And how impossible it was to grasp that they were on their way yet again, for the nth time, to assemble around the oval table in the bilious-yellow conference room at the police sta tion, to sit down and roll up their shirtsleeves for yet another discussion of who this madman might be.
The man wandering around this idyllic little town chop ping the heads off his fellow men.
The man because of whom a whole community was living in fear and trembling, and whose doings had been on every body’s lips as practically the only topic of conversation for week after week now.
The man, in fact, whose identity it was his own, DCI Van
Veeteren’s, and all the others’ duty to discover and establish so that these goings-on could be banished from this world at last.
And what the hell were people going to say tomorrow?
Yes, preposterous is the only word for it, thought Munster, squinting up at the sun above the copper roof of the police station. Or perhaps bizarre, to use Beate Moerk’s word.
And the most difficult thing to understand, the most impos sible thing to comprehend, was, of course, what could have happened to her.
Could it really be that at this very moment she was lying with her head cut off somewhere in the town or its vicinity? A slowly decomposing corpse just waiting to be discovered. Was that possible to imagine? She, the woman he had so nearly…
He swallowed and kicked at an empty cigarette pack that had evidently avoided the attention of the road sweeper.
And this afternoon he would be reunited with Synn and the children.
He had to ask himself how she could have made the decision to come here without the slightest warning-a sudden impulse, she had explained over the telephone-and just right now?
A quarter to eight last Friday evening.
It must have been more or less exactly the moment when…
During the long time they had been working together, on two or three occasions Van Veeteren had started talking to him about the patterns in life. About hidden connections, orches trated incidents and similar phenomena- determinants, what ever they are; but this one must surely surpass most others.
He shuddered, and held open the door for the oracle.
“We’ve got him,” said Bausen.
“Got who?” said Van Veeteren, with a yawn.
“Podworsky, of course,” said Kropke. “He’s in one of the cells down below. We picked him up half an hour ago, in the harbor.”
“In the harbor?”
“Yes. He’s been out fishing since yesterday morning-or so he says, at least. Hired a boat from Saulinen, it seems, evidently does now and then.”
Van Veeteren flopped down on a chair.
“Have you confronted him?” he asked.
“No,” said Bausen. “He has no idea what it’s all about.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “Let him stew a bit longer,
I’d say.”
“I agree entirely,” said Bausen. “I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves this time.”
Miss deWitt came in with a coffee tray.
“As Sylvie’s is closed on Sundays,” she explained, revealing two aromatic Rillen cakes.
“Bramble?” asked Bausen.
Miss deWitt nodded and tried to suppress a smile.
“Irmgaard, you’re a star,” said Bausen, and the others mumbled polite agreement.
“What’s new since yesterday?” asked Van Veeteren, wiping his mouth clean.
“I’ve spoken to Melnik,” said Bausen. “He’s busy looking into that barroom brawl, of course, but he doubted if he’d be able to find out very much. It never became a police matter, after all. He’s only dug up one witness, a woman who was pres ent, but she has no idea what started it. Perhaps it was just a drunken brawl, a quarrel over something completely insignifi cant that got out of hand for some reason. In any case, it’s no doubt best if we try to press Podworsky on the matter our selves.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“And the Spain thing?” asked Munster.
Bausen shrugged and looked doubtful.
“As we said yesterday, it seems to be pure coincidence.
Bleuwe wasn’t one of Ruhme’s inner circle in Aarlach. Neither of them had any known links with Spain, and the bombing seems to have been purely a terrorist outrage. ETA claimed responsibility, and they normally do that only when they were, in fact, behind it.”
“And Grete Simmel had no idea what Bang was talking about,” said Kropke.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean much,” said Bausen.
“Pure chance, then,” said Van Veeteren, contemplating his empty plate. “There seems to be a lot of that around.”
Bausen lit his pipe.
“Anything else before we confront Podworsky?”
Kropke cleared his throat.
“Well, nothing important,” he said. “But I’ve also retraced
Moerk’s steps. I jogged the same route this morning.”
“And?” said Bausen.
“I didn’t find anything either,” said Kropke.
“Really?” said Van Veeteren.
“Podworsky, then,” said Bausen. “How shall we approach this?”
Munster looked around the table-Kropke, Mooser and
Bausen. Van Veeteren and himself. Constable Bang had evi dently overslept, or perhaps the chief of police had granted him the day off-nothing very startling about that, when you think about it.
Van Veeteren spoke up.
“If you’ve nothing against it,” he said, “I’d like to take the first round, along with Munster.”
It’s possible that Kropke looked slightly put out, but Bausen merely nodded and went to fetch the tape recorder.
38
Eugen Podworsky certainly looked as if he was in a very bad mood. When Kropke and Mooser brought him to the inter view room, his furrowed face was red with indignation; and to make his attitude crystal clear, he thumped his enormous fists on the table.
“Get these fucking things off my wrists!” he bellowed.
Van Veeteren gave the signal. Kropke unlocked the hand cuffs and left the room, together with Mooser.
“Please sit down,” said Van Veeteren. “My name is Detec tive Chief Inspector Van Veeteren.”
“I couldn’t give a shit what your name is,” said Podworsky, sitting down on the chair. “What the hell is all this?”
“I’m going to ask you some questions in connection with the murders of Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel and Maurice Ruhme.”
“What the fuck?” said Podworsky. “Again?”
Van Veeteren indicated that Munster should start the tape recorder. Munster pressed the appropriate button, and his superior went through the formalities. Podworsky answered mainly by snorting or swearing, but once he’d been allowed to light a cigarette, he started-at least as far as Munster could see-to be a little more cooperative.
