“Of course,” said Reinhart. “Take two if you need them. Or ask one of the duty officers to drive you.”
“Two?” said Jung as he staggered to the door. “No, one should do.”
Nobody spoke for a while. Heinemann tried to smooth down the creases in his tie. Reinhart contemplated his pipe. Van Veeteren inserted a toothpick between his lower front teeth and gazed up at the ceiling.
“Hmm,” he said eventually. “Quite a story, I must say. Has Hiller been informed?”
“He's away by the seaside,” said Reinhart.
“In January?”
“I don't think he intends to go swimming. I've left a message for him in any case. There'll be a press conference at five o'clock; I think it would be best if you take it.”
“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I'll need only thirty seconds.”
He looked around.
“Not much point in allocating much in the way of resources yet,” he decided. “When do they say his wife is likely to come around? Where is she, incidentally?”
“The New Rumford Hospital,” said Heinemann. “She should be able to talk this afternoon. Moreno 's there, waiting.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “What about family and friends?”
“A son at university in Munich,” said Reinhart. “He's on his way here. That's about all. Malik has no brothers or sisters, and his parents are dead. Ilse Malik has a sister. She's also waiting at the Rumford.”
“Waiting for what, you might ask?” said Rooth.
“Very true,” said Van Veeteren. “May I ask another question, gentlemen?”
“Please do,” said Reinhart.
“Why?” said Van Veeteren, taking out the toothpick.
“I've also been thinking about that,” said Reinhart. “I'll get back to you when I've finished.”
“We can always hope that somebody will turn himself in,” said Rooth.
“Hope springs eternal,” said Reinhart.
Van Veeteren yawned. It was sixteen minutes past three on Saturday, January 20. The first run-through of the Ryszard Malik case was over.
Münster parked outside the New Rumford Hospital and jogged through the rain to the entrance. A woman in reception dragged herself away from her crochet work and sent him up to the fourth floor, Ward 42; after explaining why he was there and producing his ID, he was escorted to a small, dirt-yellow waiting room with plastic furniture and eye-catching travel posters on the walls. It was evidently the intention to give people the opportunity of dreaming that they were somewhere else. Not a bad idea, Münster thought.
There were two women sitting in the room. The younger one, and by a large margin the more attractive of the two, with a mop of chestnut-brown hair and a book in her lap, was Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno. She welcomed him with a nod and an encouraging smile. The other one, a thin and slightly hunchbacked woman in her fifties, wearing glasses that concealed half her face, was fumbling nervously inside her black purse. He deduced that she must be Marlene Winther, the sister of the woman who had just been widowed. He went up to her and introduced himself.
“Münster, Detective Inspector.”
She shook his hand without standing up.
“I realize that this must be difficult for you. Please understand that we are obliged to intrude upon your grief and ask some questions.”
“The lady has already explained.”
She glanced in the direction of Moreno. Münster nodded.
“Has she come around yet?”
Moreno cleared her throat and put down her book. “She's conscious, but the doctor wants a bit of time with her first. Perhaps we should…?”
Münster nodded again: they both went out into the corridor, leaving Mrs. Winther on her own.
“In deep shock, it seems,” Moreno explained when they had found a discreet corner. “They're even worried about her mental state. She's had trouble with her nerves before, and all this hasn't helped, of course. She's been undergoing treatment for various problems.”
“Have you interviewed her sister?”
Moreno nodded.
“Yes, of course. She doesn't seem all that strong either. We're going to have to tiptoe through the tulips.”
“Hostile?”
“No, not really. Just a touch of the big-sister syndrome. She's used to looking after little sister, it seems. And evidently she's allowed to.”
“But you haven't spoken to her yet? Mrs. Malik, I mean.”
“No. Jung and Heinemann had a go this morning, but they didn't seem to get anywhere.”
Münster thought for a moment.
“Perhaps she doesn't have all that much to tell?”
“No, presumably not. Would you like me to take her on? We'll be allowed in shortly in any case.”
Münster was only too pleased to agree.
“No doubt it would be best for her to talk to a woman. I'll stay in the wings for the time being.”
Forty-five minutes later they left the hospital together. Sat down in Münster's car, where Moreno took out her notebook and started going through the meager results of her meeting with Ilse Malik. Münster had spoken to Dr. Hübner-an old, white-haired doctor who seemed to have seen more or less everything-and understood that it would probably be several days before the patient could be allowed to undergo more vigorous questioning. Assuming that would be necessary, that is.
Hübner had called it a state of deep shock. Very strong medicines to begin with, then a gradual reduction. Unable to accept what had happened. Encapsulation.
Not surprising in the circumstances, Münster thought.
“What did she actually say?” he asked.
“Not a lot,” said Moreno with a sigh. “A happy marriage, she claimed. Malik stayed at home yesterday evening while she went to see A Doll's House at the Little Theater. Left home about half past six, drank a glass of wine with that friend of hers afterward. Took a taxi home. Then she starts rambling. Her husband had been shot and lay in the hall, she says. She tried to help him but could see that it was serious, so she called an ambulance. She must have delayed that for getting on an hour, if I understand the situation rightly. Fell asleep and managed to injure herself too. She thinks her husband is in this same hospital and wonders why she's not allowed to see him… It's a bit hard to know how to handle her: the nurse tried to indicate what had happened, but she didn't want to know. Started speaking about something else instead.”
“What?”
“Anything and everything. The play-a fantastic production, it seems. Her son. He hasn't time to come because of his studies, she says. He's training to be a banking lawyer, or something of the sort.”
“He's supposed to be arriving about an hour from now,” said Münster. “Poor bastard. I suppose the doc had better take a look at him as well.”
Moreno nodded.
“He'll be staying with his aunt for the time being. We can talk to him tomorrow.”
Münster thought for a moment.
“Did you get any indications of a threat, or enemies, or that kind of thing?”
“No. I tried to discuss such matters, but I didn't get anywhere. I asked her sister, but she had no suspicions at all. Doesn't seem to be hiding anything either. Well, what do we do next, then?”
Münster shrugged.
“I suppose we'd better discuss it on Monday with the others. It's a damned horrific business, no matter which way you look at it. Can I drive you anywhere?”
“Home, please,” said Ewa Moreno. “I've been hanging around here for seven hours now. It's time to spend a bit of time thinking about something else.”
“Not a bad idea,” Münster agreed, and started the engine.
Mauritz Wolff opted to be interviewed at home, an apartment in the canal district with views over Langgraacht and Megsje Bois and deserving the description “gigantic.” The rooms were teeming with children of all ages, and Reinhart assumed he must have married late in life-several times, perhaps-as he must surely be well into his fifties. A large and somewhat red-faced man, in any case, with a natural smile that found it difficult not to illuminate his face, even in a situation like this one.