They could take it as read that Verhaven had been killed in his own house. Or could they? Nothing was absolutely certain yet, one way or the other, and perhaps he could have left the house without being seen by Mrs. Wilkerson’s hawklike eyes? Or anybody else’s?
Of course he could. During the night, for instance. Or through the forest. It was only that road down to the village that had eyes. And the village itself.
So, yes, he probably could have gone to Behren. Or somewhere else. And met his killer there. No doubt about it.
He turned onto the freeway. Next question?
How? How, if that was what happened, could Verhaven have found his way to Behren? (Or somewhere else, as stated.)
He didn’t have a car of his own anymore. So bus or taxi, that seemed to be the only…And if that was the case, it ought not to be all that difficult to look into it.
Eventually, that is. So far they had managed to keep the mass media at arm’s length; that was a blessing, to be sure, when it came to their working conditions and the atmosphere in which the investigation was conducted, but sooner or later, they would need help from the media. And obviously, it was only a matter of time before the echo of jungle drums in Kaustin was picked up a little farther away. Before long the news would be broadcast all over the country, and they would have to take the rough with the smooth. As usual.
Journalists are like cow shit, Reinhart used to say. I’m not especially keen on the stuff as such, but I understand that it has its uses.
So if there was a cab driver, Rooth thought, or a bus conductor who could recall a particular passenger setting out from Kaustin one evening in August…Or early morning, perhaps…To—why not Behren? Well, yes indeed, that would narrow things down quite a lot.
Concentrate minds a bit.
He increased speed and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
As things were at the moment, you could ask as many questions as you liked. And every damned question gave rise to another three. Or even more.
Like that Greek monster, whatever its name is.
No, better to worry about something else instead, he decided, and ran his hand through his beard.
No, not through. Over, rather.
What had deBries said? A dying hamster?
Whatever, another 130 miles to Ulmentahl. He would have to put some life into this case before very long, that was beyond discussion.
Mr. Bortschmaa’s office was light and airy and pleasantly cozy with framed sports certificates and crossed tennis racquets. The prison governor himself was a powerfully built man in his fifties, Rooth estimated, dressed in a light blue sports shirt, with tanned forearms and youthful, flaxen hair.
The group of furniture where visitors were entertained by the picture window—looking out onto the barbed-wire top of the prison wall and the peaceful flat countryside beyond—comprised thin steel chairs with eye-catching blue and yellow upholstery and a table made of red plastic. On one of the chairs sat an overweight man with receding hair and sweat stains under his arms. He did not look happy.
Rooth and the governor sat down.
“Meet Joppens, our welfare officer,” said the latter.
“Rooth,” said Rooth, shaking hands.
“The inspector would like to ask you some questions about Leopold Verhaven,” Bortschmaa explained in one direction. “I thought it a good idea for Joppens to be present,” he explained in the other. “Please fire away, Inspector.”
“Thank you,” said Rooth. “Maybe you could describe him briefly.”
“Yes,” said the welfare officer. “If there is anybody who can be described briefly, he’s the one. You can have a comprehensive description in half a minute. Or on half a page handwritten.”
“Really?” said Rooth. “What are you implying?”
“I had to do with him for eleven years, and I know as much about him now as I did when I first met him.”
“A hermit,” said Bortschmaa.
“He had no contact at all with anybody,” Joppens continued. “No fellow prisoner, nobody outside prison, none of the warders. Not with me and not with the chaplain either.”
“Sounds remarkable,” said Rooth.
“He might as well have spent all his sentence in solitary confinement,” said Bortschmaa. “It wouldn’t have made much difference. An introspective type. Extremely introverted. But a model prisoner, of course.”
“He never misbehaved?” asked Rooth.
“Never,” said Joppens. “Never smiled either.”
“Did he take part in any activities?”
The welfare officer shook his head.
“Went swimming once a week. Went to the library twice a week. Read newspapers and borrowed a book occasionally. I don’t know if you would call that activities.”
“But you must have spoken with him, surely?”
“No,” said the welfare officer.
“Did he answer if you addressed him?”
“Oh yes. Good morning and good night and thank you.”
Rooth thought that over. What the devil was the point of sitting in a car all day just for this, he wondered. Might as well carry on a bit longer, though. Seeing as he was here, after all.
“No confidants in the whole prison?”
“No,” said Joppins.
“None at all,” confirmed Bortschmaa.
“Any letters?” said Rooth.
The welfare officer thought that one over.
“He received two. Relatives, I think. And he sent a postcard a few weeks before he was released.”
“And he was inside for twelve years?”
“Yes. The card was to his sister.”
“Any visits at all?”
“Two,” said Joppens. “His brother came once, right at the start. Verhaven refused to meet him. Wouldn’t even go to the interview room…I hadn’t taken up my appointment then, but my predecessor told me about it. The brother sat waiting for him for a whole day….”
“And the other?” said Rooth.
“Excuse me?”
“The other visit. You said he had two.”
“A woman,” said Joppins. “Last year, I think…No, it must have been the year before.”
“Who was the woman?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“But he received her?”
“Yes.”
Rooth contemplated the diplomas and tennis racquets for a while.
“That all sounds a bit odd to me,” he said. “Have you many prisoners like that?”
“None,” said the governor. “I’ve never come across anything like it before.”
“Formidable self-control,” said the welfare officer. “I’ve talked to my colleagues about him and everybody agrees. About what he was like on the surface, that is. What was underneath is a mystery, of course.”
Rooth nodded.
“Why are you so interested in him?” the governor wondered. “Or is that classified information?”
“No,” said Rooth. “It will come out sooner or later. We’ve found him murdered.”
The silence that fell in the room felt almost like a power cut, it seemed to Rooth.
“That really is…,” said the welfare officer.
“But what the…,” said the prison governor.
“You don’t need to tell all and sundry about this,” said Rooth. “We’d be grateful to have a few days of peace and quiet before the newspapers get on our backs.”
“Of course,” said Bortschmaa. “How did he die?”
“We don’t know,” said Rooth. “We don’t have his head, his hands or his feet as yet. Somebody butchered him.”
“Oh my God,” said Bortschmaa, and Rooth had the impression that his tan faded noticeably. “Don’t say this is what the papers have been writing about?”
“Yes, it is,” said Rooth.
“When do you think he died, then,” wondered Joppens.
“Quite a long time ago,” said Rooth. “He was dead for eight months before he was found.”
“Eight months?” Joppens exclaimed, frowning. “That must have been shortly after we released him?”