‘No, don’t do that,’ protested Kramer, looking as if he were about to burst into tears. ‘You promised to be discreet. Can’t I ring you instead?’
Münster nodded and produced a business card.
‘Fair enough. Give me a ring towards the end of next week. But I must ask you to provide me with your address and telephone number, just in case. But you don’t need to worry: I have no intention of making things difficult for you.’
Kramer sighed in relief. Borrowed paper and pencil and wrote down his contact details.
‘Can I go now?’ he asked when he had done that.
‘Of course you may,’ said Münster. ‘But I would like to ask you a few questions that are really none of my business.’
‘Really?’ said Kramer, looking surprised. ‘Such as?’
‘Do you have any more lovers apart from that one? Male lovers, I mean.’
Kramer stood up and looked as if he was wondering whether to be offended or not.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
‘And you haven’t acquired any more after Tomas Gassel?’
‘No.’
‘So you haven’t been unfaithful to your wife since he died?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Kramer. ‘Why are you asking about that?’
Münster thought for a moment.
‘I don’t really know, to be honest,’ he said. ‘Human interest, I suppose. And a certain degree of concern about your family. Anyway, thank you for coming to tell us about this, herr Kramer.’
He held out his hand. Kramer grasped it with both his and shook it energetically, before hurrying out through the door. Münster leaned back on his chair.
Huh, he thought. So now we know why the priest was at the station.
But how does that help us?
He spun round on his desk chair and looked out of the window. Still no sign of any rain.
28
There was a ring on the door, and Van Veeteren woke up with a start.
He realized he must have dozed off. Remarkable. On his knee was a newly arrived edition of Seneca, which he had been leafing through, and on the arm of his chair — in a special mahogany-lined inlay for this very purpose — was a half-empty cup of coffee. Two portions of coffee to one of Gingerboom’s, if he remembered rightly. Perhaps that was why he had fallen asleep.
He stood up and looked at the clock: half past eleven, he could hardly have been asleep for more than ten minutes. At most. He went out into the shop: a woman with a pram was on her way in through the door, but it was only when she turned to look at him that it dawned on him who it was.
Marlene Frey.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Thank God you’re in. I need your help.’
‘Really?’ said Van Veeteren, opening the rain canopy slightly and peering down at the baby. ‘Dobidobido, how’s Andrea today, then?’
‘She’s asleep,’ said Marlene. ‘But I hope you can keep an eye on her for a while. I have a job interview, and I don’t think it will give a very good impression if I go waltzing in with a baby. That little cow Christa announced a quarter of an hour ago that she was unavailable.’
‘Christa?’
‘The babysitter. You’re my only hope.’
‘Me?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Here?’
‘Now,’ said Marlene. ‘I’ve only got five minutes.’
‘But. .’ said Van Veeteren.
‘I’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour. She’s just eaten and fallen asleep, you don’t need to worry. An hour at most. You can take the blanket off her if you like, there are dry nappies in the basket under the pram if you need to. . I’m off, see you soon!’
‘Bye,’ said Van Veeteren as Marlene rushed out into Kupinskis gränd.
He looked at the pram, and looked at Seneca which he was still holding in his hand. Put Seneca down. Carefully removed the rain canopy from the pram, folded down the hood and rolled back the blanket. Andrea didn’t move a muscle, slept like a log with her dummy in one side of her mouth and a bubble of saliva in the other.
Good God, he thought. Let’s hope she doesn’t wake up. She could be damaged for life.
He carefully manoeuvred the pram further in among the bookshelves, but realized that the space between them was too narrow to move it into the inner room, which would have made an excellent bedroom: the sheltered corner with maps and crime fiction would have to suffice. If any customers turned up and asked about crime novels, he could always tell them to go to hell. Or to come back on Monday. He fetched his cup of coffee and the Seneca. Sat down on the stair half a metre from the pram and looked at the clock. Five minutes had passed since Marlene had left. What had she said?
Three-quarters of an hour? An hour? He noticed that he had palpitations.
Calm down now, he told himself stoically. What’s the matter with me? It’s only a little baby.
Ten minutes later he had read page thirty-seven of the Lucilian letters no less than four times, Andrea had sighed deeply twice, but nothing else had changed.
The doorbell rang. He swore quietly to himself, and decided not to announce his presence in the shop. Why hadn’t he locked the door and pulled down the blind? And did people really have nothing better to do than to potter around in second-hand bookshops on a rainy afternoon like this one? If they really had to read, surely they could buy a new book or two rather than old ones?
‘Hello?’
It took him half a second to identify the voice.
Inspector Moreno.
He thought briefly. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a woman around. In case anything critical happened. Ewa Moreno had no children of her own, that was true: but then, she was a biological creature, was she not?
Very much biological, it struck him.
‘Yes.’
Her dark-haired head peered round the corner from biographies and miscellaneous.
‘Is that the Chief Inspector?’
He didn’t even bother to correct her.
‘It certainly is. Good morning, Inspector, but I think we need to talk rather more quietly. There’s somebody here trying to sleep.’
Moreno came up and looked down into the pram.
‘Good Lord, I didn’t know. . Who is it?’
‘Andrea,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘Who’s that?’
‘My granddaughter. Eighteen months old. An absolute treasure.’
Moreno smiled, then turned serious.
‘Granddaughter? How. . I mean. .’
‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Let’s move away a bit so that we don’t wake her up. Maybe I haven’t told you?’
They moved further into the room overlooking the street.
‘No,’ said Moreno. ‘You haven’t mentioned it.’
Van Veeteren took out his cigarette machine, but changed his mind. No doubt it was not good for Andrea to breathe in so much tobacco smoke at such a young age.
‘Yes, she’s Erich’s daughter,’ he said. ‘He managed to leave a trace of his presence on this earth before he died, despite everything. He never saw his daughter, unfortunately, but she’s the one lying over there. I’m babysitting, his mother will be coming to fetch her shortly. .’
Moreno sat down at the low counter.
‘Good Lord,’ she said. ‘I had no idea. Nor does anybody else, I suspect. It must feel. . well, how does it feel, in fact?’
Van Veeteren paused for a while before answering.
‘It’s a consolation,’ he said. ‘Of course it’s a consolation, curse it. Life is so damned strange, you don’t realize what’s important and what’s less important until long afterwards. If you’re unlucky, it’s too late when the penny drops, although. .’
He paused, but Moreno simply nodded and waited for him to continue.
‘Naturally it’s not only your own life that needs to make sense — it never does, of course, and you have to make do with a certain degree of meaningfulness. . No, the important thing is the bigger perspective, and that little lady in the pram is a part of something much, much bigger than anything an ancient second-hand bookseller could ever dream of. . Hmm, I’m going gaga.’