forgotten soldier, or actor, in a play, or war, that everybody else had left years ago, and that nobody could care less about his efforts and under-takings. No matter if they were fellow actors, opponents or spectators.
Close down the case, he thought.
Close down Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. Offer a draw, or tip the board over. Stop all these pointless activities linked to his own vanity. There’s a murderer on the loose; leave him alone!
He paid and went back to his car. Picked out Monteverdi from the pile of CDs, and as the first notes were released from the loudspeakers, he knew that he had no intention of giving up. Not yet, in any case.
What the hell! he muttered. Justitia or Nemesis, same thing!
38
“Police!”
He held up his ID for half a second, and after three he was in the hall.
“I want to ask you some questions about the murders of Leopold Verhaven, Marlene Nietsch and Beatrice Holden. Can we do that here, or do you want to accompany me to the police station?”
The man hesitated, but only for a second.
“Come this way.”
They went into the living room. Munster took out his
notebook with the questions.
“Can you tell me what you were doing on August twenty-fourth, last year?”
The man shrugged.
“You must be joking. How can I be expected to remember that?”
“It’ll be best for you if you make a try. You didn’t happen to be in Kaustin?”
“Certainly not.”
“Had you any reason to be hostile toward Leopold
Verhaven?”
“Hostile? Of course not.”
“So it’s not the case that he knew about things that could be dangerous for you?”
“What on earth could they be?”
“Were you in Maardam on September eleventh, 1981?
That’s the day when Marlene Nietsch was murdered.”
“No. What are you getting at?”
“Is it not the case that you were in the area around the Covered Market that morning? Kreuger Plejn and Zwille and thereabouts?”
“No.”
“At about half past nine, ten o’clock?”
“No, I’ve already said no.”
“How can you be so sure what you were doing and not
doing one day thirteen years ago?”
No answer.
“What about Saturday April sixth, 1962, then? That was when it all started, wasn’t it?”
“You are making insinuations. I would like you to go and leave me in peace now.”
“Did you not call in on Beatrice Holden that Saturday afternoon? While Verhaven was out on business?”
“I’m not going to put up with this utter rubbish.”
“When did your love life with your wife come to an end?”
“What the hell has that got to do with this business?”
“You were forced to satisfy your needs elsewhere, isn’t that the case? After she was confined to bed. There must have been others as well as Beatrice Holden and Marlene Nietsch. .
Why did you kill just those two?”
He stood up.
“Or have you killed others as well?”
“Get out! If you think you can scare me into saying things that are not true, you can tell your superiors that they’re wasting their time.”
Munster closed his notebook.
“Thank you,” he said. “This has been a very enlightening conversation.”
“Yes, it could be him,” said Munster as he sat down opposite the chief inspector.
Van Veeteren parted the curtains.
“Be ready in case he comes out,” he said. “You never know what he could get up to.”
“He won’t be easy to arrest,” said Munster. “I don’t think he’s the type to break down and submit.”
“Damn and blast!” said Van Veeteren. “Although we’ve
only given him the first warning, so to speak.”
Munster knew that was what Van Veeteren had in mind
when he’d sent his assistant in advance. So that he could save himself for a more important, possibly crucial encounter.
Good thinking, of course; but there again, it must give the murderer a chance to prepare his defense. He pointed that out, but Van Veeteren merely shrugged.
“Very possible,” he said. “But it could also be those preparations that trip him up. In any case, he’s not in an enviable position. He knows that we know. Just think about that. He’s a rat trapped in a corner. We are the cats waiting for him to come out.”
“We don’t have any proof,” said Munster. “We won’t get any, either.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
Munster thought that over.
“But he’ll soon realize it, surely. If we know that he has three murders on his conscience, it must seem a bit odd that we don’t arrest him.”
Van Veeteren stubbed out his cigarette in annoyance and let go of the curtains.
“I know,” he muttered. “It’s a bit of my bowels they cut out, Munster, not my brain.”
Silence. Van Veeteren heaved a sigh and put a toothpick in his mouth. Munster ordered a beer and took out his notebook.
“You only asked the questions I told you to ask, I trust?”
said Van Veeteren after a while.
“Of course,” said Munster. “There’s one thing that puzzles me, though.”
“What’s that?”
“How did he know that she’d told Verhaven at the prison?”
Van Veeteren snorted.
“Because she told him so, of course. Just before she died, I assume. According to Sister Marianne, he went to see her that final day at the hospital.”
“She eased her conscience in both directions?”
“That’s one way of putting it, yes. You might think she ought to have kept quiet altogether instead. That would have saved one life, at least. But people tend to get a bit obsessed by the truth.”
“What do you mean?” asked Munster.
Van Veeteren downed the rest of his beer.
“The truth can be a heavy burden to bear,” he said. “It seems impossible to bear it alone in the long run. It would be good, though, if people could learn not to pass it on any old way.”
Munster pondered for a while.
“I’ve never thought of it like that before,” he said, looking out the window. “But there’s a lot of truth in it, of course. He doesn’t seem to have been overcome by panic, though.”
