Van Veeteren shrugged.
“It’s not all that bad, I hope, but however you look at it, there’s no chance of getting proceedings under way unless we’re standing on solid ground. Very solid ground.”
“But can’t you dig out some proof? Isn’t that what usually happens? You know who did it, but you have to work your butts off to turn the knowledge into proof, afterward? I thought that was how the police usually went about things.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “But it looks pretty hopeless in his case. Time has run out on the first murder; we’re not allowed to open it again. And if the second one is to be reopened, we either have to produce cast-iron proof more solid than the defenses at Fort Knox, or he has to confess and stick with that confession. And we’re nowhere near either of those setups.”
“What about the murder of Verhaven? The same killer yet again?”
“Very much so. No, there’s not an ounce of technical proof there either. We don’t know when he died. Nor how. Nor where.”
He shrugged again.
“That’s about it, all in all.”
“But you know who the murderer is?” said Mahler, raising his bushy eyebrows to register doubt.
“We’re absolutely certain,” said Van Veeteren.
Mahler turned the board around and started setting up the pieces for another game.
“How can you be so certain that you won’t be able to make him confess? Don’t try and tell me you don’t resort to third-degree stuff when you have to?”
Van Veeteren lit another cigarette.
“I’ve been following him for two days,” he said. “Not furtively, of course, but making it obvious. So that he couldn’t avoid noticing. That usually puts anybody you care to name out of his stride, but not this character. He seems to be enjoying it. Gives me a nod now and then. Laughs up his sleeve. He seems to be certain that we haven’t got a shred of evidence that could nail him. I haven’t confronted him yet, but I’d be amazed if he lost his cool. And even if he did, he’d find it again before the trial started, and we’d be back to square one, having made all that effort for nothing. . ”
“Hmm,” said Mahler. “What are you going to do, then? It sounds a bit on the awkward side, I have to admit.”
Van Veeteren didn’t answer at first, but Mahler was determined to get a response.
“Well?”
“I’ve given him an ultimatum,” the chief inspector said eventually. “Would you like another beer?”
“Of course. What kind of an ultimatum?”
Van Veeteren stood up, made his way to the bar and
returned after a while with two new, frothy tankards.
“What kind of an ultimatum?” asked Mahler again, after they’d drunk each other’s health.
“I’ve given him an opportunity, that’s all. To bow out like a gentleman.”
“Meaning?”
“To commit suicide.”
Mahler seemed almost moved.
“But what if he isn’t a gentleman? There seems to be a lot of evidence to suggest that he isn’t.”
“Then I’ll make public what I know. He has a daughter and two grandchildren. If he merely shrugs and turns away, I’ll tell her that her father has three murders on his conscience, and I’ll make sure she’s convinced that it’s the truth. His wife held her tongue for the whole of her life for this very reason. . Or so I think.”
Mahler thought it over.
“Yes, sounds good,” he said. “Do you think it’ll work?”
Van Veeteren pulled a face.
“The devil only knows,” he said. “We’ll find out tomorrow at noon. I’m going to pay him a visit then.”
“You cunning bastard!” said Mahler. “You have your methods; I have to grant you that.”
He took another swig, then started to study the board again. After barely a moment’s thought, he advanced his king’s pawn two squares.
“Not much of a job, the one you’ve got,” he said.
“Serves me right,” said Van Veeteren.
“Yes, I expect it does,” said Mahler.
An hour and a half later, Mahler had turned a single-pawn advantage into a win after just over sixty moves. He bent down and produced a small, flat parcel from the briefcase he had on the floor beside him.
“You can have this as consolation,” he said. “Hot off the press this afternoon, so it’s as fresh as it comes.”
Van Veeteren tore off the wrapping paper.
“Many thanks,” he said. “Just what I need, I suspect.”
“You never know,” said Mahler, looking at his watch.
“About time to call it a day, methinks. You can start with page thirty-six. I reckon you might find something there that rings a bell.”
Van Veeteren split open the pages of the thin collection of poems after taking a shower and settling into bed. The clock radio on his bedside table said a couple of minutes after half-past twelve, and he decided to make do for the time being with the author’s recommendation. Poetry was not something you lapped up at any old time, especially not Mahler’s fastidious verses, and he could feel slumber lurking behind his eyelashes.
The poem was called “January Night” and was only seven lines long.
He switched off the light, and the lines lingered on, both in the darkness of the room, or so it seemed, and in his own fading consciousness.
The inner and the outer darkness, he thought, just before succumbing to the infinite embrace of sleep.
Tomorrow at noon.
40
As he stood outside the door, his watch said 11:59, and he decided to wait for that one last minute. He had written noon, and perhaps there was a point in being precise with details.
Not neglecting the apparently insignificant.
He rang the bell.
Waited for a few seconds, listening for sounds from inside.
Put his finger on the button and pressed again. A long, angry ring. Then he leaned forward, listening with his ear pressed against the cool wooden door.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices. No human sounds.
He stood upright. Composed himself for a moment. Took a deep breath and tried the door handle.
Open.
He crossed the threshold. Left the door slightly ajar. It was the first time he had entered an apartment where he might expect to find a dead body-it was not a certainty, but there was something else this time. Something that felt both worrying and predictable at the same time.
