severed as well. His face was turned to one side and slightly upward, and his wide-open eyes appeared to be staring at a point level with Bausen’s knees, more or less. Not only blood had flowed out of the opening in his neck, but also some undigested bits of food, by the look of it… and something fleshy that was still attached somewhere.
Van Veeteren assumed it must be his tongue.
“He must have been here for some time,” said Bausen.
“Have you noticed the smell?”
“Twenty-four hours at least,” said Van Veeteren. “Shouldn’t the forensic team be here by now?”
“Five minutes, I’d guess,” said Bausen, checking his watch.
“It seems I was right about the weapon, at least.”
That was the novelty this time. In the case of Maurice
Ruhme, the murderer had not been content with one blow after slashing through his neck and killing him instantly, he’d dealt him another blow. This time to the base of his spine, and he’d left the weapon embedded there.
It looked as if it was firmly entrenched. The handle was pointing diagonally upward, like some sort of grotesque phal lus, back to front; and from the little of what could be made out of the blade, it seemed to be more or less as Bausen and Meuritz had supposed.
Short handle. Wide but shallow blade. A butcher’s imple ment, evidently, of the highest quality.
“God Almighty!” said Bausen again. “Can you really face standing here and looking at this?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren.
17
The expressway was endless.
Endless and endlessly gray. To be sure, it was only another forty miles to the turnoff for Bokkenheim and Kaalbringen, but even so, he wished he had the chance to excise the next half hour from his life. Avoid having to sit here behind the wheel and drive for mile after mile, minute after minute with gloom and weariness building up behind his eyes like a bank of clouds. Dark and insidious.
He’d got up early. Synn and the boys were still asleep when he left. The quarrel they’d had last night prevented him from waking her up. Even as he backed the car out of the drive, he knew it was wrong.
Though, it was possible she’d been doing the same thing.
Only pretending to be asleep while he crept around the bed room packing a suitcase. How could he know?
In any case, he would obviously have to call her the moment he arrived. He didn’t want it to be like this. Couldn’t put up with being at loggerheads, disagreeing about every thing, all the unspoken antagonism-not between him and
Synn. Others might be able to live with it, but not them! That was the way it was, they’d always agreed on that. Him and his lovely Synn…
Perhaps she’d been right, after all. Perhaps he might have been able to refuse.
“They’ve found another one in Kaalbringen,” Hiller had said. “VV needs somebody to bellow at, or he won’t be able to solve this case. You’d better go, Munster!”
He didn’t really have any objections as such, and that was the snag. He should have. There were at least three detectives of similar standing, all of them bachelors-Reinhart, Rooth and Stauff: Hiller could have sent one of them instead.
But he’d chosen Munster.
Who’d agreed without blinking an eye. Without worrying that he’d be separated from Synn and the boys for… well, how long? Nobody could say. A few days? A week? Even longer? Until they had this Axman under lock and key?
Once he’d said yes, of course, it was much harder to back out of it. Even Synn had acknowledged that eventually, but of course he ought to have thought about that from the start.
That’s as far as they’d got last night, and then it was stalemate.
Synn had gone to bed, he’d stayed up, and he knew deep down that she was right. He did now, in any case, sitting in the car and feeling sick and driving far too fast through this unbear ably gray pointlessness.
I don’t want to get away from her, he thought. I want to get closer to her. Go back, not back off.
The fact that Van Veeteren had no doubt specifically picked him to help him could naturally be considered rather flattering in other circumstances, but right now, that was not much of a consolation.
I know I’m a good police officer, he thought. I only wish I was as good a husband and father as well. It sounded pretty pathetic, undeniably, and he pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose.
Bokkenheim, Kaalbringen 29, it said on the sign. He’d covered another five miles.
He found The See Warf without needing to ask for directions.
Chief Inspector Van Veeteren wasn’t in at the moment, he was informed, but there was a room reserved in Munster’s name.
Next door to the chief inspector. Had he come in connection with the latest horrible murder? they asked.
He admitted as much. And picked up his bag and hurried up the stairs.
The moment he closed his room door behind him, he darted over to the telephone. He had to wait forever before the switchboard gave him an outside line, but when he eventually heard the ringing back home, he noticed to his surprise that his heart was thumping. It reminded him of his teens, when he used to call redheaded Marie, the pharmacist’s daughter, for help with his French homework. Very odd… but there again, perhaps it wasn’t?
It was Bart who answered. Mom’s gone out, he was in formed. No, Bart didn’t know where she was or when she’d be back; Aunt Alice was looking after them. When would Dad be coming home?
“As soon as I can,” he said. “Say hi to Marieke and your mom. Tell Mom that I’ll call her later and that I love her.”
“How gross!” said his six-year-old son, and hung up.
Munster sighed, but he did feel a bit better. Time to face the music, he supposed.
But I’d be of much more use if I could first have an after noon nap for a couple of hours with my arms around my wife, he also thought.
18
“If Mooser would shut the door, we can start,” said Bausen.
Kropke switched on the overhead projector.
“I think it would be simplest if we were to try to map out the series of events, insofar as we know it, to sum up the situa tion and flesh out the bare bones for Inspector Munster.”
“Thank you,” said Munster.
“The murder victim,” said Bausen, “is one Maurice Ruhme, aged thirty-one, a doctor up at the hospital specializing in ortho pedics and back injuries. He’s been working there since March.
I’d like to point out for the benefit of our guests”-he eyed Van Veeteren and Munster in turn-“that the name Ruhme is not exactly unknown here in Kaalbringen. Isn’t that right, Kropke?”
“Jean-Claude Ruhme is a consultant at the hospital,” said Kropke. “He also conducts a private practice at his house up the hill. I think he does various things for the National Health Board as well.”
“Maurice is one of two sons,” said Bausen. “The other one is in the Seldon Hospice in Kirkenau… mentally deficient since a childhood accident. Incurable.”
“What kind of accident?” asked Munster, and Van Veeteren made a note on his pad.
“Fell headfirst from the pulpit in St. Pieter’s,” explained Beate Moerk. “Fifteen feet straight down onto the
