He cleared his throat and started.
“It was in Selstadt… she moved there. Or was moved there. Was taken in hand by the social services and placed in Trieckberg; do you know Trieckberg?”
“No.”
“One of those community homes that manages to help the odd patient… doesn’t just allow them to drift out then back in, out and back in, until they finally die of an overdose or a dirty needle. It manages to help the odd patient. Then… we had contact, good contact; we went to visit her, and she wasn’t too bad. There was a spark of light again, but after a few months we heard that she had run away… it was a long, long time before we were tipped off that she might be in Selstadt. Trieck berg isn’t far from there. I drove to Selstadt and searched… after a few days I dug up an address and went there. It was a drug den, of course. I’ve seen a fair amount, but I’ve never seen anybody in a worse state than Brigitte and the other woman in
Heinz Eggers’s stable… that’s what he called it. His stable. He obviously thought I’d come for a quick session with one or both of his whores. He might have had more, come to that…”
He paused.
“What did you do?” she asked after a while.
“I hit him. Punched him on the nose. Hadn’t the strength to do any more than that. He disappeared. I phoned for an ambu lance and got both of them into hospital… she died three weeks later. Bitte died at the hospital in Selstadt. Forgive me,
I’m too tired to go into the details.”
“How?”
He waited again and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
Dropped it on the floor and stamped out the glow with his foot.
“Slit her own throat as she threw herself out of a sixth-floor window… wanted to make sure. That was September 30, 1988. She was twenty-seven years old.”
He remained sitting there for longer than usual this time. Sat the usual three or four yards away from her in the darkness, breathing heavily. Neither of them spoke; she gathered there was nothing else to add. He had finished now.
He had achieved his vengeance.
The story was told.
It was all over.
They sat there in the darkness, and it seemed to her that they were simply two actors who happened to be still onstage, even though the curtain had long since come down.
What now? she wondered. What comes next?
What will Horatio do after the death of Hamlet?
Live and tell the story one more time, as he had been requested to do?
Die by his own hand, which is his wish?
In the end she dared to put the question:
“What do you intend to do?”
She could hear him give a start. Perhaps he had actually fallen asleep. He seemed to be enveloped by infinite weariness, in any case, and she immediately felt that she would have liked to give him advice.
Some kind of comfort. But there was none, of course.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve played my part. I must receive a sign. Must go there and wait for a sign…”
He stood up.
“What day is it?” she asked suddenly, without knowing why.
“It’s not day,” he said. “It’s night.”
Then he left her again.
Well, I’m still alive, she thought in surprise. And night is the mother of day…
50
Van Veeteren took the lead.
Led the way through the darkness that was starting to become less intense. A narrow strip of gray dawn had forced its way in under the trees, but it was still too early to make out anything but vague outlines, flickerings and shadows. Sound still held sway over light, the ear over the eye. A jumble of faint rustling and squeals from small animals scuttling away from their feet as they moved forward. A strange place, thought
Munster.
“Take it easy now,” Van Veeteren had urged them. “It’s a helluva lot better to arrive a quarter of an hour later without being discovered.”
They eventually turned the corner and emerged onto the stone paving. Van Veeteren opened the door. It squeaked faintly, and Munster could sense that he was concerned; but they were all inside within half a minute.
They split up. Two up the stairs. He and Munster down stairs.
It was pitch-dark, and he switched on his flashlight.
“It’s only a guess,” he whispered over his shoulder, “but I’m pretty damn sure that I’m right, even so!”
Munster nodded and followed hard on his heels.
“Look!” exclaimed Van Veeteren, stopping. He pointed the beam at an old doll’s house crammed full of toys: dolls, teddy bears and everything else you could think of. “I ought to have realized even then… but that would have been asking a bit much, I suppose.”
They continued downward, Munster half a step behind him. The smell of soil grew stronger-soil and the slight re mains of stale cigarette smoke. The passage grew narrower and the ceiling lower, making them crouch slightly, leaning for ward-groping their way forward, despite the flickering beam from the flashlight.
“Here,” said Van Veeteren suddenly. He stopped and shone the flashlight on a solid wooden door with double bolts and a bulky padlock. “Here it is!”
He knocked cautiously.
No sound.
He tried again, a little harder, and Munster could hear a faint noise from the other side.
“Inspector Moerk?” said Van Veeteren, his cheek pressed against the damp door.
Now they could hear a clear and definite “Yes,” and simulta neously Munster felt something burst inside him. Tears poured down his face and nothing on earth could have stopped them.
I’m a forty-two-year-old cop standing here weeping like a little kid. Godammit!
But he couldn’t care less. He stood behind Van Veeteren’s back and wept under the cover of darkness. Thank you, he thought, without having any idea whom he was addressing.
Van Veeteren took out the crowbar, and after a couple of failed attempts managed to make the padlock give way. He drew back the bolts and opened the door…
“Take the light away,” whispered Beate Moerk, and all
Munster could see of her were the chains, her mass of tousled hair and the hands she was holding over her eyes.
Before doing as she’d asked, Van Veeteren shone the beam around the walls for a few seconds.
Then he muttered something unintelligible and switched off.
Munster fumbled his way over to her. Raised her to her feet… she leaned heavily on him, and it was clear that he would have to carry her. He carefully lifted her up, and noticed that he was still crying.
“How are you?” he managed to blurt out as she laid her head on his shoulder, and his voice sounded surprisingly steady.
“Not too good,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”
“No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “I ought to have realized sooner, though… I’m afraid you’ll have to keep the chains on for a bit longer. We don’t have the right equipment with us.”
