‘Of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll look after that. Rooth and Jung can go back to the restaurant again — that should suit Rooth down to the ground. We’ll have a press release tomorrow that will require every bastard who set foot in that restaurant to come forward. That always produces some kind of results… If you can’t fish deep down, you have to cast your nets out wide.’
‘Wise words,’ said Rooth. ‘Mind you, ugly fish swim deep, if I’m not much mistaken. Cod, for instance.’
‘True,’ said Bollmert, who was almost born on a trawler, but didn’t think that was something to bring up here and now.
‘What the hell have codfish got to do with this?’ wondered Reinhart.
There followed a few seconds of silence while the team leader exhaled more clouds of smoke and the others watched.
‘What do you think?’ said deBries eventually. ‘Surely we need to have some kind of theory as well? Why was he killed?’
Reinhart cleared his throat.
‘I’ll tell you that when I’ve mapped out this last week in rather more detail,’ he promised. ‘Young Van Veeteren was going to meet somebody out at Dikken. He was presumably going to earn a bit of pocket money as a result, and I don’t suppose he was going to sell Christmas magazines. That is what we have to sort out just now.’
‘And he was clobbered,’ said Rooth.
‘By whoever he was going to meet, or by somebody else.’
‘Could it be the geezer he borrowed the car from?’ wondered Bollmert.
‘I reckon we can count him out,’ said Reinhart after two seconds’ thought. ‘He’s in Holte jail, and as far as we know he and young Van Veeteren haven’t been in touch for several months. And he hasn’t been out on parole for ages either.’
‘What’s he in for?’ asked Rooth.
‘All kinds of things,’ said Reinhart. ‘Robbery and white slave trading, among other things. Illegal possession of weapons. Four years. Two-and-a-half left. More or less.’
‘Okay,’ said deBries. ‘We’ll count him out. Anything else? I’m hungry, I haven’t eaten since last week.’
‘Same here.’ said Rooth.
Reinhart laid his pipe in the ashtray.
‘Just one other thing,’ he said, in a serious tone of voice. ‘I spoke to The Chief Inspector yesterday evening and I promised him that we would solve this case. I hope you all understand how extraordinary this business is. I mean what I said at the start. We must sort it out. Must! Is that understood?’
He looked round.
‘We’re not idiots,’ said deBries. ‘As I said before.’
‘It’ll sort itself out,’ said Rooth.
It’s good to have a team with self-belief, Reinhart thought: but he didn’t say anything.
Van Veeteren paused in the south-west corner of the long, narrow square. Ockfener Plejn. Shuddered, dug his hands down deeper into his overcoat pockets. Looked around. Until Saturday he hadn’t known that this was where Erich lived — or had he in fact known in some subconscious way? They had met twice during the autumn: once at the beginning of September, and then again just over three weeks ago. Despite everything, he thought as he groped around after his cigarette roller, despite everything he had socialized a little with his son. Recently. He had received Erich in his home, and they had talked to each other like civilized human beings. That was definitely the case. Something was on its way: it wasn’t clear exactly what, something confused and obscure of course, but something nevertheless… Erich had talked about Marlene Frey as well, but only in terms of a nameless young woman, as far as he could remember, and of course he might well have mentioned where they lived as well — why not? It was just that he couldn’t remember.
So he lives here… Or lived here. Almost in the centre of the old town, in this run-down nineteenth-century block of flats whose dirty facade Van Veeteren was now staring at. On the second floor, almost at the top of the building. There was a faint light in the window overlooking the tiny balcony with its rusty iron railings. He knew that she was at home, and that she was expecting him: his dead son’s fiancee whom he had never met, and he also knew — suddenly but with overwhelming certainty — that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. That he wouldn’t be able to summon up the strength to ring the bell on that shabby front door with the paint flaking off. Not today.
Instead he looked at his watch. It was almost six. The darkness that had begun to envelop the town seemed to him to be freezing cold and hostile. There was a strange smell of sulphur or phosphorus in the air. He didn’t recognize it, it somehow didn’t belong here. There was a temporary breathing space in the otherwise constant downpour, but of course rain was never far away at this time of year. He lit a cigarette. Lowered his gaze, preferring not to ask himself if it was due to shame or to something else… and having done so he noticed a cafe on the opposite corner of the square, and when he had finished his cigarette, that is where he headed. Sat down with a glass of dark beer at a table by one of the windows where it was impossible for anybody to see out or in. Rested his head on his hands and thought back over the day.
Today. The third day he had woken up in the knowledge that his son was dead.
First of all an hour at the antiquarian bookshop, where he explained the situation to Krantze and they rearranged their working hours. He didn’t dislike old Krantze, but they would never be more than business partners. Certainly not, but that’s just the way it was.
Then he paid another visit to the Forensic Laboratories, this time together with Renate and Jess. He had stayed outside the door when they went into the refrigerated room. You only need to look at a dead son once, he had told himself. And he still thought that, as he sat in the cafe and tasted the beer. Only once: there were images that time and forgetfulness would never retouch. Which never needed to be reawoken because they never slept. Jess had been in control of herself when they came out again — with a crumpled handkerchief in each hand, but controlled all the same.
Renate was just as numb and apathetic as she had been when she went in. He wondered what tablets she was on, and how many.
A few minutes’ conversation with Meusse as well. Neither of them had performed especially well. Meusse had looked as if he were about to burst into tears, and he didn’t usually behave like that.
Soon afterwards he had introduced Jess to Ulrike. It was a bright spot in all the darkness, a meeting that went exceptionally well. Only half an hour in the living room at Klagenburg with a glass of wine and a salad, but that was enough. What mattered was not the words themselves, as had been said before… But there was something between women that he would never understand. Between certain women. When they said their goodbyes out in the hall, he had felt almost like a stranger: he was able to smile in the midst of all the grief.
Then he had rung Marlene Frey and arranged a meeting. She had sounded pretty much in control of herself, and said he was welcome to call round any time after five o’clock. She would be at home, and was looking forward to speaking to him. There was something she wanted to say, she said.
Looking forward? Something she wanted to say?
And now he was sitting here with feet colder than his beer. Why?
He didn’t know. Knew only that it wouldn’t work today, and after he had finished his beer he asked if he could use the telephone. Stood there between the ladies and gents toilets surrounded by a faint smell of urine, and rang his dead son’s living fiancee to tell her that something had cropped up.
Would it be okay if he came tomorrow instead? Or the day after?
Yes, that was okay. But she had difficulty in hiding her disappointment.
So did he as he left Ockfener Plejn and started walking back home. Disappointment and shame.
I don’t understand myself any more, he thought. It’s not me that it’s all about. What am I scared of, what the hell is happening to me?
But he went straight home.
Reinhart was woken up by Winnifred whispering his name. And placing a cold hand on his stomach.
‘You’re supposed to be putting your daughter to bed, not yourself.’
He yawned, and tried to do some stretches for a couple of minutes. Then he eased himself cautiously out of Joanna’s narrow bed and out of the nursery. Flopped down on the sofa in the living room instead, where his wife was half-lying under a blanket at the other end.
