“Was she pretty?” he asked eventually, when the silence was starting to become too much for him.
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she said. “From a man’s point of view, she must have been very beautiful.”
“But you never saw her.”
“No, only in photographs. In the newspapers.”
He changed track. Completely.
“Why did you wait so long before contacting the police, Mrs. Hoegstraa?”
She swallowed.
“I didn’t know anything. Believe me, Inspector. I had no idea that anything had happened to him. We had no contact, none at all; you have to understand that.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that your brother could be dead for eight months without anybody missing him?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry. . It’s terrible.”
“You never visited him when he was in prison?”
“Once, that first time. He made it very clear that he didn’t want any more visits.”
“And you respected that?”
“Yes, I respected that.”
“What about your brother?”
“Yes. He tried once after the second murder. Leo refused to see him.”
“Did you write to him?”
She shook her head.
“But you looked after the house for him?”
“No, not at all. I just looked after the key. We went there twice during the last twelve years. The second time was a week before he was due for release. He sent me a postcard asking me to leave the key there for him.”
“And that was all?” Jung asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking slightly embarrassed. “That was all, I’m afraid.”
Huh, Jung thought as he crossed the street a quarter of an hour later. I must remember to phone my sister this evening.
This is not what ought to happen.
I’d better call Maureen as well, come to that. About the vocabulary book if for nothing else.
He had already driven a few miles before it occurred to him that he’d forgotten to ask about the testicle business; but no matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t see that it was significant. In any case, it would be easier to deal with that detail on the telephone.
And not to have to be so embarrassingly close, that is.
I suppose I’m a bit of a prude really, he thought, switching on the radio.
16
On the way to Ulmentahl, Inspector Rooth found himself sitting at the wheel while thinking about various geographical circumstances; in retrospect he realized that those thoughts must have been triggered when he drove through Linzhuisen and happened to see the place names Kaustin and Behren on the same signpost.
Kaustin 10. Behren 23.
In different directions, of course. Kaustin to the northwest.
Behren almost due south. If his rudimentary knowledge of geometry had not let him down, that should mean that the distance between the two places was. . thirty miles or more?
Why had the murderer chosen to place the dead body just there?
In Behren. A little town with, perhaps, twenty-five thousand inhabitants? No more than thirty, in any case.
Pure coincidence?
Very possible. If the murderer’s intention had been no more than to dump the body sufficiently far away from Kaustin for the link with Verhaven not to strike anybody, then yes, that was probably far enough. But on the other hand, a greater distance would have been even better for his purpose.
They could take it as read that Verhaven had been killed in his own house. Or could they? Nothing was absolutely certain yet, one way or the other, and perhaps he could have left the house without being seen by Mrs. Wilkerson’s hawklike eyes?
Or anybody else’s?
Of course he could. During the night, for instance. Or through the forest. It was only that road down to the village that had eyes. And the village itself.
So, yes, he probably could have gone to Behren. Or somewhere else. And met his killer there. No doubt about it.
He turned onto the freeway. Next question?
How? How, if that was what happened, could Verhaven have found his way to Behren? (Or somewhere else, as stated.) He didn’t have a car of his own anymore. So bus or taxi, that seemed to be the only. . And if that was the case, it ought not to be all that difficult to look into it.
Eventually, that is. So far they had managed to keep the mass media at arm’s length; that was a blessing, to be sure, when it came to their working conditions and the atmosphere in which the investigation was conducted, but sooner or later, they would need help from the media. And obviously, it was only a matter of time before the echo of jungle drums in Kaustin was picked up a little farther away. Before long the news would be broadcast all over the country, and they would have to take the rough with the smooth. As usual.
Journalists are like cow shit, Reinhart used to say. I’m not especially keen on the stuff as such, but I understand that it has its uses.
So if there was a cab driver, Rooth thought, or a bus con-ductor who could recall a particular passenger setting out from Kaustin one evening in August. . Or early morning, perhaps. . To-why not Behren? Well, yes indeed, that would narrow things down quite a lot.
Concentrate minds a bit.
He increased speed and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
As things were at the moment, you could ask as many questions as you liked. And every damned question gave rise to another three. Or even more.
Like that Greek monster, whatever its name is.
No, better to worry about something else instead, he
decided, and ran his hand through his beard.
No, not through. Over, rather.
What had deBries said? A dying hamster?
Whatever, another 130 miles to Ulmentahl. He would have to put some life into this case before very long, that was beyond discussion.
Mr. Bortschmaa’s office was light and airy and pleasantly cozy with framed sports certificates and crossed tennis racquets.
The prison governor himself was a powerfully built man in his fifties, Rooth estimated, dressed in a light blue sports shirt, with tanned forearms and youthful, flaxen hair.
The group of furniture where visitors were entertained by the picture window-looking out onto the barbed- wire top of the prison wall and the peaceful flat countryside beyond-
comprised thin steel chairs with eye-catching blue and yellow upholstery and a table made of red plastic. On one of the chairs sat an overweight man with receding hair and sweat stains under his arms. He did not look happy.
Rooth and the governor sat down.
“Meet Joppens, our welfare officer,” said the latter.
“Rooth,” said Rooth, shaking hands.
