if he remembered rightly. Forced out of business by the Japanese. Or possibly the Koreans.
‘And your wife?’
‘Her job, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s a nurse.’
‘What were you doing last Saturday evening?’
‘I was having dinner with a good friend.’
‘Where?’
‘At the Mefisto restaurant.’
‘In Lofters Plejn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was your wife with you?’
‘My wife was attending a course.’
‘What sort of a course?’
‘For nurses. She’s a nurse.’
‘At which hospital?’
‘Gemejnte.’
‘And the course was held in Gemejnte Hospital?’
‘No. It was in Aarlach.’
‘Aarlach?’ said Reinhart, making a note. ‘That’s a long way from here.’
Wollger said nothing.
‘So it was a course for nurses in Aarlach. When did she go there?’
‘On Saturday morning.’
‘When was she due back?’
‘On Sunday afternoon. As usual.’
‘As usual? What do you mean by that?’
Wollger took a deep breath.
‘She’s been attending that course for several Saturdays. It’s some kind of further education.’
‘Always in Aarlach?’
‘Always in Aarlach,’ said Wollger. ‘But she didn’t come home.’
‘I understand,’ said Reinhart. ‘And when she didn’t come home, you reported that to the police?’
‘She’s dead,’ said Wollger. ‘For Christ’s sake, Vera’s dead!’
His voice rose half an octave at the end of the sentence, and Reinhart realized that Wollger was close to breaking point.
‘How did she get there?’ he asked. ‘To Aarlach, I mean.’
‘By train,’ said Wollger. ‘She took the train, of course. For Christ’s sake, she’s dead: why are you sitting here asking me how she got to Aarlach?’
Reinhart waited for a few seconds.
‘Your wife has been murdered,’ he said. ‘Somebody killed her during the night between Saturday and Sunday. Have you any explanation for why her body was found here just outside Maardam when she was supposed to be a couple of hundred kilometres away from here?’
Wollger had no explanation. Instead, he slumped down on his chair, sunk his face into his hands and started sobbing, swaying backwards and forwards. There was a discreet knock on the door, and Dr Schenck’s curly grey locks came into view.
‘How’s it going?’
Reinhart sighed, and moved out of earshot of the man who had just become a widower.
‘As you might expect. I think you’d better take over. I don’t know who his next of kin is, but we’d better get somebody here PDQ. We need to talk to him, of course, the sooner the better. But that’s not possible the way things are at the moment.’
‘Okay,’ said Schenck. ‘I can see how things stand. Let’s see what I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart, leaving the room.
When he arrived at the Forensic Laboratory it was more or less lunchtime, so he suggested that they should nip over the road to Fix. Meusse had nothing against that: he took off his soiled white coat and exchanged it for the jacket he’d tossed onto his desk.
Fix bar was just over the street. It was quite full when they entered, but with the aid of a touch of diplomacy Reinhart managed to find a fairly secluded table. He asked Meusse if he would like something to eat, but the pathologist merely shook his bald head. That was not exactly unexpected. If you could believe the gossip it was years since any solid food had crossed his lips. Reinhart ordered two dark beers, sat down opposite him and waited.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘I gather you’ve come up with something.’
Meusse took a deep swig, and dried his lips carefully with his serviette.
‘It’s a circumstance.’
‘A circumstance?’ said Reinhart.
‘Precisely,’ said Meusse. ‘You are obviously paying attention.’
Reinhart let that pass.
‘It’s a decidedly uncertain observation. But I’d like you to bear it in mind.’
‘I see,’ said Reinhart.
‘It’s about those blows.’
‘Blows?’
‘The blows to the side and back of the head,’ said Meusse. ‘There is a concordance with The Chief Inspector ’s boy.’
It was a couple of moments before Reinhart realized that this expression referred to Erich Van Veeteren.
‘Hell’s bells!’ he said.
‘You can say that again,’ said Meusse, taking another drink of beer. ‘Don’t forget that it’s only a superficial observation.’
‘Of course not,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ve got quite a good memory. Are you suggesting that it could be the same person?’
‘Hmm,’ said Meusse.
‘That the same person killed both Erich Van Veeteren and this woman. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m not excluding the possibility,’ said Meusse after a pause for thought. ‘ That’s what I’m saying. If you listen carefully, I’ll explain… What we are dealing with is a somewhat unusual blow. There’s nothing to suggest that it couldn’t be the same weapon used in both cases, either. A length of iron pipe, for instance. Pretty heavy. I’ve got no comment to make about the blows to the side of the head, apart from the fact that the killer was right-handed. I’m basing the concordance on the blow to the back of the head. Broke the cervical spine in both cases. Hit more or less exactly the same place. Causing instant death. It could be a coincidence, of course, but I thought you ought to know.’
‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart.
He sat quietly for a while, trying to clarify the reasoning for himself by drawing a column of vertebrae in the notebook on the table in front of him. It wasn’t all that successful.
‘But there were several blows to the side of the head this time?’
Meusse nodded.
‘Three. Quite unnecessary. The blow to the back of the head would have been sufficient, but that assumes that the victim was the right way up… as it were.’
‘Would you say it was professional?’ Reinhart asked.
Meusse hesitated before answering.
‘Whoever delivered the blow must have known what to aim at, and what the result would be,’ he said. ‘Is that what you mean by professionalism?’
Reinhart shrugged.
