by Håkan Nesser
Moreno handed over a sheet of paper, and Reinhart studied it for a while.
Personal details. Posts held and qualifications. A black-and-white photograph of a man about thirty-five years old. Short, dark hair. Thin lips, long thin face. A little birthmark on one cheek.
‘Could be anybody,’ he said. ‘Is it an old photo?’
‘Five or six years, I reckon,’ said Moreno. ‘He’s just turned forty now.’
‘Does he have any children? From that old marriage, for instance?’
‘Not as far as Leissne knew.’
‘Women? Fiancee?’
‘Not clear.’
‘And no black marks?’
‘None that has been recorded, at least.’
‘What about his ex-wife?’
Moreno went to close the window.
‘Nobody knows. They didn’t even know what she was called. But I’ve got the name of a colleague who Leissne thought might be able to give us a bit more information. Apparently he knocked around a bit with Clausen outside working hours.’
‘And what does he have to say?’
‘Nothing. I’ve only spoken to his answering machine.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ said Reinhart.
Moreno looked at the clock.
‘Half past seven,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could drive out and take a look? To Boorkhejm, I mean. We’ve got his address.’
Reinhart knocked out his pipe and stood up.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked.
On the way out to Boorkhejm they were subjected to a hailstorm that made the suburban gloom even gloomier than usual. It took them a while to find Malgerstraat, and when Reinhart pulled up outside number seventeen, he felt even more sorry for the human race than he usually did. It must be difficult to find any sort of meaning of life when you live out here, he thought. In these grey boxes in this dreary climate. The street that God forgot. Grey, wet and narrow.
But it was middle-class even so. Standing outside each of the row of houses was a caravan of more or less identical small Japanese cars, and a blue television screen could be seen in every third window.
But number seventeen was shrouded in darkness. Both downstairs and upstairs. The house was one of a terrace of two-storey boxes in grey or possibly brown brick, with nine square metres of garden and an asphalted drive leading to the garage. A soaking wet flowerbed overgrown with weeds and a letter box made of concrete with black iron fittings.
Reinhart switched off the engine, and they remained sitting in the car for a while, looking at the house. Then he got out and lifted the lid of the letter box. It was fitted with a lock, but through the slit he could see several newspapers and rather a lot of mail. In fact, it was crammed full — he doubted if there would be room for another newspaper. He returned to the car.
‘Would you like to go and ring the bell?’ he said to Moreno.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t seem much point.’
But she got out of the car even so and walked up to the door. Pressed the bell push and waited for half a minute. Tried again. Nothing happened. She went back to Reinhart, who was standing beside the car, smoking with the pipe upside down in view of the rain.
‘Now what?’ she said.
‘We raid the house tomorrow morning,’ said Reinhart. ‘He has twelve hours in which to turn up.’
They crept back into the car and started trying to find their way out of the suburb.
31
‘Who did you say?’ said Constable Klempje, dropping his newspaper on the floor. ‘Oh dear… I mean, good morning, Chief Inspector!’
He stood up and bowed solemnly.
‘No, he’s not in, but I saw Krause in the corridor two seconds ago — shall I shout for him?’
He stuck his head out of the door and was lucky enough to attract Krause’s attention.
‘ The Chief Inspector,’ he whispered when Krause came closer. ‘On the phone… The Chief Inspector! ’
Krause stepped inside and took over the receiver.
‘Krause here. Good morning, Chief Inspector… What can I do for you?’
He listened and made notes for about a minute. Then he wished him a pleasant day and hung up.
‘What did he want?’ asked Klempje, scratching his ear with his index finger.
‘Nothing you need bother about,’ said Krause, and left.
Stuck-up ass, Klempje thought. I was only trying to help…
It took a few hours to prepare the necessary documentation for raiding the house, but at ten o’clock they were in place outside Malgerstraat 17. Reinhart, Moreno, Jung, and a car with four technicians and equipment worth a quarter of a million. If it’s going to be done, we’d better do it properly, Reinhart thought. He had rung Clausen’s number twice an hour since half past six; Rooth, deBries and Bollmert had been sent to the New Rumford Hospital to gather more facts, and it had stopped raining ten minutes ago. Everything was ready for the big breakthrough.
‘It looks a bit better in daylight in any case,’ said Reinhart. ‘Let’s go.’
The front door lock was opened by one of the technicians in thirty seconds flat, and Reinhart entered first. He took a look around. Hall, kitchen and large living room on the ground floor. Everything looked very ordinary: not all that clean, some unwashed cups, glasses and cutlery in the kitchen sink. The living room had a sofa group, teak bookcases, a hi-fi system and a substantial cupboard in what he thought was red oak. A television set without a video recorder, but with a thick layer of dust. On the smoke-coloured glass table was a fruit bowl with three apples and a few sorry-looking grapes. A copy of the Neuwe Blatt from last Thursday was lying open on the floor beside one of the armchairs.
Thursday? he thought. Four days already. Time to fly to the moon several times over.
He walked up the stairs. Jung and Moreno followed at his heels while the technicians carried in their equipment then stood in the hall, waiting for instructions.
Three rooms on the upper floor, one of which served as a study with a desk, a computer and a few rickety bookcases; another was a box room. The third was the bedroom: he walked in and looked around. Large double bed with pine head- and footboards. The bedding was primitively masculine… A bedcover with a large multi-coloured check pattern was draped over haphazard groups of pillows and blankets. A Van Gogh reproduction hung on one wall, suggesting a lack of interest in art. Reinhart had the impression that he had even seen the motif on tins of coffee. Various items of clothing lay about, both in and around a brown plastic laundry basket. Shirts and trousers were hanging on both white-painted chairs. Two books, a telephone and a clock radio were standing on one of the bedside tables… A dry cactus on the window ledge between half-drawn curtains… A series of dark stains on the beige fitted carpet.
He beckoned Jung and pointed at the carpet.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Tell them to start up here.’
While the technicians were carrying their equipment upstairs, Reinhart and Moreno went through the kitchen and into the garage. There was a red Audi, probably a couple of years old, and about as ordinary as everything else in the house. He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He bent down and looked inside, first the front seat and then the back. Stood up again and nodded to Moreno.
‘When they’ve finished upstairs I think they should take a look at this.’
He had left the back door open, and Moreno looked inside.
‘It could be anything,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t have to be blood.. Neither here nor in the bedroom.’
‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Reinhart. ‘Of course it’s blood. I can smell it. The devil be praised, we’ve got him!’
‘Really?’ said Moreno. ‘Aren’t you overlooking something?’
‘What?’
‘He doesn’t seem to be at home. Hasn’t been since last Thursday, as far as I can judge.’
‘Thank you for reminding me,’ said Reinhart. ‘Come on, let’s call on the neighbours.’
Reinh
art and Moreno stayed out at Boorkhejm until half past twelve, which was when Intendent Puijdens, the man in charge of the technicians, finally announced — with a hundred per cent certainty — that the stains were in fact blood, both in the bedroom and in the car, the red Audi, which was indeed registered in the name of Pieter Clausen. Establishing whether the blood was from a human being, and possibly from the same human being, would take another hour or so of analysis, Puijdens reckoned.
Ascertaining if it was Vera Miller’s blood, from both the afternoon and the evening.
‘Come on,’ said Reinhart to Moreno. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here. Jung can continue with the neighbours — let’s hope he finds somebody who isn’t both blind and deaf. I want to hear how things are going at the hospital, if there’s anybody who can suggest where the bastard has run away to. If the blood turns out to be what I assume it is, he’s already linked to the crime, for God’s sake!’
‘Don’t you mean crimes?’ wondered Moreno, getting into the car.
‘Piffling details,’ snorted Reinhart. ‘Where is he? Where has he been since Thursday? Those are the questions to which you should be devoting your little grey cells instead.’
‘All right,’ said Moreno, and remained sunk in thought all the way back to the police station.
‘A breech presentation,’ said Dr Brandt. ‘First child. It took some time — sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘You can’t rush a breech presentation,’ said Rooth. ‘I know all about that — it’s how I was born.’
‘Really?’ said Brandt. ‘Well, I suppose you were a bit smaller in those days. What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Maybe we could go down to the cafeteria?’ suggested Rooth. ‘I can treat you to a cup of coffee.’
Dr Brandt seemed to be about forty, but was small and slim, and moved with a youthful eagerness that reminded Rooth of a puppy. It was Jung who had spoken to him previously: Rooth hadn’t got round to listening to the recording of the conversation, but he knew Brandt had said something about Dr Clausen. Assuming Jung hadn’t simply nodded off, that is.
But now it was Clausen everything was centred on, only Clausen, and Rooth didn’t beat about the bush once they had sat down at the rickety rattan table.
‘Your good friend,’ he said. ‘Dr Clausen. He’s the person we’re interested in.’
‘Clausen?’ said Brandt, adjusting his glasses. ‘Why?’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘Well…’ Brandt opened his arms out wide. ‘We socialize a bit. I’ve known him since I was a lad — we went to secondary school together.’
‘Excellent,’ said Rooth. ‘Tell me about him.’
Dr Brandt looked at him with a sceptical frown on his face.
‘I’ve been questioned by the police once.’
‘But not about Clausen, I think?’
‘Hmm. No, but I find it hard to understand why you want information about him. Why don’t you speak to him instead?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Rooth. ‘It will be easier if I ask the questions and you answer them. Believe me. So, let’s hear it!’
Brandt sat demonstratively silent for a while, stirring his coffee. Come on, you little obstetric obstacle, Rooth thought, and took a bite of his ham sandwich while waiting.
‘I don’t know him all that well,’ said Brandt eventually. ‘A group of us meet now and again — we’ve all kept in touch since we left school. We call ourselves Verhouten’s Angels.’
‘Verhouten’s what…?’
‘Angels. A maths teacher we used to have. Charles Verhouten. A bit of a rum customer, but we liked him. And he was a damned good teacher.’
‘Really?’ said Rooth, and began to wonder if the doctor maybe had a screw loose. I wouldn’t want to be delivered by him, in any case, he thought.
‘But we usually just call ourselves The Brothers. There are six of us. We go out for a meal now and then, then sit and natter. We do have a few formalities as well.’
‘Formalities?’
‘Nothing serious. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘I see,’ said Rooth. ‘Any women?’
‘No, it’s a men-only club,’ said Brandt. ‘That gives us a bit more freedom, if you see what I mean.’
He gave Rooth a knowing look, peering over his glasses. Rooth returned his gaze, his face expressionless.
‘I understand. But enough of the other angel brothers, let’s concentrate on Clausen. When did you see him last, for instance?’
Brandt looked a little put out, but scratched his head and seemed to be thinking.
‘It was quite some time ago,’ he said. ‘We had a meeting last Friday — at the Canaille in Weivers Plejn — but Clausen was ill and couldn’t come. I don’t think I’ve seen him for about a month, come to think about it. No, not since the last meeting…’
‘Do you never meet here at the hospital?’
‘Very seldom,’ said Brandt. ‘We work quite a long way away from each other. Clausen is based in C Block, and I… Well, I work here in obstetrics, as you know.’
Rooth thought for a moment.
‘What about his relationships with women?’ he asked. ‘Are you married, incidentally?’
Dr Brandt shook his head energetically.
‘I’m single,’ he said. ‘Clausen was married for a few years, but it didn’t last. They divorced. That was about four or five years ago, if I remember rightly.’
‘Do you know if he’s had any affairs with women recently? If he’s met somebody new, for instance?’
Brandt suddenly seemed to cotton on to what it was all about. He took off his glasses. Folded them ostentatiously and put them in his breast pocket. Leaned forward over the table and tried to focus his short-sighted eyes on Rooth.
You should have kept your glasses on, little man, Rooth thought, and drank the remains of his coffee. That would have made it easier.
‘Inspector… What did you say your name was?’
‘Poirot,’ said Rooth. ‘No, I’m only joking. My name’s Rooth.’
‘My dear Inspector Rooth,’ said Brandt impassively. ‘I don’t like having to sit here and listen to your insinuations about a colleague and a good friend. I really don’t. I can assure you that Dr Clausen has nothing at all to do with this business.’
‘With what business?’ said Rooth.
‘With… with that nurse. The one who’s been murdered. Don’t think you can fool me, I know perfectly well what you’re after. You’re completely wrong. She didn’t even work at this hospital, and Clausen really isn’t the type to go running around after women.’
Rooth sighed and changed track.
‘Do you know if he has any close relations?’ he asked.
Brandt leaned back on his chair and seemed to be debating with himself whether or not to answer. His nose was trembling, as if he were trying to smell his way to a decision.
‘He has a sister,’ he said. ‘A few years older, I think. She lives abroad somewhere.’
‘No children?’
‘No.’
‘And that woman he was married to — what’s her name?’
Brandt shrugged.
‘I can’t remember. Marianne, perhaps. Something like that.’
‘Surname?’
‘I’ve no idea. Clausen, of course, assuming she took his name.. They don’t always do that nowadays. But I expect she’ll have retaken her maiden name in any case. I’ve never met her.’
Rooth thought while struggling with a little scrap of skin that had got stuck between two molars in his lower jaw.
‘Why isn’t he at work today?’
‘Who?’ said Brandt.
‘Clausen, of course.’
‘Isn’t he?’ said Brandt. ‘How the hell am I supposed to know? I suppose it’s his day off. Or that he’s still on sick leave. He has flu, if I understand it rightly — it’s quite wrong to think that just because you’re a doctor you are immune to such things…’
‘He’s disappeared,’ said Rooth. ‘Have you no better explanation to offer?’
‘Disappeared?’ said Brandt. ‘Rubbish. I don’t believe that for a moment. Surely he can’t just disappear?’
Rooth glared at him and took the last piece of his sandwich, despite the fact that the scrap of skin was still stuck between his teeth.
‘The other angels — the ones in your little club — do any of them know Clausen a bit better than you do?’
Dr Brandt fished out his spectacles and put them on again.
‘Smaage, perhaps.’
‘Smaage? Could you kindly give me his address and telephone number?’
Brandt took out a little notebook, and shortly afterwards Rooth had details of all the members of the club. He took a lump of sugar from the bowl on the table, and wondered how best to thank him for his help.
‘Okay, that’s it, all finished,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time for you to go and give birth again… Don’t let me keep you any longer.’
Verhouten’s Angels? he thought. Christ almighty.
‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart. ‘Thank you for your help, herr Haas.’
He hung up and looked at Moreno with something that might possibly be interpreted as a grim smile.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said Moreno. ‘I think I can detect a degree of satisfaction in the bloodhound’s facial expression.’
‘And not without cause,’ said Reinhart. ‘Guess who was at the Spaarkasse last Thursday and picked up two hundred thousand!’
‘Clausen?’
‘Nail on the head, to quote one of his victims. He called in to collect it at the branch in Keymer Plejn shortly after lunch. In cash! Did you hear that? Two hundred and twenty thousand in fact… Every damned piece of the puzzle is falling into place.’
Moreno pondered.
‘Thursday?’ she said. ‘It’s Tuesday today.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Reinhart. ‘God only knows what’s happened, and God only knows where he’s got to. But the Wanted notices have been sent out, so we’ll have him here sooner or later.’
Moreno bit her lip and looked doubtful.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said. ‘What was he going to use the money for?’