by Håkan Nesser
‘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 last Saturday evening?’
‘No.’
Palinski looked down at the table.
‘You’re lying,’ said Münster. ‘Shall I tell you why you’re lying?’
‘No,’ said Palinski. ‘What do you mean? Huh . . .’
‘Listen to me now,’ said Münster. ‘Last Saturday there were four of you. Now there are only two of you. Leverkuhn has been murdered, and Bonger has disappeared. There is a lot to suggest that he is no longer alive either. But you and Wauters are. There are only three possibilities.’
‘Eh?’ said Palinski. ‘What do you mean by that?’
His head had begun shaking now, Münster noted, and he realized that what was about to happen was likely to be what Moreno had predicted. It was surely only a matter of time before he threw in the towel, but it seemed only fair to let his colleague look after the confession itself. More gentlemanly, if nothing else: that was why he hadn’t wanted to draw lots, after all.
‘Three possibilities,’ he repeated slowly, holding up three fingers in front of Palinski’s eyes. ‘Either you and Wauters have done them in together—’
‘What the . . .?’ exclaimed Palinski, rising to his feet. ‘Come now, Intendent, you’ve gone far enough!’
‘Sit down!’ said Münster. ‘If you didn’t do it together, it must have been Wauters on his own.’
Palinski sat down and his jaws started moving but no words came.
‘Unless of course you did it yourself!’
‘You’re out of your mind! I want to talk to a . . . Oh no, no, no! You’re suggesting that I . . .’
Münster leaned forward over the table and his eyes drilled into his victim’s.
‘What conclusion would you draw yourself?’ he asked. ‘Four elderly gentlemen win a large sum of money. Two of them decide to get rid of the other two in order to get a bigger slice of the cake. Or perhaps it’s one of the four who intends wiping out the other three and getting the whole lot for himself. Doesn’t it make you feel a little uncomfortable, herr Palinski, knowing that two of your friends are dead? Don’t you lie awake at night wondering when it will be your turn?’
Palinski had gone white in the face.
‘You . . . you . . . you . . .’ he stammered, and Münster thought for a moment that he was going to flake out.
‘How well do you know this Wauters, in fact?’ asked Münster. ‘Isn’t he a newer member of the gang than you other three?’
Palinski made no reply. He tried to swallow, but his protruding Adam’s apple stopped halfway.
‘Because if you’re not afraid of Wauters, I have to conclude that you are the one behind it all, herr Palinski!’
‘I have never . . .’ protested Palinski. ‘I have never . . .’
But there was no continuation. Münster’s reasoning had come home to him now, and it was obvious that his paradoxical predicament was dawning on him.
‘We’ll give you five minutes to think this over,’ said Münster, pushing his chair back. ‘If I were you I’d avoid any more evasive answers when we return.’
He pressed the pause button. Stood up, left the room and locked the door.
It only took a few minutes for Moreno to conclude the business. A certain degree of feminine concern in the questioning and a hint of compassion in her eyes were evidently exactly what Jan Palinski’s soul aspired to after Münster’s bullying.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Palinski, ‘what the hell did he mean? Surely we wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .’
‘Come clean,’ said Moreno. ‘You can’t keep quiet about it any longer now. It will only do you more harm if you do, can’t you see that?’
Palinski looked at her like a dog that has disobeyed its master.
‘You think so?’
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Moreno.
Palinski wrung his hands and sucked in his lips. Then he straightened his back and cleared his throat.
‘It was Wauters,’ he said.
‘Wauters?’ said Moreno.
‘Who said we should keep quiet about it.’
Moreno nodded.
‘He thought . . .’
Moreno waited.
‘. . . He thought that we would come under suspicion if it became public knowledge that we’d won.’
‘How much?’ asked Moreno.
‘Twenty thousand,’ said Palinski, looking shamefaced.
‘How?’
‘In the lottery. Wauters bought the ticket, it was his turn. We were going to get five thousand each . . . But with Leverkuhn out of the picture it’s almost seven.’
‘And minus Bonger, it’s ten,’ said Moreno.
‘Yes, by God,’ said Palinski. ‘But surely you don’t believe it’s as your colleague suggested? Surely you can see that we would never do anything like that?’
Moreno didn’t reply. She leaned back on her chair and observed the nervous twitches in Palinski’s face for a while.
‘Just at the moment we don’t think anything at all,’ she said. ‘But you are in no way cleared of suspicion, and we don’t want you to leave Maardam.’
‘Good God,’ said Palinski. ‘It’s not possible. What the hell is Wauters going to say?’
‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ said Moreno. ‘We’ll take care of him. As far as you are concerned, you can go now – but we want you back here tomorrow morning so that you can sign the transcript of what you’ve said.’
She switched off the tape recorder. Palinski stood up, his legs shaking.
‘Am I a suspect?’ he asked.
Moreno nodded.
‘I apologize . . . I really do apologize. If I’d had my way, we’d have told you this straight away, of course. But Wauters . . .’
‘I understand,’ said Moreno. ‘We all make mistakes. Off you go now, this way.’
Palinski slunk off through the door like a reprimanded and penitent schoolboy – but after a few seconds he reappeared.
‘It’s Wauters who has the lottery ticket,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t cashed it in yet. Just so that you know.’
The he apologized again and left.
Detective Inspector Moreno noticed that she was smiling.
15
Erich Reijsen was a well-groomed gentleman in his sixties with a wife and a terraced house in the same good condition as himself. Moreno had telephoned and made an appointment, and when she arrived the tea tray was already waiting in the living room, where a realistic electric fire was burning in the hearth.
She switched off her soul, and sat down on the plush sofa.
‘We don’t eat anything sweet,’ said herr Reijsen, gesturing towards the coarse rye bread and red pepper rings. ‘We’ve started to live a healthy life as we grow older.’
His weather-beaten face and neatly trimmed moustache bore witness to that – as did his wife’s tight tracksuit and mop of blonde hair kept in place by a red and gold headband.
‘Help yourself,’ she said, demonstrating her successful facelift by opening her eyes wide. ‘My name’s Blenda.’
‘Inspector Moreno,’ said Moreno, fishing up her notebook from her briefcase. ‘Please take as much time as you like, but of course it’s mainly herr Reijsen I need to speak to.’
‘Of course,’ said Reijsen, and Blenda scampered off to some other part of the house. After only a few seconds Moreno could hear the characteristic whining noise of an exercise bike at full speed.
‘It’s about Waldemar Leverkuhn,’ she said. ‘I take it you know what’s happened?’
Reijsen nodded solemnly.
‘We’re trying to piece together a
more all-round picture of him,’ said Moreno, as her host poured out some weak tea into yellow cups. ‘You were a colleague of his for . . . for how long?’
‘Fifteen years,’ said Reijsen. ‘From the day he started work at Pixner until he retired – 1991, that is. I carried on working for five more years, and then the staff cuts began. I was offered early retirement, and accepted it like a shot. I have to say that I haven’t regretted that a single day.’
Neither would I, Moreno thought in a quick flash of insight.
‘What was he like?’ she asked. ‘Can you tell me a little about Waldemar Leverkuhn?’
It took Erich Reijsen over half an hour to exhaust the topic. It took Moreno rather less time – about two minutes – to realize that the visit was probably going to be fruitless. The portrait of Waldemar Leverkuhn as a reserved and grumpy person (but nevertheless upright and reliable) was one she had already, and her attentive host was unable to add any brush strokes that changed it, or provided anything new.
Nor did he have any dramatic revelations to make, no insightful comments or anything else that could be of the slightest relevance to the investigation.
In truth, she had difficulty at the moment in envisaging what a relevant piece of the puzzle might look like, so she dutifully noted down most of what herr Reijsen had to say. It sapped her strength, there was no denying it – both to write and to keep awake – and when she stood up after three slices of rye bread and as many cups of tea, her first instinct was to find her way to the bathroom and sick it all up. Both herr Reijsen and the sandwiches.
Her second instinct was to take a hammer and batter the exercise bike that had been emitting its reproachful whining for the whole of her visit, but she managed to restrain herself. After all, she did not have a hammer handy.
I’m a bloody awful police officer at the moment, she thought shortly afterwards, sitting at the wheel of her car again at last. Certainly nothing for the force to be proud of . . . It’s a good job we’re not busy with something more serious than this case.
She was not at all clear about what she meant by that last thought.
Something more serious? Was the death of Waldemar Leverkuhn not serious, or what? She shook her head and bit her lower lip in the hope of becoming more wide awake. It felt increasingly clear that all this accumulated tiredness was approaching a borderline beyond which it would probably be safer to switch over to automatic pilot as far as work was concerned. Not rely on her own judgement. Not make any decisions. Not think.
Not until she had managed to get a few nights of decent sleep, in any case.
She started the car and set off for the town centre. It was turned five o’clock, and the town seemed to comprise approximately equal amounts of exhaust fumes, damp and darkness – a mixture that corresponded pretty well with her own state. She stopped at Keymer Pleijn and did some shopping at Zimmermann’s – yoghurt, juice and fifteen grapes: that was more than enough after the rye sandwiches, she told herself – and when she parked outside her temporary refuge in Gerckstraat, she was convinced that there were only two things in the world that could put her back on her feet.
A long, hot bath and a large cognac.
Fortunately both these phenomena were within the realm of possibility, so she switched on her soul again and clambered out of the car. She broke with her usual practice and took the lift up to the fourth floor, and even began to hum some modern ear-fodder she must have heard on the car radio or in Zimmermann’s.
When she opened the lift door, the first thing she saw was Claus. He was sitting on the floor outside her flat, with a large bouquet of red roses in his lap.
He stared at her with blank, worn-out eyes.
‘Ewa,’ he said.
The sandwiches made their presence felt. Hell’s bells, she thought. I don’t have the strength for this.
She slammed the lift door closed again and went back down. Half-ran over the paved area outside the entrance door and had just managed to sit down in her car again when he appeared in the lit-up doorway.
‘Poor you,’ she mumbled as she rummaged for the ignition key. ‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the strength.’
Then she started the car and drove away to look for an acceptable hotel.
Münster was dreaming.
At first it was all perfectly innocent. Some sort of party with cheerful people in their gladrags, drinks in their hands and laughter in their faces. He recognized several of them – both colleagues and good friends, of himself and Synn. Only the premises seemed to be unfamiliar: a confusion of various rooms, staircases and corridors. And then, gradually, a hint of something unpleasant began to insinuate itself into the dream. Not to say frightening . . . He went from one to another of these cubbyholes, each one smaller than the last, darker, occupied by increasingly unknown men and women up to more and more dodgy business. And all the time he kept bumping into people who wanted to speak to him, to drink a toast with him, but he felt unable to stay in any given place for more than a couple of minutes . . . There was something beckoning to him, something he was looking for, but didn’t understand what it was until he was there.
He entered yet another room. It was dark, and at first he thought it was also empty – but then he heard a sound. Somebody whispered his name. He went further in, and suddenly he felt a woman’s hand on his chest. She huddled up to him, and he knew immediately that it was for her sake that he was here. Exclusively and only for her sake.
She was obviously naked, and it was obvious that they were going to make love. She led him to a low, wide bed in front of a fire which had almost burned out, but the embers were still glowing . . . Yes, it was obvious that they were going to make love, and he knew almost immediately that the woman was Ewa Moreno. Her eyes like halved almonds, her small, firm breasts that he had never seen before but nevertheless had always known that they would look exactly like this . . . And her skin reflecting the glowing embers – no, nothing could be clearer. In no more than a second he was also naked, lying on the bed, and she was astride him, guiding him into her eager pussy, and he watched her gleaming body raising and lowering itself, and it was ineffably blissful. Then he noticed the door slowly opening without really registering it . . . until he saw his children, Bart and Marieke, standing there watching him only a metre away, with their serious and somewhat sorrowful eyes.
He was woken up by his own cry. Synn stirred restlessly, and he could feel the cold sweat all over his skin like an armour plate of angst. He lay there motionless for a few seconds, then slid cautiously out of bed, tiptoed into the bathroom and showered for ten minutes.
When he returned to the bedroom he saw that it was a quarter past four. He lifted the duvet and crept down to lie close to Synn’s warm back. Close, very close.
Then lay there, holding her tightly, without sleeping a wink all night.
Something is happening, he thought.
It mustn’t happen.
16
Wednesday felt like a funeral in a foreign language. He almost crashed the car twice on the way to the police station, and for a while seriously considered driving back home and going to bed instead. He had just flopped down at his desk, propping up his head with his hands, when Jung knocked on the door.
‘Have you got a spare moment?’
Münster nodded.
‘Two, if you need them.’
Jung sat down.
‘You look tired.’
‘What did you want?’ asked Münster.
‘Well,’ said Jung, squirming on the chair. ‘Nothing much really, just a thought that struck me.’
‘Really?’
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘Er, I was thinking that the simplest solution to this Leverkuhn business would be that Bonger did it.’
Münster yawned.
‘Go on,’ he said.
Jung braced himself.
‘Well, I thought that Bonger could have gone home with Leverkuhn, for instance . . . or called round later, it doesn’t really matter
which . . . and killed him. I mean, they had been arguing outside Freddy’s, and if Bonger lost his temper, it could well be that he lost control of his senses, as it were.’
‘You think so?’ said Münster.
‘I don’t know. But at least that would explain why he’s disappeared, wouldn’t it? At first I thought he had jumped into the canal when he sobered up and realized what he’d done, but of course he could equally well simply be in hiding. He must realize that he would be under suspicion. What do you think?’
Münster pondered for a moment.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘God knows, it’s certainly a possibility. There’s nothing to say that’s not what happened in any case.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ said Jung, looking pleased with himself. ‘I just wanted you to bear it in mind.’
He stood up.
‘Thank you,’ said Münster. ‘If Hiller agrees to let me have you for a few days, you could follow it up – check possible pals and acquaintances and so on. Regarding a hiding place, that is.’
‘I’d be glad to,’ said Jung. ‘Although he doesn’t seem all that cooperative just now, Hiller . . . Something to do with that dwarf. But let me know if he gives us the okay.’
When he had left, Münster went to stand by the window again. Pulled up the blind, rested his forehead against the cool glass and gazed out at the completely unchanged town, which hardly seemed to have had the energy to get out of bed either.
Bonger? he thought. A dead simple solution. But why the hell not? Maybe he should do what Van Veeteren used to say: always do the simplest thing first. It’s so damned easy to miss a checkmate in one move!
Then he looked at the clock and saw there was less than twenty minutes to go before his meeting with Marie-Louise Leverkuhn. He armed himself with coffee, pen and notebook. Sat down at his desk again, and tried to concentrate.
‘To tell you the truth, we’re having difficulty in coming to grips with this case, fru Leverkuhn.’
She made no reply.
‘Nevertheless, we must work on the assumption that there is a motive behind the murder of your husband, that there is something in his background or general circumstances that has resulted in this terrible crime.’