an artificial arm and a furrowed brow.
Also present was a large bluebottle. It spent most of its time on the ceiling, directly above the prosecuting attorney’s desk; but occasionally it undertook tours of the room and almost always homed in on one of the two female members of the jury; sitting on the right of the furrowed brow. The fly launched an attack on her nose over and over again, and despite the fact that she brushed it aside every time, it kept on coming back with renewed energy and unfailing persistence.
These raids were accompanied by a low humming noise, which made a pleasant contrast to the rather shrill voice of the prosecuting attorney. A bit like a duet featuring a cello and a harpsichord, and especially noticeable in the pauses, while the lawyer was recovering his breath.
Apart from that, the day’s events were quite boring.
To start with, everybody kept having to stand up and sit down again as the judge and jury took their places. Then the judge outlined the charge, and Ruger explained that his client was not guilty. Next, the prosecuting attorney started to present the case for the prosecution, an exercise that lasted for an hour and forty minutes and concluded with the accused, Janek Mattias Mitter, forty-six years old, born in Rheinau, resident in Maardam for the past twenty-six years, appointed as a teacher of history and philosophy at Bunge High School in 1973, being accused of murdering (or alternatively unlawfully killing) his wife, Eva Maria Ringmar, thirty-eight years of age, born in Leuwen, resident in Maardam since 1990 and until her death employed as a teacher of English and French at the previously mentioned high school, by drowning her in the bath at the apartment they shared in Kloisterlaan 24, at some point early in the morning of October 5. The crime had been committed under the influence of intoxicating alcoholic beverages, but there was nothing, and he repeated that there was nothing at all, to suggest that Mitter had been so intoxicated that he was not responsible for his actions. These accusations would be supported by an overwhelming mass of technical proof, expert analysis, and statements taken from witnesses, and when this process was completed it would be clear to members of the jury and everyone else present that the accused was obviously guilty as charged and there could only be one verdict: guilty.
Of murder.
Or at the very least, manslaughter.
Then it was Ruger’s turn. He blew his nose and spent the next hour and twelve minutes asserting that nothing at all had happened as described by the prosecuting attorney, that his client had nothing at all to do with his wife’s death, and this would be proved without a shadow of doubt.
Then came a two-hour break for lunch. The bluebottle left the jury benches and made its way to the ceiling in order to sleep, while everybody else murmured their way out of the courtroom, duly observing the proprieties of the occasion.
One of the girls in the gallery was bold enough to wave to Mitter, who gave her an encouraging nod in response.
It took him just over ten minutes to consume his pasta dish in his cell in the basement of the courthouse. He spent the rest of the lunch break lying on his back on the bed and observing a damp patch on the ceiling, while he waited for the afternoon’s proceedings to commence.
These proceedings were devoted exclusively to so-called technical evidence. A number of police officers of various kinds took to the stand, including Van Veeteren; also a pathologist, a physician, a forensic specialist, and somebody called Wilker-son. He stuttered, and called himself a toxicologist.
The public galleries were somewhat less full-presumably headmaster Suurna had got wind of what was going on. But the journalists were still present in force, leaning back in relaxed postures in order to assist the digestive process. If any of them dozed off, at least they refrained from snoring.
It was not easy to determine what was achieved during the afternoon. Ferrati and Ruger exchanged hairsplitting soph-istries, Judge Havel occasionally intervened to restore order, and a member of the jury asked a question about the possible presence of fragments of skin under fingernails.
At no point did Mitter himself need to speak, and when the court adjourned shortly after four p.m., he had long since ceased to pay any attention. Instead, he yearned for three things: solitude, silence, and darkness.
As for who had taken the life of Eva Ringmar, it could be said that, generally speaking, nobody knew anything more than the bluebottle.
11
Ruger arrived while he was having breakfast.
“I’d like to have a little chat with you.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a cup for me?”
Mitter called the warder and was passed another mug of coffee through the hatch.
“Have you remembered anything more?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Ruger leaned over the table, rested his weight on his elbows, and blew at the coffee.
“I’d like you to. . consider your testimony.”
Mitter chewed his sandwich and looked intently at Ruger.
“What do you mean?”
“If you are going to say anything or not.”
Mitter thought for a moment. Perhaps the implication was not all that surprising, all things considered. .
“As I explained,” said Ruger, “it’s not necessary for the defendant to allow himself to be interrogated.”
“You said it was unusual for a defendant to. .”
Ruger nodded.
“That may well be, but even so, I’d like you to think about it. The way things look, in my judgment your chances would be just as good if you don’t go into the witness box.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nothing you can add. You can’t even make a case for yourself. The bottom line is that you can’t provide any proof to show that it wasn’t you who killed her. The only thing you can say is that you don’t remember, and that really isn’t a convincing argument, as you must be able to see yourself. We would have nothing to gain in that respect, and the fact is, that is the key to everything.”
He paused and took a sip of coffee.
“And in other respects?”
“Ugh, this coffee is poisonous. I don’t understand why they can’t learn how to- Anyway, another thing is whether or not you make a good impression on the court.”
Mitter lit a cigarette and fingered his stubble. Ruger continued:
“Making a good impression is vital. Nobody will know if you drowned her, so they’ll have to guess. Ferrati will do everything he can to make you lose your composure, and Havel will allow him free rein. If Ferrati succeeds in that, everything could be lost. He can be extremely difficult. If he were to carve you to pieces, it’s not at all sure that I could patch you up afterward.”
Mitter shrugged.
“Don’t you have to give a reason?”
“In theory no, but it is usual, it gives a better impression.
We could say that you don’t feel up to it, the stress would be too great. Severe psychological pressure, state of shock, and similar things. I have a doctor who could write out a certificate for you right away. It would be accepted, and it wouldn’t harm your case, I can promise you. What do you say?”
“What do you think yourself?”
Ruger thought it over. Or pretended to do so. There was no doubt it would be very strange if he had hastened to Mitter’s cell at this time in the morning if he hadn’t already made up his mind. He didn’t want to see Mitter in the dock, it was as simple as that.
