Woman with Birthmark (16 page)

The persistent cold—in combination with the occasional beer and too many hot toddies during recent days—meant that it didn't turn out to be much of a match. Perhaps also an accumulated and unsatisfied need for more sleep played a role as well.

In any case, during the third set Münster toyed with the idea of changing hands and playing with his left for a few games; things were not normally as bad as that. However, he knew that if he did so it could be interpreted as an insult, and so he refrained.

Be that as it may, the final scores were 15–5, 15–5, 15–3, and afterward the chief inspector looked as if he needed to be placed on a respirator as quickly as possible.

“I must buy a new racket,” he croaked. “There's no spring left in this old mallet.”

Münster had nothing to say about that, and they made their way slowly to the changing rooms.

After a shower, a change of clothes, and a walk up the stairs to the reception area of the badminton hall, Van Veeteren suddenly felt that he was incapable of staggering as far as his car unless they paused for a beer in the café.

Münster had no choice, of course. He looked at his watch and sighed. Then he rang the babysitter, announced his delayed arrival time, and slumped down opposite the chief inspector.

“Hell and damnation,” announced Van Veeteren when his face had resumed its normal color with the aid of a copious swig of beer. “This case annoys me. It's like a pimple on the bum, if you'll pardon the expression. It just stays where it is, and nothing happens….”

“Or it grows bigger and bigger,” said Münster.

“Until it bursts, yes. And when do you think that will be?”

Münster shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “Haven't Rooth and deBries discovered anything new?”

“Not a dickie bird,” said Van Veeteren. “The military types seem to be a bit worried about the college's reputation, but they don't appear to be holding back any information.”

“And nobody has reported any phone calls with musical accompaniment?”

Van Veeteren shook his head.

“A few have asked for police protection, that's all.”

“Really?”

“I said we'd keep an eye on them.”

“You did?” said Münster. “Shall we, in fact?”

Van Veeteren grunted.

“Needless to say, we keep an eye on all citizens. It's part of a police officer's duty, if you recall.”

Münster took a swig of beer.

“The only thing that's actually happening in this confounded case,” Van Veeteren continued, lighting a cigarette, “is that Heinemann is sitting in some closet searching for a link.”

“What sort of link?”

“Between Malik and Maasleitner, of course. It seems that he's
feeling a bit guilty because the Staff College connection was so unproductive. Ah well, we'll see.”

“I expect we shall,” said Münster. “He's good at stumbling over things and finding gold. What do you think?”

Van Veeteren inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke through his nostrils. Like a dragon, Münster thought.

“I don't know what I think. But I think it's damned inconsiderate of a murderer to take such a long time. Something has to happen soon, that's obvious.”

“Is it?” Münster wondered.

“Can't you feel it?” asked Van Veeteren, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Surely you don't imagine it's all over after these two? Malik and Maasleitner? The vaguer the link between the two of them, the more likely it is that they must be a part of a broader context—you don't need to complete the whole jigsaw puzzle in order to discover if it comprises a hundred or a thousand pieces.”

Münster thought that one over.

“What is it, then? The broader context, that is.”

“A good question, Inspector. There's two guilders for you if you can answer it.”

Münster finished his beer and started buttoning up his jacket.

“I really must be going now,” he said. “I promised the babysitter I'd be home in half an hour.”

“All right,” sighed the chief inspector. “All right, I'm coming.”

“What shall we do?” Münster asked as he turned into Klagenburg. “Apart from waiting, I mean.”

“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “I suppose we'll have to have another chat with the group comparatively close to Maasleitner. Given the absence of anything else so far.”

“More questions, then?”

“More questions,” said the chief inspector. “A hell of a lot more questions, and no sign of a good answer.”

“Well, we mustn't lose heart,” said Münster, bringing the car to a halt.

“Ouch,” said Van Veeteren as he started to get out of the car. “I'll be damned if I haven't pulled a muscle.”

“Where?” asked Münster.

“In my body,” said Van Veeteren.

It gradually dawned on him that he'd seen her for the first time at the soccer match on Sunday. Even if he didn't realize it until later.

He'd gone to the match with Rolv, as usual, and she'd been sitting diagonally behind them, a couple of rows back—a woman with large, brown-tinted glasses and a colorful shawl that hid most of her hair. But it was dark, he remembered that distinctly: a few tufts had stuck out. Thirty years of age, or thereabouts. A bit haggard, but he didn't see much of her face.

Later on, when he made an effort to think back and try to understand how he could recall her, he remembered turning around three or four times during the match. There had been a trouble-maker back there shouting and yelling and insulting the referee, making people laugh part of the time, but urging him to shut up as well. Biedersen had never really established who it was; but it must have been then, when he kept turning around and was distracted from the game itself, that he saw her.

He didn't know at the time. Even so, he had registered and committed to memory what she looked like.

She was wearing a light-colored overcoat, just like when she turned up the next time.

·  ·  ·

Apart from that, almost everything else was different. No glasses, no colorful shawl, her dark hair in a bun, and it was astonishing that he could know nevertheless that it must be her. That was the moment he reacted. The new image was superimposed over the old one, and the penny dropped.

Monday lunchtime. As usual, he was at Mix, with Henessy and Vargas. She came in and stood for ages at the desk, looking around—trying to give the impression that she was looking for an empty seat, presumably, but she wasn't. She was looking for him, and when she'd found him—which must have been at least a minute after he'd seen her—she continued to stand there.

Just stood there. Smiled to herself, it seemed, but continued looking around the premises. Pausing to look more closely at him now and then, for a second or two; thinking back, he found it hard to recall how long this had gone on. It could hardly have been more than a few minutes, but somehow or other that short period felt longer, and afterward, it seemed to him longer than the whole lunch. He hadn't the slightest recollection of what he'd been talking to Henessy and Vargas about.

Insofar as there were still any doubts, they were cast aside by what happened on Tuesday morning.

It was about half past ten when he went to the post office in Lindenplejn to collect a parcel—and also to send advertising material to a few prospective customers in Oostwerdingen and Aarlach. Miss Kennan had been off work with the flu since the previous Monday, and there were things that couldn't be allowed to fester forever.

He didn't see when she came in—there were a lot of people in the lines formed in front of the various windows. But suddenly he was aware of her presence—he sensed that she was somewhere behind him, just as she had been at the soccer match.

He slowly turned his head, and identified her right away. In the line next to his. A few meters behind his back, three or four at most. She was wearing the shawl and the glasses again, but had on a brown jacket instead of the overcoat. She stood there without looking at him—or at least, not during the brief moment he dared to look at her—but with a slight, introverted smile. He chose to interpret the situation almost as a secret signal.

After a short discussion with himself, Biedersen left his place in the line. Walked quickly out through the main entrance, continued across the street, and entered the newsagent's on the other side. Hid inside there for a few minutes, head down and leafing through a few magazines. Then he returned to the post office.

She was no longer there. There was no other change in the line she'd been standing in. The man in the black leather jacket who'd been in front of her was still there. As was the young immigrant woman behind her. But the gap between them had closed.

Biedersen hesitated for several seconds. Then he decided to put off whatever it was he was going to do, and returned to his office instead.

He double-locked the door and flopped down behind his desk. Took out his notebook and a pen, and started drawing more or less symmetrical figures—a habit he'd formed while still at school and had resorted to ever since when faced with a problem.

And as he sat there, filling page after page, then tearing them out, he asked himself if he'd ever been confronted by a bigger problem than this one. His conclusion that this woman was in fact following him—that it must be her—did not mean that the outcome was a foregone conclusion, no way. Having identified her meant he had a chance: a trump card he must be careful not to waste. The main thing, he convinced himself, was that he didn't let on that he had noticed her. Didn't let her realize that he knew who she was, and what was involved. That was obvious.

The fact that he would have to kill her was another conviction that came early to him. The inevitability of this conclusion became clearer the more he thought about it—although you could say he had known from the start. He phoned Innings, but there was no reply. Perhaps that was just as well. He wouldn't have known how much to tell him, or what to have him do.

It would be better to continue on his own to start with, he decided. The first couple of steps or so, at least. But no rush—the whole business was so delicately balanced. The main thing was to keep a cool head. The fact that he would have to kill her before she killed him didn't mean that he should just shoot her at the first opportunity, in broad daylight. He soon realized that there were only two possible alternatives: either he would have to shoot her in self-defense—wait until the last moment, as it were, with all the implied risks and uncertainties—or else … or else he would have to find a way to get rid of her without anyone suspecting him.

Murder her, in other words.

It didn't need much in the way of consideration before he concluded that the latter was the best way to proceed.

That's simply the kind of man I am, he decided. And this is simply that kind of situation.

He could feel something inside come alive as he reached these conclusions. A new source of energy, a new source of inspiration. In fact, he had known this all the time. This is what he had to do. He opened his desk drawer and took out the bottle of whiskey he always had concealed there. Took two deep swigs and felt the determination spreading throughout his body.

This is the sort of man I am…. A new source of inspiration?

It hadn't been hard to make up his mind, but it would be much harder to decide how to proceed. Nevertheless, when he left his office at four that afternoon, he thought he had a good idea of what he was going to do.

In outline, at least.

It could hardly have been more than a pious hope on the part of Biedersen that he would come across her again that same evening; but when she turned up in the rain outside Kellner's, he had the feeling that something had short-circuited inside him. As if his heart had skipped a beat or two.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Raised his newspaper so that it hid his face, and hoped that she hadn't seen him through the window.

After a short pause she came in through the revolving doors. Looked around the quite large and well-attended restaurant, and eventually found a vacant table so far back that it was almost out of sight for Biedersen. Nevertheless, by turning his chair a fraction and leaning back, he could keep an eye on what she was up to. It was obvious that she intended to eat—Biedersen had only ordered a beer. He watched her hang her jacket over the back of her chair, subject the menu to lengthy scrutiny, and eventually order something complicated from the Indian waiter.

Meanwhile, Biedersen paid his bill, and when the Indian waiter came to serve her meal, Biedersen made the most of the opportunity to slip into the men's room with his bag. He locked the door and proceeded to make use of the contents of his bag: a wig (it had been packed away in his cellar ever since he'd taken part in a jokey charade when a good friend had gotten married more than twenty years ago), an American military parka (which he'd forbidden Rolv to wear when he still lived at home), and a pair of round glasses of uncertain origin.

And also a pistol: a Pinchman, loaded with six bullets.

He checked his appearance in the scratched mirror, and, as far as he could make out, his disguise was just as effective as it had been when he tried it out in the bathroom mirror at home a couple of hours earlier.

There was no obvious reason to assume that this superannuated hippie was in fact identical with the locally well-known and successful businessman W. S. Biedersen.

No reason at all.

For safety's sake he decided to wait for her in the square outside. For almost an hour he wandered up and down in the wind and the light, driving rain. After a while he bought a pack of cigarettes at a kiosk, and a hamburger shortly afterward. Called Innings from a phone box as well. Got through without delay but restricted himself to saying that something might well be about to happen and he would ring again later. Since meeting Innings the previous Friday, he had been unable to decide if his former colleague was a help or a hindrance, and he wondered if it would be best to ignore him altogether. That was his inclination at the moment.

There were not very many people out on a wet, windy evening like today and his appearance and behavior seemed not to attract curious looks. He realized that people took him for a drifter, a natural if regrettable background figure in any town or any street scene anywhere in the world. The perfect camouflage. At one point he was even greeted by another of the same sort—an unpleasant-smelling elderly man with one hand in an incredibly dirty bandage—but he only needed to tell him to piss off in order to be left in peace without more ado.