Munster's Case

by Håkan Nesser

  “What about your eldest sister?” he asked. “She’s unwell, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Mauritz suddenly looked hostile.

  “You have no reason to drag her into this,” he said. “Our family has nothing to do with what happened. Not me or my sisters. Or my mother.”

  “How can you be so sure?” said Münster.

  “What?”

  “How can you be so sure that none of them is involved? You don’t have any contact with them.”

  “Shut your trap,” said Mauritz.

  Münster did as he was told. Then he pressed the intercom and asked Fröken Katz to serve them some coffee.

  “Tell me what you were doing last Saturday night.”

  The coffee had induced a climate change for the better, but only marginally.

  “I was at home,” said Mauritz sullenly, after a couple of seconds’ thought. “Watching the boxing match on TV.”

  Münster wrote that down as a matter of routine.

  “What time was that?”

  Mauritz shrugged.

  “Between nine and twelve, roughly speaking. Surely you don’t think that I drove here and murdered my father? Are you all right in the head?”

  “I don’t think anything,” said Münster. “But I would like you to be a bit more cooperative.”

  “Oh yeah? And how do you think I’m going to be able to cooperate when I’ve got nothing to say?”

  I don’t know, Münster thought. How many years is it since you last smiled at anything?

  “But what do you think?” he asked. “We have to try to find somebody who might have had a motive to kill your father. It’s possible of course that it was an act of pure madness, but that’s not certain. There might have been something behind it.”

  “What, for instance?” Mauritz wondered.

  “That’s something we hoped you might be able to tip us off about.”

  Mauritz snorted.

  “Do you really think I’d shut up about something like that, even if I knew anything?”

  Münster paused and checked the questions he had written down in advance.

  “When did they move to Kolderweg?” he asked.

  “Nineteen seventy-six. Why do you want to know that?”

  Münster ignored the question.

  “Why?”

  “They sold the house. We youngsters had moved out.”

  Münster made a note of that.

  “He got a new job as well. He’d been out of work for a while.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “Pixner Brewery. I’m sure you know about that already.”

  “Perhaps,” said Münster. “And before that you lived down in Pampas, is that right?”

  Mauritz nodded.

  “Pampas, yes. Shoe boxes for the working class. Four rooms and a kitchen. Eighty square feet of lawn.”

  “Okay,” said Münster. “And where did you move to when it became too cramped?”

  “Aarlach. I started at the commercial college in 1975. This can’t be important, surely?”

  Münster pretended to check his notebook again. Mauritz had folded his arms over his chest and was gazing out the window at the rain-filled clouds. His aggressiveness seemed to have lapsed into genuine lethargy. As if he were sitting there reflecting the weather.

  “Who do you think did it?” he asked speculatively.

  Mauritz turned his head to look at Münster dismissively.

  “How the hell should I know? I haven’t had any real contact with my father for more than twenty years, and I’ve no idea who he used to knock around with. Can’t we stop all this crap now so that I can get away from here?”

  “All right,” said Münster. “Just one more thing. Do you know if your father had any money? If he had any cash stashed away, for instance?”

  Mauritz had already stood up.

  “Garbage,” he said. “He worked for half his life at Gahn’s, and for the other half at the brewery. Those aren’t the kind of places where you can scrape together a fortune. Good-bye, Intendent!”

  He started to reach out over the desk with his hand, but changed his mind halfway through and put it in his pocket instead.

  “Do you miss him?” Münster asked, but the only response he got was a vacant look. Nevertheless, Mauritz paused in the doorway.

  “When I was a teenager I actually considered applying to police college,” he said. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “So are we,” Münster muttered when the door had closed. “Very glad indeed.”

  When he was alone in the room, he went to the window and looked out over the town, as he often did. Over the streets, rooftops, and churches; over Wejmargraacht and Wollerims Park, where the gray mist enveloped the trees in a blanket of damp, obliterating outlines. Like an amateurish watercolor painting, he thought, in which the colors have spread and mixed with one another and with the water. The skyscrapers a little farther off, up on the ridge at Leimaar, could hardly be made out, and the thought struck him that if there was any town in the whole world where a murderer had a good chance of hiding away, it was here.

  When he looked down he saw Mauritz Leverkuhn walking across the car park toward a white and fairly new Volvo. Some kind of company car, probably—with the trunk and backseat crammed full of serviettes and candle rings in every cheerful color imaginable. For the benefit of mankind and their endless striving after the greatest possible enjoyment.

  I seem to be a bit disillusioned today, Münster thought, turning his back on the town.

  Chief of Police Hiller was reminiscent of a randy frog.

  At least that was Münster’s immediate reaction when he came into the conference room where the run-through was set to take place, a few minutes late. The whole man seemed to be inflated, especially over his shirt collar; his eyes were bulging, his cheeks swollen, and his face was deep red.

  “What the hell’s the meaning of this?” he hissed, drops of spit glittering in the reflected light from the overhead projector, which was switched on, ready for use. “Explain what the hell this means!”

  He was holding a newspaper in his hand, waving it at the cowering assembly—Intendent Heinemann; Inspectors Rooth, Jung, and Moreno; and in the far corner the promising young Constable Krause.

  Münster sat down between Heinemann and Moreno without speaking.

  “Well?” snorted Hiller, hurling the Neuwe Blatt onto the table so that Münster could see at last what the problem was.

  The headline ran across all eight columns, and was followed by three exclamation marks:

  POLICE ARE SEARCHING FOR REDHEADED DWARF!!!

  and underneath, in less bold type:

  IN CONNECTION WITH THE RETIREE MURDER

  Heinemann put on his glasses.

  “That’s odd,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve been informed.”

  Hiller closed his eyes and clenched his fists. In an attempt to calm himself down, for his next comment came through clenched teeth.

  “I want to know the meaning of this. And who is responsible.”

  Moreno glanced at the newspaper and cleared her throat.

  “Red-haired dwarf?” she said. “It must be a joke.”

  “A joke?” snarled Hiller.

  “I agree,” said Rooth. “Surely none of you are looking for a dwarf?”

  He looked inquiringly around the table, while Hiller chewed at his lower lip and tried to stand still.

  “I’m not,” said Heinemann.

  Münster glanced at Jung. Realized that a disastrous burst of laughter was on the point of breaking out, and that he’d better intervene before it was too late.

  “It’s just a newspaper fuck-up,” he said as slowly and pedagogically as he could. “Some bright spark has no doubt phoned the editorial office and spun them a yarn. And some other bright spark has swallowed the bait. Don’t blame us!”

  “Exactly,” said Rooth.

  Hiller’s facial color went down to plum.

  “What a fucking mess,”
he muttered. “Krause!”

  Krause sat up straight.

  “Yes?”

  “Find out which prize idiot has written this drivel—I’ll be damned if they’re going to get away with it!”

  “Yes, sir!” said Krause.

  “Off you go, then!” the chief of police roared, and Krause slunk out. Hiller sat down at the end of the table and switched off the overhead projector.

  “Moreover,” he said, “we have too many people working on this case. Just a couple of you will be sufficient from now on. Münster!”

  “Yes?” said Münster with a sigh.

  “You and Moreno will sort out Leverkuhn from now on. Use Krause as well, but only if it’s really necessary. Jung and Rooth will look after the rapes in Linzhuisen, and Heinemann—what were you working on last week?”

  “That Dellinger business,” said Heinemann.

  “Continue with that,” said Hiller. “I want reports from all of you by Friday.”

  He stood up and would have been out of the room in two seconds if he hadn’t stumbled over Rooth’s briefcase.

  “Oops,” said Rooth. “Sorry about that, but I think I need to have a quick word with Krause.”

  He picked up his briefcase and hurried off, while the chief of police brushed off his neatly creased knee and muttered something incomprehensible.

  “Well, what do you think?” said Münster as he and Moreno sat down in the canteen. “A memorable performance?”

  “There’s no doubt about the entertainment value,” said Moreno. “It must be the first time in a month that I almost burst out laughing. What an incredible idiot!”

  “A Boy Scout, perhaps?” said Münster, and she actually smiled.

  “Still, he says what he means,” she said. “He doesn’t try to fool anybody. Should we get down to work?”

  “That’s the idea. Have you any good ones?”

  Moreno swirled her cup and analyzed the coffee grounds.

  “No,” she said. “No good ones.”

  “Nothing here either,” said Münster. “So we’ll have to make do with bad ones for the time being. We could bring Palinski in.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Moreno.

  14

  After two days out at Bossingen, Marie-Louise Leverkuhn returned to Kolderweg 17 on Tuesday afternoon.

  The children had come, commiserated, and gone back home. Emmeline von Post had lamented and sympathized in every way possible, the heavens had wept more or less continuously. It was high time to return to reality and everyday life. It certainly was.

  Marie-Lousie began by scrubbing the blood-soaked room. She was unable to get rid of the blood that had penetrated the floorboards and walls, despite her best efforts with strong scouring powder of various makes; nor was there much she could do about the stains on the woodwork of the bed—but then again, she didn’t need the bed anymore. She dismantled it and dragged the whole caboodle out onto the landing for Arnold Van Eck to take care of. She then unrolled a large cowhair carpet that had been stored up in the attic for years and covered the floorboards. A couple of low-hanging tapestries took care of the wall.

  After this hard labor she started going through her husband’s wardrobe: it was a time-consuming and rather delicate undertaking. She didn’t like doing it, but she had no choice. Some stuff ended up in the garbage, some in the laundry basket; but most of it was put into suitcases and plastic bags for taking to the charity shop in Windemeerstraat.

  When this task was more or less finished, there was a ring at the door. It was Fru Van Eck, inviting her down for coffee and cake. Marie-Louise hesitated at first. She had never been on particularly good terms with the caretaker’s wife, but Fru Van Eck was insistent and in the end she heaved the plastic bag she had just finished filling into the wardrobe and accepted the invitation.

  Life must go on, she thought, somewhat confused.

  “Life must go on,” said Fru Van Eck five minutes later as her husband sliced up the cake with raspberries and blackberries. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad,” said Marie-Louise. “It takes time to get used to things.”

  “I can imagine that,” said Fru Van Eck, eyeing Arnold for a few seconds with a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “By the way, there was one thing,” she said eventually. “Arnold, will you leave us alone for a minute or two, please? Go and buy a soccer pool coupon or something, but take that apron off!”

  Arnold bowed obediently and left the ladies alone in the kitchen.

  “There’s one thing I didn’t mention when the police were here,” said Fru Van Eck when she heard the apartment door close.

  Marie-Louise said nothing, merely stirred her cup of coffee, didn’t look up.

  “I thought perhaps we could discuss it and agree on what line we should take. Do help yourself to a slice of cake. Arnold baked it himself.”

  Marie-Louise shrugged and took a slice.

  “Let’s hear it, then,” she said.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Rooth as he left Krause’s office. “I’ll make sure you get two tickets.”

  As he went through the door he found himself confronted by Joensuu and Kellerman, who were steering Adolf Bosch along the corridor. After a day-and-a-half-long search, they had eventually found him in a dodgy bar in the block just below the customs station. Rooth turned his nose up and squeezed past. There was a smell of old sweat and drunkenness surrounding the man: Krause immediately ushered him toward the PVC-covered sofa next to the door, and the constables used all their strength to force him to sit down on it.

  “Ouch,” said Bosch.

  “Shut your trap,” said Kellerman. “That was far from easy, believe you me.”

  “The bastard started peeing in the car,” said Joensuu.

  “Well done,” said Krause. “You can go now.”

  Joensuu and Kellerman left and Krause closed the door. Bosch was already lying down on the short sofa, with his knees raised and his head on the armrest. Krause sat down at his desk and waited.

  “I don’t feel very well,” said Bosch after half a minute.

  “You never have,” said Krause. “Stop with the act, you know what’s what. If we want we can have you locked away for eighteen months.… Unless you tell me a thing or two about certain unpleasant characters. Sit up!”

  Bosch was a narc. Or an informer, as he preferred to call himself. A good-for-nothing dropout in any case—but with just the right lack of backbone and civil courage required for the role. Krause observed him in disgust. He had always found it difficult to accept this form of cooperation. Bosch was constantly being admitted to various clinics and institutions for detox and rehab: nobody seriously thought he would live to be much older than the forty-five years he had managed to achieve, but despite everything, asking him to find out information often produced results. Much more often than one would have expected.

  “When it comes to crooks, you can always rely on Adolf Bosch to stir up the shit,” Van Veeteren used to say. “But never give him more than three days—he has no concept of time any longer than that.”

  The threat of being locked away and reprisals from the underworld made him sit up half-straight. His eyes looked shifty and he scratched away at his armpits.

  “Are you listening?” said Krause.

  “Any chance of a cig?”

  Krause took a packet out of a drawer, where it was kept for this purpose, and handed it over.

  “You can have what’s left, but wait until you’ve left the building.”

  “Thanks,” said Bosch, taking tight hold of the packet.

  “It’s in connection with a murder,” said Krause. “That retiree in Kolderweg. Have you heard about it?”

  Bosch nodded.

  “But I have no idea who did it. I swear …”

  “Spare us the innocent act,” said Krause. “We think it was some junkie who had a bad trip. See what you can find out and report back to me the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’m a bit
short of cash at the moment,” said Bosch, looking worried.

  “We’ll see about that on Thursday.”

  “But I’m broke,” said Bosch.

  “Thursday,” said Krause, pointing at the door.

  “Thursday,” muttered Bosch, and he left reluctantly.

  Krause sighed and opened the window.

  They stuck to the rule book with regard to Palinski. At first they considered drawing straws, but as Moreno was a woman Münster backed down and took the first round.

  “Name?”

  “Eh?” said Palinski. “You already know what it is.”

  “We’re recording this conversation,” explained Münster impatiently, pointing at the tape recorder. “Please state your name and date of birth.”

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  “Yes. Name?”

  “Palinski … Jan. Born 1924.”

  “Date?”

  “April 10, but …”

  “Here in Maardam?”

  “Yes. But why are you treating me like this? Police car and everything. I’ve never been involved in anything all my life.”

  “You’re involved in this now,” said Münster. “Civil status?”

  “Eh? … Bachelor, of course—or widower, depending on how you look at it. We were going to divorce twenty years ago, but she died before all the papers were signed and sealed. Run over by a truck in Palizerlaan. Shocking business.”

  “Current address?”

  “Armastenplejn 42. But look here …”

  “Do you realize the seriousness of the situation?” Münster interrupted him.

  “Yes. Well, no.”

  “We suspect you are intentionally withholding important information.”

  “I would never do such a thing,” said Palinski, clasping his hands. “Not from the police, at least.”

  From whom would you withhold important information, then? wondered Münster, and gave an impatient snort.

  “Is it not the case,” he went on, “that together with the other three gentlemen you have won quite a substantial amount of money, and that is what you were celebrating at Freddy’s this past Saturday evening?”