It was not a pleasant thought. He tried to dismiss it, but the only thing that replaced it was the clinically lit operating table and a limp, anesthetized body-his own.
And the stranger dressed in green, brandishing razor-sharp knives over his stomach.
He quickened his pace. Darkness had started to fall, and twenty minutes later as he stood outside the railroad station buying a pack of cigarettes, he also felt the first drop of rain on his hand.
7
After some deliberation Rooth decided to phone rather than call round in person. It was more than ten miles to Blochberg and it was nearly half past seven.
Afterward, when he replaced the receiver, he was relieved to think that at least the woman at the other end of the line didn’t know what he looked like. With a bit of luck, she wouldn’t be sure of his name either: He hoped that he had managed to mumble it so indistinctly that she hadn’t picked it up.
It had not been a successful telephone call.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Menhevern?”
“Marie-Louise Menhevern, yes.”
The voice was shrill and discouraging.
“My name is Rooth, from the Maardam police. I’m calling in connection with a missing person. You telephoned us last June to inform us that, unfortunately, your husband seemed to have vanished, is that right?”
“No. I never said anything about it being unfortunate. I merely said he’d disappeared.”
“In June 1993?”
“Precisely.”
“Has he come back home?”
“No.”
“You haven’t had any sign of life from him?”
“No. If I had, I’d have informed the police, of course.”
“And you have no idea what’s become of him?”
“Well, I assume he’s run off with another woman and is hidden away somewhere. That’s the type he is.”
“Really? Where might he be, do you think?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m sitting here watching the telly, constable. Are you sure you’re from the police, come to that?”
“Of course.”
“What do you want, then? Have you found him?”
“That depends,” said Rooth. “How many testicles did he have?”
“What the hell was that you said?”
“Er, well, I mean, most men have two, obviously. .
He hasn’t had an operation and lost one, or something like that?”
“Hang on, I’m going to have this call traced.”
“But Mrs. Menhevern, please, it’s not what you think. . ”
“You are the worst sort, do you know that? You don’t even dare to come and look me in the eye. Telephone pig! If I could lay my hands on you I’d. .”
Rooth terminated the call in horror. Sat there for half a minute without moving. As if the slightest careless move might give him away. Stared out of the window as darkness began to fall over the town.
No, he thought, I’m no good with women. That’s all there is to it.
Then he decided to remove Claus Menhevern from the list of possible victims. Which meant there was only one left.
Munster parked outside the dilapidated apartment block on Armastenstraat. Lingered in the car before walking over the street and venturing in through the outside door. An unmistakable stench of cat piss hovered over the stairs, and large lumps of plaster had given up all hope of clinging on to the walls, leaving gaping holes. There was no mention of a Pierre Kohler on the list of tenants in the hallway, but that seemed to be as unreliable as the rest of the building and so he decided to investigate what it said on the doors.
He hit the jackpot on the fourth floor.
it said on a handwritten scrap of paper pinned above the letter slot.
He rang the bell. Nothing happened-presumably it wasn’t working. He knocked several times instead. After almost a minute he heard footsteps and the door was opened by a woman in her fifties. She had a mauve dressing gown wrapped loosely round her overweight body, and she eyed Munster critically up and down.
She was evidently unimpressed by what she saw.
So was Munster.
“I’m from the Maardam police,” he said, flashing his ID
for a tenth of a second. “It’s about a missing person. May I come in?”
“Not without a warrant,” said the woman.
“Thank you,” said Munster. “We’ve found a dead body in some woods not far from here, and it seems possible that it might be Pierre Kohler, who was reported missing in August last year.”
“Why should it be him?” the woman wondered, tightening the belt of her robe.
“Well, we don’t know for certain, of course,” said Munster.
“We’re just checking everybody who’s been reported missing.
The age seems to fit, and his height; but this is purely a routine check. There’s nothing else to suggest that it could be him.”
Why am I being so polite to this damned bitch? he wondered. It’s obvious I should have clamped down on her right from the start.
“Well?” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“There is one detail,” said Munster.
“One detail?”
“Yes, something that will enable us to make a positive identification. You see, the body we found didn’t have a head.
That’s what’s making it so difficult for us to establish who it is.”
“You don’t say?”
A man had appeared in the hall behind her. Nodded
brusquely at Munster and put his hand on the woman’s
shoulder.
“What kind of a detail?” he asked.
“Er,” said Munster. “Well, our victim is missing a testicle.
Presumably it was operated on some considerable time ago.
Do you happen to know. .?”
The man started coughing, and Munster broke off. When the attack was over, Munster realized that it had been more of an outburst of laughter. He was grinning. The woman as well.
“Well, mister fucking chief of police,” said the man, ham-mering his clenched fist against his forehead. “This is my head.
If you want to count my balls, you’d better step inside. My name is Pierre Kohler.”
