Münster had no choice, of course. He looked at his watch and sighed. Then he rang the babysitter, announced his delayed arrival time, and slumped down opposite the chief inspector.
“Hell and damnation,” announced Van Veeteren when his face had resumed its normal color with the aid of a copious swig of beer. “This case annoys me. It's like a pimple on the bum, if you'll pardon the expression. It just stays where it is, and nothing happens…”
“Or it grows bigger and bigger,” said Münster.
“Until it bursts, yes. And when do you think that will be?”
Münster shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “Haven't Rooth and deBries discovered anything new?”
“Not a dickie bird,” said Van Veeteren. “The military types seem to be a bit worried about the college's reputation, but they don't appear to be holding back any information.”
“And nobody has reported any phone calls with musical accompaniment?”
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“A few have asked for police protection, that's all.”
“Really?”
“I said we'd keep an eye on them.”
“You did?” said Münster. “Shall we, in fact?”
Van Veeteren grunted.
“Needless to say, we keep an eye on all citizens. It's part of a police officer's duty, if you recall.”
Münster took a swig of beer.
“The only thing that's actually happening in this confounded case,” Van Veeteren continued, lighting a cigarette, “is that Heinemann is sitting in some closet searching for a link.”
“What sort of link?”
“Between Malik and Maasleitner, of course. It seems that he's feeling a bit guilty because the Staff College connection was so unproductive. Ah well, we'll see.”
“I expect we shall,” said Münster. “He's good at stumbling over things and finding gold. What do you think?”
Van Veeteren inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke through his nostrils. Like a dragon, Münster thought.
“I don't know what I think. But I think it's damned inconsiderate of a murderer to take such a long time. Something has to happen soon, that's obvious.”
“Is it?” Münster wondered.
“Can't you feel it?” asked Van Veeteren, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Surely you don't imagine it's all over after these two? Malik and Maasleitner? The vaguer the link between the two of them, the more likely it is that they must be a part of a broader context-you don't need to complete the whole jigsaw puzzle in order to discover if it comprises a hundred or a thousand pieces.”
Münster thought that one over.
“What is it, then? The broader context, that is.”
“A good question, Inspector. There's two guilders for you if you can answer it.”
Münster finished his beer and started buttoning up his jacket.
“I really must be going now,” he said. “I promised the babysitter I'd be home in half an hour.”
“All right,” sighed the chief inspector. “All right, I'm coming.”
“What shall we do?” Münster asked as he turned into Klagenburg. “Apart from waiting, I mean.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “I suppose we'll have to have another chat with the group comparatively close to Maasleitner. Given the absence of anything else so far.”
“More questions, then?”
“More questions,” said the chief inspector. “A hell of a lot more questions, and no sign of a good answer.”
“Well, we mustn't lose heart,” said Münster, bringing the car to a halt.
“Ouch,” said Van Veeteren as he started to get out of the car. “I'll be damned if I haven't pulled a muscle.”
“Where?” asked Münster.
“In my body,” said Van Veeteren.
23
It gradually dawned on him that he'd seen her for the first time at the soccer match on Sunday. Even if he didn't realize it until later.
He'd gone to the match with Rolv, as usual, and she'd been sitting diagonally behind them, a couple of rows back-a woman with large, brown-tinted glasses and a colorful shawl that hid most of her hair. But it was dark, he remembered that distinctly: a few tufts had stuck out. Thirty years of age, or thereabouts. A bit haggard, but he didn't see much of her face.
Later on, when he made an effort to think back and try to understand how he could recall her, he remembered turning around three or four times during the match. There had been a trouble-maker back there shouting and yelling and insulting the referee, making people laugh part of the time, but urging him to shut up as well. Biedersen had never really established who it was; but it must have been then, when he kept turning around and was distracted from the game itself, that he saw her.
He didn't know at the time. Even so, he had registered and committed to memory what she looked like.
She was wearing a light-colored overcoat, just like when she turned up the next time.
Apart from that, almost everything else was different. No glasses, no colorful shawl, her dark hair in a bun, and it was astonishing that he could know nevertheless that it must be her. That was the moment he reacted. The new image was superimposed over the old one, and the penny dropped.
Monday lunchtime. As usual, he was at Mix, with Henessy and Vargas. She came in and stood for ages at the desk, looking around-trying to give the impression that she was looking for an empty seat, presumably, but she wasn't. She was looking for him, and when she'd found him-which must have been at least a minute after he'd seen her-she continued to stand there.
Just stood there. Smiled to herself, it seemed, but continued looking around the premises. Pausing to look more closely at him now and then, for a second or two; thinking back, he found it hard to recall how long this had gone on. It could hardly have been more than a few minutes, but somehow or other that short period felt longer, and afterward, it seemed to him longer than the whole lunch. He hadn't the slightest recollection of what he'd been talking to Henessy and Vargas about.
Insofar as there were still any doubts, they were cast aside by what happened on Tuesday morning.
It was about half past ten when he went to the post office in Lindenplejn to collect a parcel-and also to send advertising material to a few prospective customers in Oostwerdingen and Aarlach. Miss Kennan had been off work with the flu since the previous Monday, and there were things that couldn't be allowed to fester forever.
He didn't see when she came in-there were a lot of people in the lines formed in front of the various windows. But suddenly he was aware of her presence-he sensed that she was somewhere behind him, just as she had been at the soccer match.
He slowly turned his head, and identified her right away. In the line next to his. A few meters behind his back, three or four at most. She was wearing the shawl and the glasses again, but had on a brown jacket instead of the overcoat. She stood there without looking at him-or at least, not during the brief moment he dared to look at her-but with a slight, introverted smile. He chose to interpret the situation almost as a secret signal.
After a short discussion with himself, Biedersen left his place in the line. Walked quickly out through the main entrance, continued across the street, and entered the newsagent's on the other side. Hid inside there for a few minutes, head down and leafing through a few magazines. Then he returned to the post office.
She was no longer there. There was no other change in the line she'd been standing in. The man in the black leather jacket who'd been in front of her was still there. As was the young immigrant woman behind her. But the gap between them had closed.
Biedersen hesitated for several seconds. Then he decided to put off whatever it was he was going to do, and returned to his office instead.
He double-locked the door and flopped down behind his desk. Took out his notebook and a pen, and started drawing more or less symmetrical figures-a habit he'd formed while still at school and had resorted to ever since when faced with a problem.