“So many?”
“Yes, there is a certain amount of turnover, after all. That’s probably not so odd, come to that.”
“How many have an alibi for the first murder?”
“Only the first one?”
“Yes.”
Munster checked.
“One,” he said.
“Only one?”
“Yes.”
“That leaves ten. Are any of those on Mitter’s list as well?”
“You gave that to Rooth.”
Van Veeteren produced another sheet of paper from his desk drawer.
“Have you ever heard of photocopying, Inspector?”
Munster took the list and started comparing. Van Veeteren stood up and walked over to the window. Stood with his hands behind his back, staring out at the rain.
“Two,” said Munster. “Gert Weiss and Erich Volker.”
“Is Weiss as new as that?”
“Yes. He arrived at more or less the same time as Eva Ringmar.”
“I see. . I see. This Erich Volker, who the devil’s he?”
“Temporary teacher of chemistry and physics,” said Munster. “Appointed September ’91.”
“Interesting,” said Van Veeteren. “If I were you, I’d squeeze him a bit extra. Come down hard on them all, of course. And Weiss. Can I see the list of the new staff?”
Munster handed it over. Van Veeteren studied it for half a minute, rocking back and forth on his heels and muttering.
“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe. . but maybe not. You never know.”
Munster waited for clarification, but it never came.
“Any other tips?” he asked after a while.
“The Thursday before Easter, 1986. If the person under consideration was in Karpatz in a car at lunchtime, then he’s the one. Together with Eva Ringmar, that is.”
Munster looked as if he’d eaten something unpleasant.
Then he nodded and made a note. He’d been through this kind of thing before.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“The whole of April and May ’86,” said Van Veeteren. “In Karpatz, of course. But for Christ’s sake don’t ask him out-right. If he has the slightest suspicion, he’ll wriggle out of it.”
Munster made another note.
“Is that all?”
Van Veeteren nodded. Munster put his notebook into his jacket pocket.
“Monday?”
“Monday,” said Van Veeteren.
“What are you intending to do yourself?” Munster asked as he stood in the doorway.
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“We’ll see,” he said. “Beate Lingen to begin with.”
Munster closed the door behind him.
Who the hell is Beate Lingen? he wondered. Ah well, no badminton for the next few days, at least. If he worked all day Friday, he might even have a weekend off.
When he got back to his office, the phone rang.
“Another thing,” said Van Veeteren, “while we’re at it. The thirty-first of May is also a good date-1986, that is. Saturday afternoon, somewhere among the lakes at Maarensjoarna. But it’s only a hunch, and you’ll need to be extremely careful.
Have you understood?”
“No,” said Munster.
“Good,” said Van Veeteren, and hung up.
35
He stayed at home on Friday.
Woke up at about nine and plugged the telephone in again.
Looked up the travel agents in the yellow pages, and before getting out of bed, he had booked his ticket. An Australian Airways flight on Thursday, December 5, departure time 7:30 a.m. Open return.
Then he unplugged the telephone again and got up to have breakfast.
Sat at the kitchen table. Listened to the rain. Chewed at a justifiably thick sandwich of whole-grain bread with cheese and cucumber. The morning paper was spread out in front of him, and suddenly, he had that feeling.
A feeling of well-being. He tried to suppress it, but it was there all the time, warm and persistent and totally unambigu-ous. A feeling of gratitude for the infinite riches of life.
No matter what happened, seven days from now he would be having breakfast on the balcony of his hotel room in Sydney. Thumbing absentmindedly through a guide to the Great Barrier Reef. Lighting a cigarette and turning his face up to the sun.
By then he would either have captured a murderer, or resigned his job.
It was a game with only winners. A morning dripping with freedom. No dog throwing up in front of the refrigerator. No wife thinking of moving back in with him. The door locked.
The telephone unplugged.
He recalled Farrati and the frilly knickers. Dammit all, life was a symphony.
Then he thought about Mitter. And Eva Ringmar, whom he had never met while she was still breathing. She was the one it was all about.
And he realized that the symphony was in a minor key.
He had finished reading the newspaper by eleven. He ran a bubble bath, put on a Bach cello suite at high volume, lit a candle on the lavatory seat, and slid down into the water.
After twenty minutes he hadn’t moved a fin, but a thought had floated up to the surface of his brain.
A thought had been born thanks to a mixture of the water’s warmth, the candle’s flame, and the harsh tone of the cello.
It was a terrible thought. A possibility he would prefer to dismiss. Drown. Blow out. Switch off. It was the image of a murderer.
No, he hadn’t cornered him yet. But there was a way.
An accessible path that he merely needed to follow to its end. Keep going for as long as possible, and see what lay concealed at the destination.
In the afternoon he lay down on the sofa and listened to more Bach. Slept for a while and woke up in darkness.
Got up, switched off the tape recorder, and plugged the telephone back in.
Two calls.
The first was to Beate Lingen. She remembered him-she said she did, and he could hear it in her voice. Nevertheless, he managed to get himself invited to tea on Saturday afternoon.
She had an hour, would that be enough?
That would be fine, he said. She was only an intermediate stop, after all.
The other was to Andreas Berger. Once again, he was in luck. Berger answered the call. Leila was out with the children.
He could speak uninhibitedly, and that was a requirement.
