Woman with Birthmark (10 page)

“Please be gentle with her, if you have to interview her several times. She didn't sleep much last night.”

Münster nodded.

“We talked to her quite a lot yesterday. A smart girl.”

Suddenly Wanda Piirinen had tears in her eyes, and he wondered if he had misjudged her slightly. He felt it was about time to take his leave.

“Just one more thing,” he said. “Ryszard Malik. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“He's the one who was shot on the previous occasion, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I've never heard the name before, I'm quite sure.”

“Okay, many thanks,” said Münster, rising to his feet. “I hope you'll get in touch if you think of anything you consider might be of interest to us.”

“Of course.”

She showed him out. For some reason she remained in the doorway until he had clambered into his car in the street outside. When he started the engine, she raised her hand as a sort of farewell gesture before disappearing into the house.

That's that, then, Münster thought. Another insight into another life. And as he did a U-turn in the deserted suburban street, he suddenly felt something dark and somber stick its claws into him.

“Hell and damnation,” he muttered. It must be something to do with the time of year….

“Fired!” said Jung. “Can you believe that he was actually in the process of being fired? For Christ's sake, I thought it was impossible for a teacher to get the boot!”

They were in the car again, on the way back to the police station. The visit to the Elementar school had taken up three hours of their time, but the outcome was not bad at all. After a short introductory conversation with Greitzen, the headmaster, they
had spent most of the time with the school's so-called staff welfare group—three women and three men—and the picture of Rickard Maasleitner that had emerged was undoubtedly a colorful one.

He was evidently one of those pedagogues who should have chosen a different career. That was soon clear to Jung. A job in which he didn't have such good opportunities to take advantage of his position. To use and misuse his power.

The incidents in December had not been the first ones. By no means. Maasleitner's twenty-five-year teaching career had been littered with similar intermezzos. What had kept him in his job were esprit de corps, misguided solidarity on the part of colleagues, interventions by school leaders and others; but it was crystal clear that many people were sick and tired of him. Not to say everybody.

“There are two types of teacher,” a hardened, chain-smoking counselor had explained. “Those who solve conflicts, and those who create them. Unfortunately, Maasleitner belonged to the latter category.”

“Belonged to?” a gently ironic but confidence-inspiring woman, a language teacher, had commented. “He was their uncrowned king. He could hardly walk across the school playground without stirring up trouble. He could pick an argument with the flagpole.”

Moreno had wondered if Maasleitner had enjoyed any kind of support from the staff even so, and what the outcome of his suspension would have been, if it had progressed to a natural conclusion, as it were. Needless to say the problem had been discussed in the staff welfare group—whose function was to deal with delicate matters like the problems caused by Maasleitner—and there was a surprisingly firm agreement that they would
have let it take its natural course. They would have left Maasleitner to dig his own way out of the hole he had created himself, as best he could.

That indubitably said quite a lot about the situation. And about Maasleitner.

“But he must surely have had a few allies?” Jung had suggested.

But not a single name was mentioned. Perhaps that was a way of presenting a united front, it had occurred to Jung afterward. Perhaps it was only natural. But there again, it was rather odd. Maasleitner had just been murdered, after all…. Don't speak ill of the dead, and all that. But here the opposite seemed to be the case.

Terrible, he thought. If the people you have been working with every day—in some cases for more than twenty years—had nothing but shit to throw at a man lying helpless on the ground, well … It indicated that he hadn't been anybody's favorite, that was definite.

They had spoken to some of the pupils as well. Six of them, to be precise; one at a time. These somewhat younger witnesses displayed rather more consideration and respect for the dead. To be sure, Maasleitner had been a pain, but it was going over the top for somebody to go and shoot him. Kick him—yes! Kill him—no, no! as one young man put it. A couple of the girls had even tried hard to find the odd nice thing to say about him, although their efforts gave the distinct impression of being rather strained and forced.

He was knowledgeable, and sometimes fair, he didn't have any particular favorites—those were among the good qualities they mentioned. (In other words, he thought just as badly about all of them, Jung thought to himself.)

In the end they had gone back to the headmaster's study
again. He served them coffee and wondered if they needed any further information—and hoped that if so, they could arrange to dig deeper outside school hours.

Neither Moreno nor Jung thought they had much more to ask about at this stage. Apart from what could have caused his murder and who did it, of course; but the headmaster had merely shaken his head in response to that.

“You mean, can I think of anybody who would want to eliminate him? No. I assume you are not looking for a young murderer. Our oldest pupils are sixteen years of age. I can't imagine that any member of our staff would … No, that's out of the question. He wasn't exactly well liked, but it's completely out of the question.”

“What do you think?” asked Moreno as they waited at a red light down by Zwille.

“Well,” said Jung, “I wouldn't like to be the headmaster and need to say a few words at the funeral. Good Lord, no.”

“It's wrong to tell lies in church,” said Moreno.

“Exactly.”

“And Malik doesn't seem to have had any connection with the school at all. No, I think we can leave them in peace and let them get on with their studies.”

Jung said nothing for a while.

“How about going for lunch somewhere instead?” he said as the police station loomed up in front of them. “There's two hours to go before our meeting.”

Ewa Moreno hesitated.

“Okay,” she said. “At least they won't have us getting in the way if we do that.”

·  ·  ·

DeBries started the tape recorder even before Alwin Malgre had settled down in the visitor's chair.

Extremely productive, deBries thought after Malgre had left the room. He lit a cigarette, stood by the window, and gazed out over the town.

Three hundred thousand people, he thought. There sometimes seemed to be pretty high walls between all of them. While one of them gets shot and killed, his neighbor is in bed ten meters away, reading up on Estonian postage stamps.

But no doubt that's what was meant by the concept of privacy.

·  ·  ·

It took Van Veeteren about a minute to discover that having lunch while reconstructing what had happened was not a good idea. When he entered Freddy's bar and restaurant through the low door, Enso Faringer was already sitting at their reserved table, and his nervousness was obvious from a distance.

Van Veeteren sat down and produced a pack of cigarettes: Faringer took one and dropped it on the floor.

“So,” the chief inspector began, “we might as well have a bite to eat, seeing as we're sitting here.”

“Sounds good.”

“So this is where you spent Wednesday evening, is it?”

Faringer nodded and adjusted his spectacles, which evidently had a tendency to slide down his shiny nose.

“I understand you are a German teacher.”

“Yes,” said Faringer. “Somebody has to be.”

Van Veeteren was not sure if that was meant as a joke or not.

“You presumably knew Maasleitner well?”

“Er … not really, no.”

“But you used to meet, I gather?”

“Only sporadically. We'd go out for a beer now and then.”