Mitter shrugged. Shook another cigarette out of the pack.
“I think it would be best if you asked questions.”
The lawyer leaned back. Rocked back on his chair and adjusted the notepad on his knee.
“Most lawyers use a tape recorder, but I prefer to make notes,” he explained. “I think it’s less stressful for the client. . ”
Mitter nodded.
“Besides, I have access to the police tapes, if I should need them. Anyway, before we start going into details, I have to ask you the obligatory question. You will probably be charged with the murder, or at the very least manslaughter, of your wife, Eva Maria Ringmar. How do you intend to plead? Guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
“Good. There should be no doubt on that point. Neither on your side, nor mine.”
He paused and rolled the pen between his fingers.
“Is there any doubt?”
Mitter sighed.
“I have to ask you to answer my question. Are you absolutely certain that you didn’t kill your wife?”
Mitter paused for a few seconds before answering. Tried to catch the lawyer’s eye in an attempt to deduce what he really thought, but in vain. Ruger’s face was as inscrutable as a potato.
“No, of course I’m not certain. You know that full well.”
The lawyer made a note.
“Mr. Mitter, I must ask you to disregard the fact that I have read the transcript of your interrogation. You must try to pretend that you are now telling your story for the first time. Put yourself in that situation.”
“I don’t remember.”
“No, I have grasped the fact that you don’t remember what happened: that is precisely why we have to be meticulous about starting again from scratch. Your memory will not wake up if you don’t try to go back to that night. Totally without prejudice. Don’t you agree?”
“What do you think I spend my time doing? What do you imagine I think about in this cell?”
He was starting to get angry. The lawyer avoided looking him in the eye and made a note on his pad.
“What are you writing?”
“Sorry.” He shook his head to indicate that was not something he was prepared to reveal. Took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. “Bloody awful weather,” he explained.
Mitter nodded.
“I just want you to understand,” said Ruger, “what a pre-carious situation you find yourself in. You maintain that you are not guilty, but you don’t remember. That is rather an inse-cure foundation on which to build a case for your defense, as I’m sure you realize.”
“It’s the prosecutor’s job to prove that I’m guilty. It’s not up to me to prove the opposite, isn’t that right?”
“Of course. That’s the law, but. .”
“But?”
“If you don’t remember, you don’t remember. But it could be rather difficult to convince a jury. Will you undertake to inform me the moment anything comes back to you?”
“Of course.”
“No matter what it is?”
“Naturally.”
“Let’s go on. How long had you known Eva Ringmar?”
“Two years. Slightly more than two years. Ever since she started working at our school.”
“Where you teach what?”
“History and philosophy. Mainly history. Most pupils don’t choose to study philosophy.”
“How long have you been in post there?”
“Twenty years, roughly. Maybe nineteen.”
“And your wife?”
“Modern languages. For two years, as I said.”
“When did you start your relationship?”
“Six months ago. We got married last summer, at the beginning of July.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“No. Why. .”
“Do you have any children, Mr. Mitter?”
“Yes. A son and a daughter.”
“How old?”
“Twenty and sixteen. They live with their mother in Chadow.”
“When were you divorced from your former wife?”
“In 1980. Jurg lived with me until he started at university. I don’t see what this has to do with-”
“Background. I need some kind of background. Even a lawyer has to solve puzzles, as I’m sure you’ll agree. What kind of a relationship do you have with your ex-wife?”
“None at all.”
There was a pause. Ruger blew his nose again. He was obviously dissatisfied about something, but Mitter had no desire to pander to him. Irene had nothing to do with this. Nor did Jurg and Inga. He was grateful for the fact that all three had the good sense not to become involved. They’d been in touch, of course, but only that first day. Since then they’d been quiet. He’d received a letter from Inga that very morning, but only a couple of lines. To express support for him.
We are with you. Inga and Jurg.
He wondered if the same applied to Irene as well. Was she with him? Perhaps it didn’t matter.
“What sort of a relationship did you have?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your marriage with Eva Ringmar. What was it like?”
“Like marriages are.”
“What does that mean?”
“. .”
“Was it a happy marriage, or did you fight?”
“. .”
“After all, you’d been married for only three months.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And then you found your wife dead in the bath. Surely you understand that we have to find an explanation?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you also understand that it’s no good your not saying anything about this matter? Your silence would be taken as indicating that you were concealing something. It would be used against you.”
“I expect it would.”
“Did you love your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fight?”
“Occasionally.”
Ruger made a note.
“The prosecutor will claim that she was killed. He will be supported by evidence from medical and technical specialists.
We shan’t be able to prove that she died a natural death. The question is whether she could have taken her own life.”
“Yes, I assume so.”
“You assume what?”
“That it depends on that. If she could have taken her own life.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, that evening-how much did you
drink?”
“Quite a lot.”
“Meaning what?”
“I can’t say for sure. .”
“How much do you need to drink before losing your memory, Mr. Mitter?”
He was obviously irritated now. Mitter pushed his chair back. Stood up and walked over to the door. Put his hands in his pockets and contemplated the lawyer’s hunched back.
Waited. But Ruger said nothing.
“I don’t know,” Mitter said eventually. “I’ve tried to work it out. Empty bottles and so on, you know. Presumably six or seven bottles.”
“Red wine?”
“Yes, red wine. Nothing else.”
“Six or seven bottles between two people? Were you alone all evening?”
“Yes, as far as I recall.”
“Do you have an alcohol problem, Mr. Mitter?”
“No.”
“Would you be surprised if other people took a different view?”
“Yes.”
“What about your wife?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it not true to say that she was admitted”-he pored over his papers and leafed through them-“admitted to an institution for what is commonly known as drying out? In Rejmershus? I have the details here.”
“Why are you asking, then? It’s six years ago. She lost a child, and her marriage broke down.”
“I know, I know. Forgive me, Mr. Mitter, but I have to ask these questions, no matter how unpleasant they may seem. It will be much worse at your trial, I can assure you of that. You might as well get used to it.”
“Thank you, I’m already used to it.”
“Can we go on?”
“Of course.”
“What is your last clear memory from that night? That you can be absolutely certain about?”
“That casserole. . We had a Mexican casserole. I’ve told the police about it.”
“Say it again!”
“We had this Mexican casserole. In the kitchen.”
“Yes?”
“We started to make love.”
“Did you tell the police that?”