the bathtub? Why persist in being so stubborn?”
“May I point out that I’ve admitted it already, before the adjournment,” said Mitter. “Who’s being stubborn?”
The reply aroused considerable enthusiasm in the public gallery, and Havel was forced to resort to his gavel. Ferrati took the opportunity of consulting his assistant before confronting Mitter once again.
“Tell us what you did while waiting for the police!”
“I. . tidied up a bit.”
“What did you do with the clothes that you and your wife had been wearing the previous evening?”
“I washed them.”
“Where?”
“In the washing machine.”
Ferrati took off his glasses and put them into his inside pocket.
“While your wife was lying dead in the bath and you were waiting for the police to arrive, you took advantage of the opportunity to wash clothes?”
“Yes.”
New pause.
“Why, Mr. Mitter? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Ferrati shrugged. Walked back and stood behind his chair.
Stretched both arms out wide.
“Your Honor, I have no more questions to ask the defendant.”
Havel looked at the clock.
“We have half an hour until lunch. How long does my learned friend require?”
Ruger stood up and took the floor.
“It’s enough. My client is under intense psychological strain, and I shall be very brief. Mr. Mitter, what about the door to your apartment? Was it locked or unlocked that night?”
“Unlocked. We never lock- er, we never used to lock the door when we were at home.”
“Not even at night?”
“No, never.”
“What about the entrance door to the apartment block, the street door?”
“It’s suppose to be locked, but I can’t remember it being locked for as long as I’ve lived there.”
Ruger turned to Havel and held up a sheet of paper.
“I have a signed statement from the landlord confirming that the outside door was not locked on the night in question.
Mr. Mitter, isn’t it true to say that anybody at all could have entered your apartment and murdered your wife during the night of October second?”
“Yes, I assume so.”
“If we take it that you fell asleep at, let’s say, ten o’clock or thereabouts, is it not possible that your wife might have left the apartment. .”
“Pure speculation!” protested Ferrati, but Havel merely gave him a look.
“. . left the apartment without your knowledge?” Ruger asked.
“I don’t think she did,” said Mitter.
“No, but it’s not impossible, is it?”
“No.”
“What other men friends did your wife have?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she must surely have had other men as well as you-
I mean, you’d only been together for six months. She separated from her former husband, Andreas Berger, six years ago.
Do you know anything about relationships she had in the meantime?”
“She didn’t have any,” said Mitter abruptly.
Ruger looked surprised.
“How do you know that?”
“Because she said so.”
“Do I understand this rightly? Are you saying that your wife had no relationship at all with another man for six years?”
“Yes.”
“She was a beautiful woman, Mr. Mitter. How is that possible? Six years!”
“She didn’t have any other men. Have you got that into your head? I thought you were supposed to be my attorney.
My Lord, do I have the right to terminate this line of questioning?”
The judge looked somewhat confused, but before he had time to reach a decision, Ruger was speaking again.
“I apologize, Mr. Mitter. I merely want the matter to be clear to the jury as well. Allow me to take another approach.
Everyone agreed that your wife, Eva Ringmar, was a beautiful and attractive woman. Even if she didn’t want to enter into a m i n d ’ s e y e
relationship, surely there must have been other men who, er, expressed an interest?”
Mitter said nothing.
“Before you came into the picture, at least. What about the situation at your school, for example?”
But Mitter had no desire to answer, that was obvious. He leaned back and folded his arms.
“You’ll have to ask somebody else about that, my learned friend. I have nothing to add.”
Ruger hesitated a moment before putting his next question.
“Your quarrel at the Mephisto restaurant, referred to by the prosecuting attorney-it didn’t have to do with another man, by any chance?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Of course.”
Ferrati suddenly intervened.
“Are you jealous, Mr. Mitter?”
“Stop!” bellowed Havel. “Erase that question! You have no right to intervene at this stage, that was. .”
“I can answer it even so,” insisted Mitter, and Havel fell silent. “No, I’m no more inclined to jealousy than anybody else. Nor was Eva. And besides, neither of us had any need. I don’t understand what my attorney is getting at.”
Havel sighed and looked at the clock.
“If you have anything else to ask, please keep it short,” he said, turning to Ruger.
Ruger nodded.
“Of course. Just one more question, Mr. Mitter: Are you quite certain that your wife wasn’t lying to you?”
Mitter appeared to be pausing for effect before answering.
“One hundred percent certain,” he said.
Ruger shrugged.
“Thank you. No more questions.”
He’s lying, Van Veeteren thought. The man is sitting there and lying his way into jail.
Or. . or is he extending the premise of telling the truth in absurdum?
God only knows. But why? If he doesn’t miss her, why defend her as if she were an abbess?
And as he elbowed his way out through the crowd of
reporters, he decided to leave the pyromaniac lying in peace for another half day.
14
Why the mother?
He didn’t know the answer to that himself. Perhaps it was a question of geography. Mrs. Ringmar lived in Leuwen, one of the old fishing ports on the coast. It meant an hour in the car through the polders, and perhaps that was what he needed right now. A lot of sky, not much earth.
He arrived at the precise moment the clock in the little town hall struck three. He parked in the square and asked his way to Mrs. Ringmar’s house.
The air was full of sea.
Sea and wind and salt. If he wanted, he could allow it to remind him of his childhood summers, but there was no reason why he should.
The house was small and white. Wedged in a confusion of shacks, sheds, fences, and net racks. He wondered if there could be any room for integrity in a place like this. People lived in each other’s kitchens, and every bedroom must be surrounded by listening ears.
The higher the sky, the lower the people, he thought as he rang the doorbell. Why did there have to be people in every kind of landscape?