Moreno looked at him, and he suddenly wished he was twenty-five years younger. Then he remembered Ulrike, and realized that being over sixty wasn’t such a bad thing either.
‘I’m touched,’ said Moreno. ‘Sorry to mention it, but it’s a fact.’
‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It suits you. But I have the impression you came here for some other purpose. Looking for some Saturday night reading, perhaps?’
Moreno laughed.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But maybe I can sort that out while I’m here anyway. No, it’s the same old story, in fact. The Kammerle-Gassel case, as we call it, although it makes it sound like a make of motorbike. . Or some disease or other. Anyway, I thought you might still be interested.’
‘I am,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Very much so.’
‘You weren’t watching the telly last night by any chance, were you?’
‘The telly?’ said Van Veeteren, raising an eyebrow. ‘No. Why should I do that?’
‘Some people do,’ said Moreno.
‘I’m not much of a one for popular entertainment. And I think our set is broken anyway — Ulrike said something about that the other day. . What programme did you have in mind?’
‘A crime magazine programme. They discussed our case. Hiller was on, and Reinhart as well. .’
‘Reinhart?’
‘Yes.’
‘The times are out of joint,’ said Van Veeteren.
Moreno pulled a face.
‘For sure,’ she said. ‘They usually are. Anyway, we thought a bit of publicity might help our investigation. It’s been pretty hard going, as you probably know. .’
‘I’ve suspected as much,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You still have no idea about a possible murderer?’
‘No,’ said Moreno with a shrug. ‘That would be putting it too strongly. But we did get a few reactions to yesterday’s programme — you had a bit to do with that business of the priest, didn’t you?’
Van Veeteren placed a thoughtful hand under his chin and frowned.
‘Well, we’ve found out why he was at the Central Station at that time, for instance. He was going to meet a lover who was due on a train. You recall that Gassel was gay?’
‘I was the one who established that,’ said Van Veeteren modestly.
‘Ah, yes, of course. In any case, this lover turned up at the police station and gave us a detailed confession — that he was on the train, and why, that is.’
‘Really?’ said Van Veeteren, and thought for a moment. ‘And where does that get us?’
‘Not very far, I’m afraid,’ said Moreno. ‘But it’s another piece to add to the puzzle in any case. He had nothing new to tell us about Pastor Gassel. They hardly knew one another, he claimed. They used to meet and, you know, a few times a year, that’s all. It seems that some people are like that.’
‘Evidently,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Did anything else float up to the surface after the police force’s venture into the bottomless pit known as popular entertainment?’
‘A bit,’ said Moreno. ‘But not a lot. One witness claimed to have seen a man running over the tracks at the Central Station that evening. Very helpful to have kept quiet about that for two-and-a-half months, of course. .’
‘Is he reliable?’
‘She,’ said Moreno. ‘It’s a she. A young woman. At least, that’s what both Reinhart and Krause say, I haven’t spoken to her myself. According to her, this man left the station area and ran off in a northerly direction, towards Zwille in other words; it’s quite easy to get away in that direction. The witness had just left the station building and only saw his back. From twenty metres away, probably more.’
‘In the dark?’ asked Van Veeteren.
‘Semi-dark, at least. There was a certain amount of light there. Not a lot to go on, of course; but I reckon that if anybody still doubted that Gassel was in fact murdered, they can forget that now.’
Van Veeteren contemplated his cigarette machine and scratched himself under his chin.
‘I’ve never doubted that,’ he said. ‘Anyway, a bit of new evidence is better than nothing. I’d better have a word with Ulrike about having the television set repaired. Is Reinhart thinking of doing any repeat performances?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Moreno. ‘To be honest. But we had another interesting tip.’
‘Go on.’
‘A waiter out at Czerpinski’s Mill. He says he served a meal to Monica Kammerle and an elderly man some time around the beginning of September.’
‘Monica Kammerle?’
‘Yes. The daughter, not her mother. When he says “elderly man” he means that he was significantly older than the girl. About forty, perhaps. He assumed at the time that it was a father and his daughter.’
‘Description?’
‘Unfortunately not. He can’t remember details. He’s not a hundred per cent sure it was Monica Kammerle either — unfortunately he was on holiday when the papers wrote about it that first time.’
‘Typical,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘Absolutely typical. Anyway, this was the latest news. You can hardly call it a breakthrough, but needless to say we are following everything up as best we can. Something will turn up sooner or later.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘As long as it’s not another victim.’
Moreno sat in silence for a moment, contemplating that possibility as her eyes wandered over the row upon row of books.
‘Do you think that’s what’s going to happen?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘To be honest, that’s what I expect to happen next. Not least if it is in fact linked with that business at Wallburg. I was playing badminton with Münster last week, and he claimed that it wasn’t out of the question that the same killer was involved.’
‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘That seems likely. But if nothing else, that television programme ought to have put women on their guard.’
‘Let’s hope that’s the case as well,’ said Van Veeteren.
Moreno stood up.
‘I don’t think I’ll bother about my literary education today,’ she said with an apologetic smile. ‘But perhaps I could take another peep at Andrea before I rush off?’
‘Of course,’ said Van Veeteren.
They crept along the gap between the shelves again. Moreno bent down over the pram, and Van Veeteren stood behind her, feeling a sort of diffuse pride bubbling up inside him.
‘She’s sweet,’ said Moreno. ‘Incredibly sweet.’ Van Veeteren cleared his throat.
‘Of course she’s bloody sweet. She’s my grandchild after all.’
When Inspector Moreno had left, he sat down again on the stair and also took a look inside the pram.
Then he checked the time. It was fifty minutes since Marlene had hurried off for her interview.
Time’s running out, he thought, giving the pram a shake. It would be a pity if poor Andrea had to spend a whole hour with her grandad without actually seeing him.
He gave the pram another shake, a bit harder this time.
29
On the night of 8 December, Anna Kristeva dreamed that she was going to die.
Or that she had already died. Among the chaotic, feverish images that had come cascading down over her were some depicting the actual burial — she recalled those clearly when she woke up at about eight in the morning, soaked in sweat and wrapped in foul-smelling sheets. She opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling and noticed that the room was spinning round. For a brief moment she thought that she hadn’t been dreaming after all, but that it was real. That she really was dead. Then she closed her eyes again and remembered that she was ill. Before falling asleep for the night at about eleven the previous evening she had managed to get her temperature down as far as 38.1: it hadn’t been possible to get it any lower than that, so no wonder she had been afflicted by unpleasant dreams.
She lay there in bed for a while before daring to test whether her legs would support her. It turned out that they did, albeit only just: she had to cling on to the walls in order to stagger as far as the bathroom, and when she had finished peeing she remained sitting on the toilet for five minutes, without a single rational thought entering her head. It was a non-stop procession of images of her death from her dreams. Lying there naked on the bedroom floor, unable to breathe. Tossing and turning convulsively back and forth, trying to grab hold of something — an illusory and elusive object that evidently didn’t exist. Hovering there in mid air, something only she could see and evaluate, nobody else. Whatever it could possibly have been.