“They haven’t found anything startling. Nothing to suggest that he died there. No bloodstains, no weapon, no sign of violence. But over eight months have passed since then, of course.”
“Time doesn’t heal all wounds,” said Van Veeteren, rubbing his hand gingerly over his stomach.
“No,” said Munster. “That’s possible. We shall see. It’s possible that he was murdered there the same day. Or night. The butchery might have been done there or somewhere else. It could have been anywhere.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren again. Munster leaned back
against the wall and waited.
“Pull me up!” said Van Veeteren after a while, and Munster repeated the procedure with the pillows. Van Veeteren pulled a face as he worked himself into a slightly better position.
“It hurts,” he said, nodding toward his stomach.
“What did you expect?” Munster asked.
Van Veeteren muttered something and took another drink of water.
“Heidelbluum,” he said eventually.
“Eh?” said Munster.
“He was the judge,” said Van Veeteren. “In both trials. He must be eighty now, but you’ll have to go and see him.”
Munster made a note.
“I have the impression that he’s good,” Van Veeteren
added. “A pity Mort’s dead.”
Detective Chief Inspector Mort was Van Veeteren’s predecessor, and Munster gathered that he must have been involved in the second of the cases at least. Probably in both. What was clear was that Van Veeteren did not play a major role in either; Rooth had already checked that.
“Then there’s the motive, of course.”
“Motive?”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“I’m tired,” he said. “Give me your views on the motive, please.”
Munster thought for a few moments. Leaned his head back against the wall and contemplated the meaningless pattern of squares formed on the ceiling by the lamps.
“Well, I think there are several possibilities,” he said.
“Such as?” Van Veeteren asked.
“I suppose an inside job is the first obvious one. Something to do with prison, that is. Some sort of settling of accounts.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Right,” he said. “You’d better look into what he got up to while he was locked up. Where was he, by the way?”
“Ulmentahl,” said Munster. “Rooth’s on his way there
now.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “Next? Another motive, that is!”
Munster cleared his throat. Pondered again.
“Well, if it isn’t anything to do with what happened in prison, it could have something to do with what happened in the past.”
“It could indeed, certainly,” said Van Veeteren, and it seemed to Munster that the pale gray color vanished briefly from his face.
“How?” said Van Veeteren. “For hell’s sake, Inspector, don’t try and tell me you haven’t given a thought to this! It’s over a day since you received the damned tip-off.”
“Only half a day since we were sure,” said Munster
apologetically.
Van Veeteren snorted.
“Motive!” he said again. “Come on!”
“Somebody who didn’t think the prison sentence was long enough,” said Munster.
“Possibly,” said Van Veeteren.
“Somebody who hated him. One of those women’s friends who had been waiting for revenge, perhaps. It’s a bit hard to get inside a prison and kill a man, after all.”
“Very hard,” said Van Veeteren. “Unless you get another prisoner to take on a contract, that is. There could well be the odd one who wouldn’t be too hard to persuade. Have you any other suggestions?”
Munster paused for a moment.
“It’s not exactly a suggestion,” he said.
“Out with it even so,” said Van Veeteren.
“There’s no evidence for it.”
“I want to hear it nevertheless.”
His facial color had intensified again. Munster cleared his throat.
“All right,” he said. “There’s a slight possibility that he was innocent.”
“Who?”
“Verhaven, of course.”
“Really?”
“Of one of the murders at least, and it could have something to do with that. . somehow or other.”
Van Veeteren said nothing.
“But it’s pure speculation, naturally. . ”
The door opened a few inches and a tired nurse stuck her head round it.
“Could I remind you that visiting time is over. Dr. Ratenau will be doing his rounds in a couple of minutes.”
Van Veeteren gave her a dirty look, and she withdrew her head and closed the door.
“Speculation, ah yes. Don’t you think I can allow myself a bit of speculation while I am residing here in the dwelling of the condemned?”
“Of course,” said Munster, getting to his feet. “Goes without saying.”
“And if,” Van Veeteren continued, “if it turns out that this poor bastard has spent twenty-four years in prison for something he hasn’t done, then. .”
“Then?”
“Then damn me if this isn’t the biggest legal scandal to hit this country in a hundred years. No, the biggest ever!”
“There is no evidence to support it,” said Munster, as he headed for the door.
“Calpurnia,” said Van Veeteren.
“Excuse me?” said Munster.
“Caesar’s wife,” explained Van Veeteren. “Suspicion is enough. And there is suspicion in here,” he added, tapping his forehead with his index finger.
“I’m with you,” said Munster. “Good-bye for now, then. I’ll call in tomorrow afternoon, as I said.”
“I’ll phone this evening or tomorrow morning and tell you what I need,” said Van Veeteren to round things off. “Tell Hiller that I’m in charge of this from here on in.”
“Will do,” said Munster as he slunk through the door.
Ah well, he thought as he waited for the lift. He doesn’t seem to have changed fundamentally.
15
PC Jung looked at his watch and sighed. He had arranged to meet Madeleine Hoegstraa at her home at four o’clock, and rather than arrive too early he had decided to spend three quarters of an hour in a bar in her neighborhood in the outskirts of Groenstadt. The drive there had gone much faster than he’d expected, and needless to say he was well aware that the key was his deep-seated fear of arriving too late for anything at all.
He sat down at one of the window tables with a large cup of Bernadine. The curtains were semi-transparent, and he could see blurred images of passersby: Just for a moment he had the impression of watching an old surrealistic movie.
He shook his head. Movie? Good God, no! Exhaustion, that’s what it was. The usual setup: cops too shattered to keep awake.
He stirred his hot chocolate and started sketching out questions in his notebook instead. Now that he started examining it more closely, it dawned on him that it was really a vocabulary book full of French verbs, and he realized that he must have put it in his briefcase after testing Sophie on her homework the other night.
Sophie was thirteen, getting on for fourteen, and the daughter of Maureen, whose company he’d been keeping for some time now.
Quite a long time, to be honest, even if opportunities to be together were few and far between. And as he sat there waiting for time to pass by, he started to wonder a bit vaguely if anything serious would ever come of it. Of him and Maureen, that is. Tried to work out if that was really what he wanted.
And above alclass="underline" Did Maureen want it?
Maybe it was better if she didn’t. Better to leave the cake uncut and just pick off a currant here and there when he felt like it. As usual, in other words. The same old routine.
He sighed once more and took another sip.
But he liked Maureen and liked being together with Sophie in the evenings and helping her with her math lessons. Or French, or whatever it happened to be. It had only happened three or four times so far, but it had struck him that for the first time in his life, he had been playing the role of father.
And he liked it. It had a sort of dimension he hadn’t experienced before. That gave him a feeling of equilibrium and security and stability, things that hadn’t exactly featured prom-inently in his life hitherto.