I’m a romantic softie, Münster thought as he drove into the police station’s garage. But so what?
The images of Synn and his family and the future faded away as he stood in the lift on his way up to his office on the third floor. It was always the same. The lift was the sluice between life and work. Over the years — especially since he was stabbed in the kidney in Frigge — he had begun to learn how to separate those two phenomena. Not to take his investigations home with him. Not to sit pondering about them when he was watching the television, or helping Bart with his homework. Or reading aloud for Marieke. Or when Synn required his full attention.
Not to think about work until he was in the lift between the garage and his office. That was easier said than done, of course, but perseverance pays off in the end — that was another thing he had begun to realize.
This morning, 25 February 2001, it was the conversation with Van Veeteren that first came into his mind. Of course.
The Chief Inspector had phoned him at about nine o’clock the previous evening. They had spoken for nearly half an hour: quite a remarkable conversation — he had thought that even while it was taking place — in which their old roles with Van Veeteren as the surly superior and himself as a sort of subordinate sounding board for thoughts and ideas, roles that had become ingrained after so many years, now seemed to have shifted somewhat. To start with, at least.
Münster himself was team leader of the investigation (in Reinhart’s absence), and Van Veeteren was playing the part of a private dick (his own term). Without much success, to be honest, harrumph. . A bit like a rheumatic hen at an exhibition of flying skills (that was also the Chief Inspector’s own modest assessment).
At the beginning of the conversation he had sounded almost humble, something he never normally did. He described how he was in two minds about Professor deFraan, described what he had been doing, and on the whole didn’t sound especially hopeful. It was only when he came to the remarkable incident concerning the Muslim woman that he sounded rather more on the ball.
And it certainly was a mysterious situation, Münster had to agree. Why on earth should a veiled woman slink around after deFraan as if she were keeping him under observation? At first sight it seemed incomprehensible — although on the other hand they had no idea as yet about deFraan’s habits and customs. There was no shadowy woman of this sort in the Strangler investigation, but even if she really was following him, this didn’t by any means suggest that deFraan really was the person they were looking for. Not at all, both Van Veeteren and Münster were in agreement on that score. Surely everybody had a right to be followed around by veiled women? If they were of that turn of mind.
But the most important part of the conversation as far as Münster was concerned was not that mysterious woman, but the fact that the Chief Inspector had taken the liberty of booking in a visitor to come and see him. The following day. In other words, today, Münster thought, and checked his wristwatch.
She was due at ten o’clock — that is, in twenty minutes’ time.
It was because of this tight schedule that Van Veeteren had felt obliged to disturb the family’s peace and quiet with a telephone call so late at night. He had also taken pains to describe the situation in so much detail — something he would never normally dream of doing, he stressed several times. He hoped Münster would excuse him. But that’s the way it was.
No, Münster thought, he had never sounded like this in the old days.
The visitor’s name was Ludmilla Parnak.
She was an old acquaintance of Professor deFraan, and had agreed to talk to Intendent Münster as she happened to be in Maardam that day. She actually lived in Aarlach, so it was a sign, an indication from the finger of God, that Winnifred had happened to meet her in Maardam now, Van Veeteren had stressed.
Half ironic, half seriously, as far as Münster could judge. In so far as he had any views on the finger of God, he had kept them to himself.
The last five minutes of the telephone call had more or less restored the old ingrained relationship between the Chief Inspector and Münster. Van Veeteren had issued minutely detailed instructions, regarding the somewhat delicate situation fru Parnak was in, and how the intendent should conduct the interview.
Sensitive! he had said several times. Damned sensitive, very thin ice. In no circumstances must she suspect what we suspect deFraan of having done! You must handle this delicately!
Delicately? Münster thought as he entered his office. Huh. Van Veeteren’s humility at the beginning of the call hadn’t lasted all that long. .
He looked at his watch again and saw that it was high time he started planning some smokescreens.
‘It’s important that you understand this conversation is totally unofficial. I don’t know how much information you’ve been given. .’
Ludmilla Parnak made a gesture with her hands that suggested she knew little about the situation. Münster eyed her discreetly as he moved around the office, producing cups and saucers and pouring out coffee. She was quite a slim woman in her forties, with an aura of energy about her. Dark hair in pageboy style, clean-cut features and lively blue eyes. Unusually blue for such a dark face, he thought. As he understood it she was in Maardam on business, but he had no idea what kind of business.
‘All I know is that it has to do with Maarten deFraan,’ she said, ‘so I’d be grateful if you could enlighten me somewhat.’
Münster gestured towards the two mazarins fröken Katz had managed to acquire at short notice, but fru Parnak shook her head.
‘No, thank you, just coffee would be fine.’
‘Me too,’ said Münster, thinking that he could eat both the buns after she had left. ‘Yes, you are right in thinking that I need to speak to you about Maarten deFraan, but I’m afraid I can’t go into detail about the reasons why. Sometimes we need to work in that way in the CID.’
She looked at him sceptically.
‘Why? Is he suspected of something?’
‘Not directly. But he’s one of a group of people — a very large group — of which we are sure that one, only one, has committed a crime. All the others are innocent, and we have to go through a sort of elimination process. It’s absolutely essential that you say nothing about our conversation. Not to anybody. When we’ve finished I’ll require you to sign a document saying that you agree to these conditions.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then we won’t take matters any further.’
She studied him for a few seconds with her intensely blue eyes.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I don’t understand why you picked on me.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I don’t know deFraan all that well. I don’t know him at all, to be frank. I haven’t set eyes on him for five or six years. . Nor have I spoken to him.’
‘But you socialized with him when he lived in Aarlach, didn’t you?’
‘A bit. Not very much. He and my husband were colleagues at the university. We occasionally met, all four of us — that was when Christa was still alive. After that summer when she disappeared, I don’t think I’ve met him a single time.’
‘What year was that?’
‘The summer of 1995. My husband and Maarten used to meet during the autumn of that year, of course, both at work and in private, but he never came round to our place. And then he got a chair here in Maardam, and moved house. What. . what exactly do you want to know?’