“Yes.”
“People you didn’t know?”
“Of course.”
“Had you any special reason for noticing them and remembering them?”
“Er, no.”
“What time was it?”
“Excuse me?”
“What time was it when you were walking along Zwille
and happened to see them?”
“Seven or eight minutes to ten.”
“How do you know?”
“Er, that’s the time it was. What’s so remarkable about that?”
“Did you check the time?”
“No.”
“Where were you going? Did you have an appointment to keep or something of that sort?”
“I was out shopping.”
“I see.”
He paused and leaned back so far that his feet left the floor.
For a brief moment he felt almost weightless.
Is there a lever to pull that will bring me back into the atmosphere? he wondered, but he soon regained control of his module.
“Mrs. Klimenska,” he said when he had made contact with both his desk and the floor once more. “I would like you to explain this to me, as slowly and clearly as you can. I some-2 2 3
times find it a bit hard to understand things. A man has been found guilty of first-degree murder on the basis of your evidence. He has been in prison for twelve years. Twelve years! If you hadn’t come forward, it is very likely that he would have been cleared. Will you please tell me how the hell you can be certain that you saw Leopold Verhaven and Marlene Nietsch standing talking in Kreugerlaan at seven and a half minutes to ten on Friday, September the eleventh, 1981! How?”
Elena Klimenska sat up straight and met his gaze without the slightest hesitation.
“Because I saw them,” she said. “As far as the time is concerned, that’s the only possibility. He drove away from there at ten o’clock, and they were together at the corner at twelve minutes to.”
“So they weren’t actually at the corner when you saw
them?”
“Of course not.”
“Bravo, Mrs. Klimenska. You know your stuff very well, I must say. But then, it’s only thirteen years ago, after all.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Was it the police or the prosecutor who helped you with the timing?”
“Both of them, of course. Why. .”
“Thank you,” Van Veeteren interrupted. “That’s enough.
Just one more question. Was there any other witness who could confirm your evidence?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Somebody you had just left, for instance. Or bumped into five minutes later, perhaps?”
“No. How would that have helped?”
Van Veeteren didn’t answer. He drummed quietly on the edge of his desk instead, gazing out through a gap in the blinds at the sunshine bathing the warm streets. Elena Kliment ska adjusted a pleat in her grayish blue dress, but didn’t change her expression.
“Do you usually sleep soundly at night, Mrs. Klimenska?”
Her mouth narrowed to form a thin line. He could see that she’d had enough. That she presumably had no intention of answering any more questions or insinuations.
“I ask because I’m curious,” he said. “It’s part of my job to play the psychologist now and again. If it had been me, for instance, who had been responsible for getting another human being locked up for twelve years on the basis of totally unfounded and invented evidence, I would probably not feel too good about it. You know, the conscience thing, and all that. .”
She stood up.
“I’ve had enough of your. .”
“But maybe you had some special reason?”
“What the. .”
“For getting him locked up, I mean. That would explain it.”
“Good-bye, Chief Inspector. You can be sure the chief of police is going to hear of this!”
She turned on her heel and managed three paces toward the door.
“You lying bitch,” he hissed.
She stopped dead.
“What did you say?”
“I merely wished you a pleasant afternoon. Can you find your own way out, or would you like me to escort you?”
Two seconds later he was alone again, but he could hear her heels tapping in irritation all the way to the elevator.
Ah well, he thought, pulling the weightlessness lever.
That’s the way to treat ’em.
32
“I know,” said Synn. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“He’s been in the hospital and read every single word about these damned cases,” Munster said. “He feels he simply has to go and take a look for himself, and he’s not allowed to drive yet.”
“I know,” said Synn again. She turned the pages of her newspaper and blew at her coffee. It was barely half past seven, but the children had been awake since long before seven, totally oblivious to that fact that it was a summer Sunday. . A morning with a warm breeze and cherry blossom and a deafening chorus of birdsong that floated in through the half-open balcony door and mixed with Marieke’s giggles from the nursery and Bart’s endless monologue about drag-ons and monsters and soccer players.
He stood up and positioned himself behind his wife.
Caressed the back of her head. Placed his hand inside her robe and gently squeezed her breast-and he suddenly felt pain creeping up upon him: a chilling fear, but also a realization, that this moment must pass. This second of absolute and perfect happiness-one of the ten to twelve that comprised a whole life, and was possibly even the meaning of it. .
Or so he understood it. If you have twelve treasured memories, his Uncle Arndt had once said as Munster sat on his knee, you will have led a happy life. But twelve is a high number. You’ll have to wait for quite a while yet before you can start collecting them.
Perhaps Synn could sense his unrest, for she placed her hand over his and pressed it harder against her breast.
“I like it,” she said. “I like your hands. Maybe we’ll manage an afternoon outing? Lauerndamm or somewhere like that. It would be good to make love in the open air; it’s been a long time. . Or what do you say, darling?”
He swallowed the lump of ecstasy that welled up inside him.
“Of course, my darling,” he said. “I’ll be back before one.
Just get yourself ready.”
“Ready?” she smiled. “I’m ready now, if you want to.”
“Oh, hell!” said Munster. “If it weren’t for the kids and Van Veeteren, then. .”
She let go of his hand.
“Maybe we should ask him to babysit?”
“Huh,” said Munster. “I’m not convinced that is the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“All right,” said Synn. “We’ll stick to this afternoon, then.”
Van Veeteren was waiting on the sidewalk when Munster pulled up outside 4 Klagenburg. There was no concealing his suppressed eagerness, and when he had settled into the passenger seat, he immediately fished out two toothpicks that he proceeded to roll from one side of his mouth to the other. It was clear to Munster that this was one of those frequent occasions when any kind of conversation was, if not prohibited, at the very least pointless.
Instead he switched on the radio, and as they drove
through the deserted streets that Sunday morning, they were able to listen to the eight o’clock news, which was mainly about developments in the Balkans and yet more neo-Nazi dis-turbances in eastern Germany.
Then came the weather forecast, promising glorious weather with cloudless skies and temperatures approaching sixty degrees.
He sighed discreetly, and it struck him that if it had been his wife in the passenger seat beside him, instead of a newly operated on fifty-seven-year-old detective chief inspector, he would probably have placed his hand on her sun-warmed thigh at about this point.
Ah well, one o’clock would arrive sooner or later, even today.
They parked outside the overgrown opening in the lilac hedge. Munster switched off the engine and unfastened his safety belt.
“No, you stay here,” insisted Van Veeteren, shaking his head. “I don’t want you breathing down my neck. This calls for solitary reflection. Leave me in peace and wait for an hour down by the church.”