Then he phoned the bank. The loan he had applied for on Thursday was still not granted. It would take a few more days — but he needn’t worry, he was assured. It was a mere formality. He was a valued customer, and the bank looked after their valued customers.
He said thank you and hung up. Remained standing for a while, looking out of the window at the gloomy suburban street and the rain. So he wouldn’t have the cash by that evening. In no circumstances.
So something else was needed.
A strategy was called for.
He read the letter one more time, and tried to think of one.
22
The picture of the murdered Vera Elizabeth Miller became somewhat clearer during the course of Monday.
She was born in Gellenkirk in 1963, but grew up in Groenstadt. She had three siblings — two brothers and a sister — all of whom still lived in that southern province. Her father died in 1982, her mother married again and was now working as a domestic science teacher in Karpatz: she had been informed of her daughter’s death via the school, and was expected in Maardam together with her new husband at some time on Tuesday.
Vera Miller had trained to be a nurse in Groenstadt, and worked there until 1991, when she divorced a certain Henric Veramten and moved up to Maardam. Her marriage to Veramten had not produced any children of their own, but in 1989 they had adopted a little girl from Korea — she died in a tragic road accident the following year. According to Vera’s mother and two of her siblings, the divorce from Varamten was a direct result of the girl’s death. It was not stated in so many words, but reading between the lines it seemed that the husband could well have been responsible for the accident. Directly or indirectly. No official investigation had taken place.
In Maardam Vera Miller had started work at Gemejnte Hospital in the spring of 1992, and two-and-a-half years later she married Andreas Wollger. Neither her mother not her siblings knew anything at all about this second marriage. They hadn’t been to a wedding celebration — didn’t even know that there had been one — and had only been in sporadic contact with Vera in recent years.
Andreas Wollger’s condition was unchanged. At about seven o’clock on Monday evening it had still not been possible to interrogate him any further about his relationship with his wife as he was still in shock after what had happened. However, both Moreno and Reinhart had the strong impression that relations between the two had probably not been of the best.
And probably not second-best either.
What still needed to be done, of course, was to get these assumptions confirmed via conversations and interrogations with people who had known the couple in some connection or other.
And via herr Wollger himself.
As far as Vera Miller’s general character was concerned, it soon became clear that she was a very much admired and liked woman, in the view of both friends and colleagues. Most notably of all, a certain Irene Vargas — who had known Vera since they were both knee-high to a grasshopper down in Groenstadt, and now lived in Maardam — had expressed her shocked sorrow and regret at losing, as she put it, ‘one of the warmest and most honest people I’ve ever known, it’s a bloody tragedy’. Fru Vargas and Vera Miller had evidently been close friends for many years, and Reinhart assumed that if there was anybody at all who might possibly have insight into the darker sides of Vera’s life — possible extra-marital relations, for instance — she was the one.
No such information had emerged from the first conversation with her, but of course there was good reason to talk to her again about it.
Very good reason. By all accounts it seemed that Vera Miller had begun two-timing her husband round about the end of October/beginning of November. According to what she had told her husband, she would be attending a further education course for nurses in Aarlach for several weekends to come, at least eight.
Where she actually spent those Saturdays and Sundays — and with whom — was still an unanswered question.
‘Bloody blockhead,’ said Reinhart. ‘Fancy letting her go off every weekend without checking up on what she was doing. How naive can you get?’
‘Are you telling me that you would check up on Winnifred if she announced she was enrolling for a course?’ Moreno wondered.
‘Of course not,’ said Reinhart. ‘That’s something entirely different.’
‘I don’t see the logic,’ said Moreno.
‘Intuition,’ said Reinhart. ‘Healthy male intuition. Anyway, are we in agreement that he’s not the one who did it? Wollger, that is.’
‘I think so,’ said Moreno. ‘We’d better not eliminate the possibility altogether, though it seems highly unlikely. But what we can say about the link with Erich Van Veeteren… well, I haven’t a clue about that.’
While deBries and Rooth were talking to people who knew the Miller-Wollgers, Moreno had been concentrating on Marlene Frey and some of Erich Van Veeteren’s friends, but nobody had been able to supply any information that seemed remotely relevant.
Nobody had recognized Vera Miller from the photograph they had borrowed from Irene Vargas, and nobody could recall ever having heard her name before.
‘I don’t know where I stand on that either,’ said Reinhart, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘I have to admit that. I’ll be meeting The Chief Inspector tomorrow, and I think I’ll raise it with him… The possible link. That would mean we had something concrete to talk about. It gets so bloody depressing, just sitting there philosophizing about death.’
Moreno thought for a moment.
‘You’re very fond of theories,’ she said. ‘I mean, is it possible to find a motive for killing both Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller based on the assumption that they didn’t know one another? Can you think up a story that hangs together?’
‘A story…?’ said Reinhart, scratching his forehead with the stem of his pipe. ‘Without their knowing each other? Hmm, it could be as far-fetched as you like, and yet still be crystal clear if you could see the actual threads… Assuming of course that we’re not dealing with an out-and-out lunatic, because that would be a different kettle of fish altogether. Yes, of course I could think up a chain of events that hang together — I could churn out ten if you wanted me to. But where would that get us?’
Moreno smiled.
‘Do that,’ she said. ‘Spend the night thinking up ten threads linking the deaths of Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller. Then tell me about them tomorrow, and I promise I’ll pick out the right one.’
‘Good God,’ said Reinhart. ‘I have a lovely wife to devote the nights to. And a daughter with inflammation of the ear to see to when she hasn’t got any strength left. Are you still married to your work?’
‘It seems like it,’ said Moreno.
‘Seems like it? What the hell is that for an expression?’ He leaned forward over the table and stared at her with a vertical furrow between his eyebrows.
‘It’s something to do with Munster. Isn’t it?’
Inspector Moreno stared back at him for three seconds.
‘Go to hell,’ she said, and left the room.
‘Do you know what I am?’ said Rooth. ‘I’m the worst hunter in Europe.’
‘I’ve no reason to doubt that,’ said Jung. ‘Mind you, I didn’t know you did any hunting.’
‘Women,’ sighed Rooth. ‘I’m talking about women. Here’s me busy chasing after them for twenty years… twenty-five, in fact… And I haven’t captured a single one. What the hell am I supposed to do?’
Jung looked around the bar, which was full of men. They had just dropped in at the Oldener Maas in order to gild the day (Rooth’s term), and it didn’t appear to be especially good hunting ground.
‘You’ve got yours nailed down,’ said Rooth. ‘Maureen’s a bloody marvellous woman. If she throws you out I’d be only too happy to take over.’
‘I’ll tell her that,’ said Jung. ‘That should guarantee that she’ll hang on to me.’
