“You are Emmeline Weigers?”
“Yes.”
“And you were supervising the interview room on June fifth, 1992?”
“Yes, it seems so.”
“That was the day Leopold Verhaven had a visitor. That was most unusual, I gather.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Fairly well, yes.”
“But it’s almost two years ago.”
“I remember it because it was him. We talked about it among the staff. He was a bit. . special, we’d heard.”
“Did he often have visitors?”
“Never.”
“Can you describe the woman?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid. I can’t really remember. She was getting on a bit. About sixty, I’d say. A bit sickly, I think. Used a walking stick.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
She thought for a while.
“No, I don’t think I would. No.”
“How long did they talk?”
“I’m not sure. Fifteen or twenty minutes, if I remember rightly. Not the full time anyway.”
“The full time?”
“The rules allow half an hour.”
“Is there anything special you remember, now that you think back about it? Any particular detail?”
She pondered for about ten seconds.
“No,” she said. “There was nothing.”
Rooth thanked her and stood up.
It took another hour to complete the formalities in the prison and then find Number 4 Ruitens Alle in the village of Ulmentahl itself. He parked outside the white house. Recited a silent prayer and walked up the paved drive. Rang the doorbell.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Chervouz?”
“Yes.”
“My name’s Rooth. Detective Inspector Rooth. I was the one who phoned you not long ago.”
“Come in. Or would you prefer to sit in the garden? It’s quite nice weather.”
“Outdoors would be fine,” said Rooth.
“It’s pretty when the chestnuts are in blossom,” said Mr. Chervouz as he filled two tall glasses with beer.
“Yes,” said Rooth. “Very.”
They drank.
“What do you want to know about Verhaven?”
“You were on duty, so-called gate duty, on June fifth, 1992.
Verhaven had a visitor that day. I know it’s nearly two years ago now, but I wonder if you can remember anything about the woman you let in?”
Chervouz took another swig of beer.
“I’ve been thinking about it since you called. She came by cab, I think. An oldish woman. Had trouble walking, used a pair of walking sticks, in any case. But Christ, it’s just what I think I remember. I could be mixing her up with somebody quite different. I might be thinking of the wrong person.”
“Why do you remember the visit at all?”
“Because the visitor was for him, of course.”
“I see,” said Rooth. “Had you ever seen her before?”
“No.”
“Was there anything else you noticed?”
“No. . No, I don’t think so.”
“Were you still on duty when she left?”
“No, it must have been somebody else. I don’t remember her leaving, in any case.”
“Would you recognize her again?”
“No, certainly not.”
A few seconds passed. Then it came, and there was no mistaking the undertone of curiosity.
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” said Rooth. “He’s dead.”
He had a moderately exciting dinner at the railroad station restaurant, and it was already getting dusk when he returned to his car.
What a productive day this has been, he thought. Most impressive.
And when he started working out how much taxpayers’
money had been spent-and would continue to be spent in future-on this dodgy investigation, he could feel himself growing angry.
Especially when you consider what Leopold Verhaven had already cost the state. While he was still alive, that is.
He had murdered two women. Been at the center of two protracted trials and found guilty and spent almost a quarter of a century in jail. And now somebody had put a period behind him.
Wouldn’t it be as well for the police to do the same?
Period. Draw a line and act as if they’d never stumbled upon that butchered body wrapped up in a piece of carpet.
Who would benefit from the police putting vast amounts of time and energy into finding whoever it was that for whatever reason had decided to put an end to that solitary criminal’s existence?
Who the hell cared if Leopold Verhaven was dead?
Was there any single person?
Apart from the one who killed him, of course.
Rooth doubted it.
But somewhere deep down at the back of his mind he
could hear the echo of some guidelines, taken from the Rules and Regulations for Criminal Investigations, if he remembered rightly. He couldn’t recall the precise wording, but the meaning could be expressed just as well by one of Van Veeteren’s favorite sayings.
If the murderer is holed up in Timbuktu, stop the first cab that comes along and go there. We’re not a profit-making company, for Christ’s sake!
“Where is Timbuktu?” somebody had asked.
“The cab driver will know,” Van Veeteren had replied.
Better stick with that spirit, I suppose, Rooth thought. It’s hard to judge the consequences of any other approach.
17
Van Veeteren picked up the bundle of photocopies and leafed through it.
Munster hadn’t been twiddling his thumbs, he had to admit. Forty to fifty pages as least; from several newspapers, but naturally enough mainly Neuwe Blatt and Telegraaf. Arranged in chronological order with the athletics business first and comments on the judgment in the Marlene trial last. Precise dates supplied.
He wondered if it really had been Munster himself who had made all this effort to satisfy his superior’s curiosity, or if it had been some assiduous librarian in the periodicals archives who had done the donkey work. He tended toward the latter explanation, but you never knew, of course.
Munster is Munster, Van Veeteren thought.
He started with the background details. Verhaven’s brilliant but short career on the cinder running track. It couldn’t have lasted for more than two years, if you worked it out. Two successful years before everything changed key.
“New Record by Verhaven!” was the headline of an article over four columns, dated August 20, 1958, incorporating a blurred photograph of a young man looking straight at the camera in close-up, making the V sign.
He didn’t look particularly overwhelmed, Van Veeteren thought. Nor overwhelming. But it had to be said that there were clear traces of seriousness and determination in that resolute mouth, and his dark eyes seemed full of implicit faith in future triumphs and even faster times.
He contemplated that twenty-four-year-old face for a while, wondering if it was possible to read anything into it- if he could discern anything of the future in those steely features. . Any signs of predestination, the embryo of the older man of violence, a double murderer.
Needless to say it was impossible.
He couldn’t blot out the key he was holding in his hands.
He knew what he was looking for, and hence it was possible to find it. No, those eyes revealed nothing; only the usual, slightly pompous self-confidence, Van Veeteren decided. The quality that is considered to indicate strength and manliness and God only knows what else that you can generally find in all modern heroes. Perhaps in the classical ones as well. Van Veeteren had never been much of a sports fan, and fooling oneself into believing that there was a qualitative difference between a Greek discus thrower and a Russian ice hockey back was nothing more than an expression of our constant need of self-delusion. Sport is sport.
Having established that, he started reading instead:
It has been obvious all this year to the general pub-