It was a quarter past eight before deBries managed to get through to Dagmar Biedersen. She had just gotten back from a shopping spree and a last-minute visit to the hairdresser, and she sounded tired. When contact was made with Van Veeteren and Reinhart, it transpired that they were only about ten minutes away from Saaren, and so it was decided that it wasn't necessary to involve other police districts at this stage.
“Good timing,” said Reinhart. “We'll go straight to her place. Tell her we'd like a couple of beers.”
“But what exactly are you implying?” wondered Mrs. Biedersen, placing two protective hands over her new hairdo.
“Can't we sit down somewhere and discuss the whole business quietly and calmly?” Van Veeteren suggested.
Reinhart led the way into the living room and sat down on a red plush sofa. The chief inspector invited Mrs. Biedersen to sit down in one of the armchairs, while he remained standing.
“We have reason to believe that your husband is in danger,” he began.
“In danger?”
“Yes. It's connected with those earlier deaths. Can you tell us where he is at the moment?”
“What? No… well, perhaps, but surely it can't be…”
“I'm afraid it can,” said Reinhart. “Where is he?”
Without warning, Dagmar Biedersen burst into tears. Something had given way inside her, and her meager chest was convulsed by sobbing. Tears came flooding forth.
Oh, hell! Van Veeteren thought.
“My dear Mrs. Biedersen,” he said, “all we want to know is where he is, so that we can sort everything out.”
She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I'm being silly.”
You certainly are, Van Veeteren thought. But answer the question, for Christ's sake.
“He's probably… up at the cottage, I assume. That's where he called me from a few days ago, at least.”
“The cottage?” wondered Reinhart.
“Yes, we have a holiday cottage, or whatever you'd like to call it-it's where he grew up, in fact. We go there sometimes. He often spends time there on his own, as well…”
“Where?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Oh, excuse me. In Wahrhejm, of course.”
“Wahrhejm? And where is Wahrhejm?”
“Excuse me,” she said again. “It's between Ulming and Oostwerdingen. Just a little village. It's about a hundred kilometers from here.”
Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
“Are you sure he's there?”
“No, as I said… But I think so.”
“Is there a telephone in the cottage?”
“No, I'm afraid not. He usually phones from the inn. He likes to be undisturbed when he's up there.”
Van Veeteren sighed.
“Just our damned luck,” he said. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a couple of minutes, Mrs. Biedersen? The inspector and I need to exchange a few words.”
“Of course,” she said, and vanished into the kitchen.
“Now what?” asked Reinhart when she was out of earshot.
“I don't really know,” said Van Veeteren. “I have the feeling that it's urgent-but, of course, there's nothing to say that it really is.”
“No,” said Reinhart. “I have the same feeling, of course. But you're the boss.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Van Veeteren. “And you're the one who does whatever I say. Go and phone the police in Ulming-they must be the nearest-and tell them to get out there and nab him.”
“Nab him?”
“Yes, arrest him.”
“On what grounds?”
“I couldn't care less. Make something up, whatever you like.”
“With pleasure,” said Reinhart.
While Reinhart was doing what he'd been told to do in Biedersen's study, the chief inspector turned his attention to the worried wife, in the hope of extracting further information.
“To be absolutely honest with you,” he said, “it's probable that this woman is aiming to kill your husband, Mrs. Biedersen. Naturally, we hope to stop her.”
“Oh my God,” said Dagmar Biedersen.
“When did you last see him?”
She thought for a moment.
“A couple of weeks ago-almost three weeks, in fact.”
“Does anybody else know that he's there?”
“Er, I don't know.”
“Is there any possibility that this woman has found out that he's there? Somehow or other?”
“No-but…”
He could see how the realization suddenly dawned on her. The color drained from her face, and she opened and closed her mouth several times. Her hands wandered back and forth over the buttons of her rust-red blouse without finding a resting place.
“That… er… that woman,” she said.
“Well?”
“She phoned.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Go on!”
“A woman phoned from Copenhagen. She claimed to be a business acquaintance of my husband's, and then…”
“And then?”
“And then she asked if I knew where he was. Where she could get in touch with him.”
“And so you told her?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Yes,” said Dagmar Biedersen, slumping back in the armchair. “I told her. Do you think…?”
Reinhart returned.
“Done,” he said.
“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Let's go. We'll be in touch, Mrs. Biedersen. You'll be staying at home tonight, we hope?”
She nodded, and was breathing heavily, her mouth open wide. Van Veeteren gathered that she would be barely capable of getting up from the sofa, never mind anything else.
“The place is full of women,” said Biedersen, looking around the bar.
“Don't you know what day it is today?”
“No.”
“International Women's Day,” said Korhonen. “This is what usually happens every year. Every woman in the village turns up.”
“A damned silly invention,” said Biedersen.
“Of course, but it's good for business. Anyway, you can sit here in the corner as usual, and avoid having to get too close to them. A beer and a whiskey chaser, as usual?”
“Yes please,” said Biedersen. “Have you got the photos of your Thai girlfriend?”
“I'll come and show you them in just a minute or two,” said Korhonen. “I just have to serve the ladies first.”
“Okay,” said Biedersen. Took both his glasses and sat down at the empty table in the corner between the bar counter and the kitchen door.
Hell and damnation, he thought. This is an opportunity for camouflage if ever I saw one. I'd better play it safe tonight.
And he felt in his jacket pocket.
41
“What the hell's going on?” wondered Ackermann.
“I don't know,” said Päude, starting the car. “In the middle of the match as well.”
“The match?” said Ackermann. “Fuck the match. I was just about to start pulling her panties down when he phoned. That delicious little Nancy Fischer, you know.”
Päude sighed and switched on the radio to hear the end of the soccer report, instead of having to listen to an account of his colleague's love life-he was treated to enough of that on a regular basis.
“Halfway in, you might say,” said Ackermann.
“What do you think of this Biedersen character?” asked Päude in an attempt to change the subject.
“Cunning,” said Ackermann. “Do you reckon we should just arrest him for vagrancy and wait for further orders? You don't think he's dangerous, do you?”
“Munckel said he wasn't.”
“Munckel can't tell the difference between a hand grenade and a beetroot.”
“Okay, we'd better be a bit careful then. How far is it to Wahrhejm?”
“Eighteen kilometers. We'll be there in ten minutes. Shall we put the siren on, or the light at least?”
“Good God, no! Discretion, Munckel said. But I don't suppose you know what the word means?”
“Of course I do,” said Ackermann. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”
“Another one?” said Korhonen.
“Yes, of course,” said Biedersen. “Must just go and take a leak first. But that's a good-looking piece of skirt you've got there. A hell of a good-looking piece of skirt.”