Woman with Birthmark (11 page)

“Such as last Wednesday?”

“Yes, like last Wednesday.”

Van Veeteren said nothing for a while in order to give Faringer an opportunity of saying something off his own bat; but it was a waste of time. His eyes were moving ceaselessly behind his thick glasses, he was wriggling and squirming in his chair and fiddling with the knot of his tie.

“Why are you so nervous?”

“Nervous?”

“Yes. I have the impression you're frightened of something.”

Faringer emitted a very short laugh.

“No, I'm always like this.”

Van Veeteren sighed. The waiter came with the menu and they spent a few minutes perusing it before deciding on today's special.

“What did you talk about on Wednesday?”

“I can't remember.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't recall. We had a bit too much to drink, and I often get these black holes in my memory.”

“But you must remember something, surely?”

“Yes, I know that Maasleitner asked me about the situation at school. He was in a bit of a mess. He asked me to help him.”

“How?”

Faringer scratched at his neck, where he had some kind of a rash.

“Oh, I don't know. Keep my eyes open, I assume.”

“He didn't ask you to take an initiative?”

“An initiative? No. How would I be able to take an initiative?”

No, Van Veeteren thought. That would be out of the question, of course. Enso Faringer wasn't the type to take initiatives.

The lunch lasted for forty-five minutes, despite the fact that Van Veeteren canceled dessert and coffee; and by the time he sat down in the driver's seat of his car, he was convinced of one thing. Faringer had been telling the truth. The little German teacher had no recollection of the measures he and Maasleitner had drawn up to save the world during the evening of the murder. Van Veeteren had also talked to the staff at Freddy's, and nobody found it the least bit strange that the “little Kraut” had lost his memory. On the contrary.

It had simply been one of those evenings.

So that was that, Van Veeteren thought. Deep down he was also rather grateful—having to sit there and listen to Enso Faringer's account of a whole evening of drunken rambling would hardly have constituted an unmissable experience.

When he was about halfway back to the police station, he found himself with something else to think about. It had started raining again, and it was clear that if he didn't do something about replacing that damned windshield wiper as soon as possible, something nasty was likely to happen.

But then again, he knew that the moment he did something about replacing a broken part, something else would break.

His car was like that, that's all there was to it.

A bit reminiscent of life itself.

“Why did you give Heinemann the job of sifting the background?” wondered Reinhart. “I mean, he needs a week in order to have a shit.”

“Could be,” said Van Veeteren. “But at least he's meticulous. Let's start without him. Somebody pour out the coffee. Miss Katz promised to serve us something tasty.”

“Sounds good,” said Rooth.

“Let's start with the scientific guff,” said the chief inspector, distributing a set of photocopies. “I don't think you'll find anything sensational there.”

The seven detectives present each read through the brief reports from the pathologist and the forensic team (all apart from Van Veeteren, who had already digested them, and Rein-hart, who preferred to fill his pipe); and the consensus was that sure enough, they didn't contain anything new. Generally speaking, they merely confirmed what was already known—cause of death, time of death (now made more precise, assigned to the period between 2345 and 0115), the weapon (a 7.65-millimeter Berenger, ninety-nine percent certain to be the same gun used for the murder of Ryszard Malik). No fingerprints had been found, no trace of anything unusual; the piece of metal used to
jam the lock was made of stainless steel, available all over the place and impossible to trace.

“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Let's record the crap, so that Heller can use it as a lullaby to send him into dreamland over the weekend.”

He started the tape recorder.

“Run-through of the case of Rickard Maasleitner, Friday, February second, three-fifteen p.m. Those present: Van Veeteren, Münster, Rooth, Reinhart, Moreno, deBries, and Jung. Reinhart and deBries first.”

“Pass,” said Reinhart.

“We've got nowhere,” deBries explained. “We've interviewed over seventy people at number 26 and the building opposite. Nobody's seen or heard a squeak. The light over the front door of 26B had blown out, by the way, so it would have been hard to get an image of the murderer anyway.”

“Did he smash that as well?” asked Moreno.

“Probably not, but it's hard to say. It's been out of order for the past six days.”

“Nothing else?” asked Van Veeteren.

“No,” said Reinhart. “The transcripts of the interrogations are at your disposal if you want something guaranteed to send you to sleep over the weekend.”

“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” said deBries.

The rest of the meeting proceeded in more or less the same way. As far as the character and general reputation of the deceased was concerned, a number of reports came up with the same conclusion.
Rickard Maasleitner was a shit. A bully and a self-centered know-it-all of the very worst sort, it seemed. Even so, it was difficult to see that anybody would have had sufficient cause to kill him. As far as was known he hadn't had any affairs—indeed, it was not at all clear if he'd had a single relationship with a woman since his divorce eight years earlier. He might possibly have resorted to prostitutes occasionally, but this was pure speculation that couldn't be confirmed or disproved. He had no debts. No commitments. No shady deals.

And nobody had been close to him.

His former wife had nothing positive to say about him, nor had anybody else. His children were naturally a bit shocked, but any sorrow they might have felt would no doubt be able to be assuaged successfully, according to both amateur and professional diagnoses.

Both of Rickard Maasleitner's parents were dead, and one could be forgiven for thinking that his last real ally had been buried three years ago, in the shape of his mother.

“A right bastard!” was Reinhart's summary of the victim's character. “He sounds so awful, it would have been interesting to meet him.”

Van Veeteren switched off the tape recorder.

“A good finishing line,” he explained.

“Wouldn't it be possible to track down the weapon?” Jung asked.

Van Veeteren shook his head.

“DeBries, tell the assembled masses how one goes about getting hold of a gun. You've been looking into this.”

“By all means,” said deBries. “Pretty straightforward, in fact. You get in touch with somebody who gives the impression of
being just outside the reach of the law—some seedy-looking type hanging around the Central Station or Grote Square, for instance. You say you need a gun. He tells you to wait, and a quarter of an hour later he comes back with an envelope. You slip him a hundred guilders for his services, then you go home and open the envelope. The instructions are inside. You have to send money—let's say a thousand guilders—to a general delivery address. Müller, General Post Office, Maardam, for instance. You do as bidden, and a week or so later you receive a letter with a key inside it. It's for a safe-deposit box at the Central Station. You go there, open the box, and presto!—you find a little box containing a gun….”

“Then all you need to do is get off your ass and start killing,” said Van Veeteren.

“A sound method,” said Rooth again.

“Devilishly clever,” said Reinhart. “But we have to assign Stauff or Petersén to the job of looking into that. Just to be sure.”

Van Veeteren nodded. Reached over the table and took a cigarette out of deBries's pack.

“And what are the rest of us supposed to do, then?” asked Münster.

“Jung,” said the chief inspector, when he'd finally managed to light his cigarette. “Could you go and search for Heinemann? It'll be a real mess if we can't nurse a single horse over the winning line.”

“Sure,” said Jung, rising to his feet. “Where is he?”

Van Veeteren shrugged.

“Somewhere in the building, I assume. In his office, if you're lucky.”

·  ·  ·

Ten minutes later Jung returned with Heinemann in tow.

“Sorry,” said Heinemann, flopping down onto an empty chair. “I was a bit delayed.”

“You don't say,” said Reinhart.

Heinemann put a large envelope on the table in front of him.

“What have you got there?” asked Münster.

“The connection,” said Heinemann.

“What do you mean?” wondered Rooth.

“I was supposed to look for the connection, wasn't I?”

“Well, I'll be damned!” said deBries.

Heinemann opened the envelope and took out an enlarged photograph. He handed it to Van Veeteren.

The chief inspector studied it for a few seconds, looking bewildered.

“Explain,” he said eventually.

“Of course,” said Heinemann, taking off his glasses. “The photograph is of the leaving class—that really is what they call it—from the United Services Staff College in 1965. Third from the left in the bottom row is Ryszard Malik. Second from the right in the middle row is Rickard Maasleitner.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Van Veeteren passed around the photograph of thirty-five formally dressed young men in gray-green military shirts with innocent expressions on their faces.

“Did you say 1965?” asked Münster when everybody had seen it.

“Yes,” said Heinemann. “They were called up in April ′64, and left at the end of May ′65. Anyway, that's what I've found…. Apart from the fact that they have the same initials, of course, but I expect you've thought about that?”

“What?” said Rooth. “My God, you're right!”

“R.M.,” said Reinhart. “Hmm, I don't suppose it means anything.”

“Have you got the names of all of them?” asked Van Veeteren.

Heinemann dug down into the envelope and produced a sheet of paper.

“Just the names and dates of birth so far, but Krause and Willock are working on more. It'll take a while, as you'll appreciate.”

“The main thing is that it's done scrupulously,” said Reinhart.

Silence again. Münster stood up and walked over to the window, turning his back on the others. Van Veeteren leaned back and sucked in his cheeks. Moreno took another look at the photograph.

“Well,” said deBries after a while, “this is worth thinking about, I reckon.”

“Presumably,” said Van Veeteren. “We'll take a break now. I need to contemplate. Come back here half an hour from now, and then we can decide where to go from here. DeBries, can you let me have a cigarette?”

“Where exactly is this military college?” asked Moreno when they had reassembled.

“Up in Schaabe nowadays,” said Heinemann. “It was moved from here in Maardam at the beginning of the seventies—it used to be out at Löhr.”

“Did you find any other connections?” Münster wondered.

“No, not yet. But I think this one is spot-on. If there are any others, they will probably be further back in the past.”

“How should we go about this, then?” asked Rooth.

Van Veeteren looked up from the list of names.

“This is what we'll do,” he said, checking how many of them there were. “There are eight of us. Each of us will take four names and track them down over the weekend. It ought to be possible to find at least two out of four. You can check addresses and suchlike with Krause and Willock. They can distribute the names among you as well. On Monday morning I want comprehensive reports, and if you come across anything significant before then, get in touch.”

“Sound method,” said Reinhart.

“Exactly what I was going to say,” said Rooth. “When will Krause and Willock be ready?”

“They'll be working all evening,” said Van Veeteren. “Joensuu and Klempje have been roped in as well. You can all go home and then ring here and get your four names tonight, or tomorrow morning. Okay? Any questions?”

“One more thing, perhaps,” said Reinhart.

“Of course, dammit,” said Van Veeteren, tapping at the photograph with his index finger. “Tread carefully. It's by no means certain that these are the guys we're looking for. Don't forget that!”

“Should we release this information to the general public?” Münster asked.

Van Veeteren thought for three seconds.

“I think we should be extremely careful not to do that,” he said eventually. “Bear that in mind when you ask your questions as well—don't say too much about what's going on. I don't think Hiller would be too pleased if thirty-three people suddenly turned up and demanded police protection all around the clock.”

“Mind you, it would be fun to see his face if they did,” said Reinhart.

“If they did,” said Van Veeteren.

Russian roulette? Münster thought as he was sitting with the kids on his knee an hour later, watching a children's program on the TV Why do the words “Russian roulette” keep coming into my head?

It could be a coincidence, of course, Van Veeteren thought as he settled down in the bath with a burning candle on the lavatory seat and a beer within easy reach. Pure coincidence, if Reinhart hadn't already banned that expression. Two people living in the same town might well end up sooner or later in the same photograph, whether they want to or not.

Wasn't that more likely than their not doing so?

God only knows, Van Veeteren thought. In any case, we'll find out eventually.

Saturday, February 3, began with warm southwesterly winds and a misleadingly high and bright sky. Van Veeteren had already made up his mind in principle to attend Ryszard Malik's funeral, but when he stood in the balcony doorway to check the weather situation at about nine o'clock, he realized that he also had the gods on his side.

Still standing there, he tried to establish what had led him to make that decision. Why he felt it was so necessary for him to be present at the burial ceremony in the Eastern Cemetery, that is. And, to his horror, it dawned on him that it was because of an old movie. Or several movies, rather. More specifically that classic introductory scene with a group of people dressed in black around a coffin being lowered slowly into a grave. And then, a short distance away, two detectives in their crumpled trench coats observing the mourners. They turn up their collars and begin a whispered conversation about who's who…. Who is that lady with the veil, half-turned away from the grave; why isn't the widow crying, and which of the bastards is it who pumped a bullet into the head of the stinking-rich Lord Ffolliot-Pym?