3
“Mrs. Simmel?”
The corpulent woman opened the door wide.
“Please come in.”
Beate Moerk did as she was bidden and tried her best to look sympathetic. She handed her light overcoat to Mrs. Sim mel, who fussed as she arranged it on a hanger in the hall.
Then she ushered her visitor into the house, tugging nervously at her tight black dress that had doubtless seen better days.
Coffee was served on a smoked-glass table between substantial leather sofas in the large living room. Mrs. Simmel flopped down into one of them.
“I take it you’re a police officer?”
Beate Moerk sat down and put her briefcase on the sofa beside her. She was used to the question. Had expected it, in fact. People evidently had no difficulty in accepting police women in uniform, but coping with the fact that wearing a uniform was not a necessary part of the job seemed to be a dif ferent matter. How could a woman wear something fashion able and attractive and still carry out her police duties?
Was that still the bottom line? That it was harder to inter view women? Men were often embarrassed, but opened up.
Women went straight to the point, but at the same time were less forthcoming.
Nevertheless, she was confident that Mrs. Simmel was not going to be a problem. She was sitting on the sofa, breathing heavily. Big and ungainly, her eyes swollen but naive.
“Yes, I’m a police inspector. My name’s Beate Moerk. I’m sorry that I have to inconvenience you so soon after… what’s happened. Is there anybody staying with you?”
“My sister,” said Mrs. Simmel. “She’s just gone down to the store.”
Beate Moerk nodded and took a notebook out of her brief case. Mrs. Simmel poured coffee.
“Sugar?”
“No, thank you. Can you tell me what happened last Tues day evening?”
“I’ve already… I spoke about it with another police officer yesterday.”
“Chief Inspector Bausen, yes. But I’d be grateful if you could go through it one more time.”
“I don’t see why… I didn’t have anything special to say.”
“Your husband went out at around eight o’clock, I gather you said.”
Mrs. Simmel gave a little sob, but regained control of herself.
“Yes.”
“Why did he go out?”
“He was going to meet a business contact. At The Blue
Ship, I think.”
“Did he often do business there?”
“Now and again. He is… was… in real estate.”
“But we understand that your husband was alone in The
Blue Ship.”
“He can’t have turned up.”
“Who?”
“His business contact.”
“No, evidently not. But your husband didn’t come home instead, when this other person didn’t put in an appearance?”
“No… no, I suppose he thought he might as well have din ner, seeing as he was there anyway.”
“He hadn’t eaten already?”
“No, not dinner.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who he was going to meet.”
“No… no, I never interfere in my husband’s business.”
“I understand.”
Mrs. Simmel gestured toward the cake dish and helped her self to a chocolate biscuit.
“What time did you expect him home?”
“Around… well, about midnight, I suppose.”
“What time did you go to bed yourself?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Simmel, but your husband has been mur dered. We simply have to ask all sorts of questions. If we don’t, we’ll never be able to catch the man who did it.”
“I suppose it’s the same one.”
“The same as what?”
“The one who killed that Eggers in June.”
Beate Moerk nodded.
“There is evidence to suggest that, yes. But there again, it could be that somebody was, er, inspired by that.”
“Inspired?”
“Yes, somebody who used the same method. You never know, Mrs. Simmel.”
Mrs. Simmel swallowed, and took another biscuit.
“Did your husband have any enemies?”
Mrs. Simmel shook her head.
“Many friends and acquaintances?”
“Yes…”
“A lot of business contacts you weren’t all that well ac quainted with, perhaps?”
“Yes, lots.”
Beate Moerk paused and took a sip of coffee. It was weak and wishy-washy. If you did what her hostess had done and added two lumps of sugar, it would have been impossible to say what it was.
“I have to ask you to allow me to ask a few questions that you might find a bit indiscreet. I hope you realize how serious this business is, and that you’ll answer them as honestly as you can.”
Mrs. Simmel scraped her cup nervously against the saucer.
“How would you describe your marriage?”
“Excuse me?”
“What sort of a married life did you have? You’d been mar ried for thirty years, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two, yes. Your children have flown the nest. Did you still have much contact?”
“With the children, you mean?”
“No, with your husband.”
“Well… yes, I suppose so.”
“Who are your closest friends?”
“Friends? The Bodelsens and the Lejnes… and the Kling forts, of course. And the family, naturally. My sister and her husband. Ernst’s brother and sister… And our children, it goes without saying. Why do you want to know about them?”
“Do you know if your husband had a relationship with any other woman?”
Mrs. Simmel stopped chewing and tried to look as if she hadn’t understood the question.
“With another woman?”
“Or several. If he’d been unfaithful, for instance.”
“No…” She shook her head slowly. “Who might that have been? Who would have had him?”
That was one way of looking at it, of course. Beate Moerk took a drink of coffee in order to suppress a smile.
