Mind's Eye (18 page)

Three…most probably.

Four…possibly.

Even more?

He considered that to be not unlikely. After all the years he had spent on the shady side of society, there was not a lot that he considered to be unlikely.

But nevertheless. What if he didn’t confess?

What if he had become so hardened that he denied everything when confronted by Van Veeteren?

That was not very likely, but it was possible, of course. In that case they would have to dig out proof for the whole cartload of shit!

He cursed out loud and increased his speed…. But then he remembered the circumstances.

Proof?

That wasn’t his problem. That was something the rest of them could sort out—Münster and Reinhart and Rooth—while he sat back under the palm trees in Brisbane.

Were there palm trees in Brisbane?

He put Handel on, and increased his speed even more.

38

Münster contemplated his lists. Then he contemplated Jung, who was sitting half asleep under the portrait of the minister of justice.

Master and slave, Münster thought. The eagle-eyed minister was standing stiffly erect, portrayed full length against a pale-blue background, flanked by the flag and the lion on one side, and his desk with a statute book and a judge’s hammer on the other.

Jung, on the other hand, looked more like a professional criminal. Hunched, wearing grubby corduroy trousers and a coffee-stained shirt, unshaven and with several days’ work collected in black bags under his eyes.

“Well,” said Münster, clearing his throat, “as far as I can see, we’ve finished.”

“Hmm?” said Jung.

“There’s one left. So it must be him.”

“What the hell are you saying?” said Jung, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Is there any more coffee?”

Münster poured out two mugs.

“Sit down here and check what I’m doing while I run through them one more time.”

Jung left the minister and sat down by the desk.

“Here we have the names of those who don’t have an alibi for the Eva murder,” said Münster, handing over a sheet of paper. “There are quite a lot of them, of course.”

“Does this cover the whole population of the world, or just Europe?” Jung wondered.

“Bunge staff plus a few other acquaintances,” said Münster.

Jung nodded and took a sip of coffee.

“Here are the ones who have lived in Maardam for no more than two years,” said Münster, passing him another sheet of paper.

“And here are those who don’t have a cast-iron alibi for the Mitter murder.”

“The ones who might have been able to call in on him for a while,” said Jung.

“And then gone back in,” said Münster, “and battered him to death.”

“Then run for it,” said Jung.

“Run him through,” said Münster. “Incidentally, I’ve just received a report from deBries. It seems pretty likely—those were his words, ‘pretty likely’—that somebody climbed up or down the drainpipe more than once.”

“How can he have worked that out?”

Münster smiled.

“He and Moss have been out there, climbing. Or rather, Moss did the climbing and deBries made notes. They tried eight different drainpipes, between the ground and the third floor. All of them survived being climbed down with flying colors, but only three of them held for four attempts.”

“How much does Moss weigh?” asked Jung.

“About a hundred and fifty pounds, I should think,” said Münster. “He’s considering leaving the force, according to deBries; but both the patients and the doctors seem to have had a most enjoyable day…. Anyway, look closely at the names and compare the lists. How many can you find on all three?”

Jung examined the sheets of paper for a few moments.

“One,” he said.

“Exactly,” said Münster. “We’ve got him. There’s another thing that indicates him—can you see it?”

“The letter?” said Jung.

“Yes,” said Münster “If it is him, that confirms the letter theory as well. Shall we go?”

Jung looked at his watch.

“Go where?” he wondered.

“Home, of course,” said Münster. “I’ll phone Van Veeteren tomorrow morning.”

“I say, Münster,” said Jung as they were on the way down in the elevator. “What’s behind it all? The motive, I mean?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said Münster.

“Reinhart here,” said Reinhart.

“What the devil…” said Van Veeteren. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Half past four,” said Reinhart. “Were you asleep?”

“Go to hell!” said Van Veeteren. “What do you want?”

“Did you hear about the woman in Leisner Park?”

“Yes, I heard a bit. What about it? Has she woken up?”

“I think there’s a link.”

“A link?”

“Yes. A connection.”

“With what?”

“With your murderer, of course. I thought I had the pleasure of talking to the astute Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren…?”

“No, this is the trustee of his estate,” said Van Veeteren. “For Christ’s sake tell me what you want, Inspector, or there’ll be another case for us to solve.”

“I’ve interrogated several people…”

“I should hope so.”

“Among others, a friend of the deceased, Johanna Goertz. Apparently this Liz Hennan confided a few things in her.”

“Hennan? Is that the victim?”

“Yes, Liz Hennan. She told Johanna Goertz, last Tuesday, that she’d met a new man. She was going to meet him again on Saturday—last Saturday, that is—and that she felt a bit scared. She told Goertz a bit about him as well, not all that much because she didn’t know much. Not even his name. He called himself John, but she didn’t think that was his real name. Are you with me?”

“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “Get to the point, Reinhart.”

“Any moment now,” said Reinhart. “Anyway, he’d apparently told Liz Hennan something odd, just in passing, or however you might want to see it…. He’d told her that he came across the guidance counselor with a pupil one day.”

“Eh?”

“Yes. In flagrante. The guidance counselor with a pupil. What do you think that suggests?”

Van Veeteren sat in silence for a few seconds.

“School,” he said.

“I agree,” said Reinhart. “But I’m a bit on the tired side now…. I think I’ll go to bed and disconnect the telephone. You can ring me at nine.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Van Veeteren. But it was too late.

He wrote the sixth name down at the very end of the book.

He contemplated the list for a few moments. Three women and three men. There was a sort of balance, no matter what—even if one of the men had only been a child.

He noted down the date as well. Tried to find some kind of harmony there, but that was harder. The specific dates were spread out over years, and months: the only trend was that the gap between them grew shorter. Eight years…six years…six years again…seven weeks…ten days…

He closed the book and put it in the outside pocket of his bag. Checked his watch. A few minutes past five. It was still pitch-dark outside. His suitcases were all packed and lying ready on the bed. No point in waiting any longer. Best to get going right away.

Leave everything behind now, yet again.

Exhaustion was like needles sticking into him, and he resolved not to drive too far. Three or four hundred kilometers, perhaps. Then a motel and a bed.

The most important thing was to get away from here. Vamoose.

As long as he got some sleep, he would be ready to face up to life again tomorrow morning. From the beginning, this time.

Without all the old stuff. That was in the past now. He understood that it was all over and done with, at last.

Tomorrow. In a new place.

39

“What the hell are you doing here?” said Suurna.

“I’ve come to say hello to my old school,” said Van Veeteren. “When did you start swearing, Headmaster?”

“We’re here to pick up a murderer,” said Reinhart.

Suurna opened and shut his mouth a few times, but no words emerged. He grabbed hold of his desk, and once again Münster had the impression he was about to faint.

“Do sit down, Headmaster,” he said. “There, that’s it.”

“We’re looking for Carl Ferger,” said Van Veeteren. “Do you know where he is right now?”

“The school janitor?” said Suurna. “Are you really sure that…?”

“Absolutely certain,” said Reinhart. “Can you find out where he is, please?”

“Er…yes, of course,” said Suurna. “I can ask Miss Bellevue…”

He pressed the intercom.

“Ask her to come here,” said Van Veeteren. “We don’t want to warn him.”

Half a minute later Miss Bellevue appeared, with wide eyes and dangling earrings.

“These gentlemen are looking for Ferger,” said Suurna.

“Do you know where he is?”

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” said Miss Bellevue, dangling her earrings.

“Hasn’t arrived?” said Suurna. “Why?”

“What time is he supposed to start work?” interrupted Van Veeteren.

“Half past seven,” said Miss Bellevue. “He hasn’t reported sick. I don’t know what’s happened. Mattisen has been asking for him several times—they were supposed to be moving the grand piano today.”

“Shit!” said Van Veeteren.

“Has anybody phoned him?” Reinhart asked.

“Mattisen has called, but there was no answer. Perhaps his car has broken down, or something of the sort.”

“And it’s taken two hours?” said Suurna. “He only lives a ten-minute walk from here, doesn’t he?”

“Shit!” said Van Veeteren again. “Hand over his address, Headmaster. You and I are going to pay a call, Münster! Reinhart, you take care of the guidance counselor!”

“With pleasure,” said Reinhart.

He knocked and walked in.

The guidance counselor was in his forties. Beard, sandals, and a ring in his ear.

“Hey, hold on a minute, what the…” he began.

“I’m a bit short of time,” said Reinhart. “Might I suggest that you take care of this lad a bit later.”

The youth on the sofa stood up reluctantly.

“Would you mind waiting outside for a few moments?” said the guidance counselor. “What the hell do you mean by bursting in here and…”

Reinhart waited until the boy had closed the door behind him.

“To tell you the truth, I’m in
one hell of a hurry.
That’s why I’m going to give you a chance to save your skin.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you, to start with?”

“Police,” said Reinhart. “If you confess right away, I promise not to take it any further, not this time. If you mess me about…well, I find it hard to see how the hell you’ll be able to keep your job.”

The guidance counselor said nothing. Sat down carefully on the edge of his desk.

“Have you, or have you not, had an affair with a pupil during this last year? Even screwed her here in school…”

No answer. The guidance counselor swallowed and held on to his beard.

“It’s not you I’m after, for fuck’s sake!” said Reinhart. “I’m on the tail of an even bigger shit. You have ten seconds, then I’m taking you to the police station!”

The guidance counselor let go of his beard and tried to look Reinhart in the eye.

“Yes,” he said. “It…”

“Thank you,” said Reinhart. “That’s enough.”

He went out and slammed the door so that the noise echoed down the corridor.

“Knock the door down!” ordered Van Veeteren.

“We have people who can pick locks,” said Münster.

“No time,” said Van Veeteren.

“There’s usually a janitor,” said Münster.

“Knock the door down, I said! Do I have to do it myself?”

Münster sized it up. The door was ideally located, no doubt about that. Farthest away from the staircase. He’d have a run of a good eight meters. Van Veeteren stepped to one side.

“Give it all you’ve got!”

Münster barged into the door, shoulder first. There was a loud creaking noise, from both the door and Münster, but that was all.

“One more time!” said Van Veeteren.

Münster charged again, with just as little result.

“Fetch the janitor!” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll wait here.”

After ten minutes Münster returned with a thin man wearing an overall and a flat cap.

“Mr. Gobowsky,” explained Münster.

A circle of discarded toothpicks had formed around Van Veeteren’s feet, and Mr. Gobowsky eyed it critically. Then he asked to see Van Veeteren’s ID.

The bastard had been to the movies, it seemed.

The apartment comprised two small rooms and an even smaller kitchen, and it took them about five seconds to establish that the tenant had flown. Van Veeteren slumped down into an artificial leather chair.

“He’s done a runner,” he said. “We’ll have to set off a nationwide alert. This guy is going to bankrupt the police force. Münster, you stay here and root around! I’ll send somebody to help you.”

Münster nodded. The chief inspector turned to the janitor, who was loitering in the hall, eager to know what was going on.

“Did he have a car?” Van Veeteren asked.

“A blue Fiat,” said Mr. Gobowsky. “A 326, I think.”

“Where did he usually park it?”

“In the lot outside.”

Mr. Gobowsky nodded in the direction of the courtyard.

“Come with me, please, and see if it’s still there,” said Van Veeteren. “We’ll leave the inspector here.”

“Wait!” shouted Münster, just as they were passing through the door. “Look at this!”

He held out a little photograph in a frame. Van Veeteren took it and examined it.

“Eva Ringmar,” he said. “A few years younger, but it’s her, sure as hell.”

“No more doubts, then?” said Münster.

“Have I ever had any doubts?” said Van Veeteren, leaving Münster to his fate.

“Carl Ferger, yes,” said Reinhart. “Came here in 1986, presumably, possibly a year or so earlier. Send the faxes immediately! And tell them we need answers PDQ, if not sooner, the moment they find him! Stick on red flags and express labels and Interpol and whatever else you have in that line! And make sure you inform me, or one of the others, the moment you get an answer! Is that understood?”

Widmar Krause nodded.

“One to the immigration office, and one to the other side, okay?” Reinhart repeated. “Let them fight to see who wins!”

Krause left the room. Reinhart looked at the clock. A quarter past twelve. Looked at Van Veeteren, who was slumped over the desk.

He looks like a half-finished stuffed animal, Reinhart thought.

“Where do you think he is?” he said.

“Probably lying low and dossing down in a motel somewhere,” said Van Veeteren. “Not a bad idea, in fact. Do you know that some shit-heap woke me up at four-thirty this morning? Let’s go and have lunch.”

“By all means,” said Reinhart. “But not the canteen.”

“No, Christ no,” said Van Veeteren. “If we have nothing else to do but sit and wait, we might as well go somewhere a bit classier.”

“Good,” said Reinhart. “Let’s go to La Canaille and leave the number with the switchboard. But what if it’s Klempje on duty?”

“No chance,” said Van Veeteren. “He’s still in exile.”