‘Kiss my arse,’ said Rooth, and took a justifiable swig of his beer. ‘But perhaps it’s due to the ammunition.’
‘Ammunition?’ said Jung.
‘I’m beginning to think I’ve been using too big a calibre of buckshot all these years. I’m thinking about reading some poetry — what do you think about that?’
‘Good,’ said Jung. ‘Just the thing for a man like you. Can’t we talk about something else instead of women?’
Rooth assumed an expression of utter astonishment.
‘What the hell could that possibly be?’
Jung shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Work, perhaps?’
‘I prefer women,’ said Rooth with a sigh. ‘But since you ask so nicely…’
‘We could just sit and keep our traps shut,’ said Jung. ‘Perhaps the best choice.’
Rooth really did sit quietly for quite a while, digging deep into the bowl of peanuts and chewing away thoughtfully.
‘I’ve got a hypothesis,’ he said eventually.
‘A hypothesis?’ said Jung. ‘Not a theory?’
‘I don’t really know the difference between them,’ Rooth admitted. ‘Who cares, in any case?… Now listen to this…’
‘My ears can’t wait.’
‘Good,’ said Rooth. ‘But don’t keep interrupting me all the time. Anyway, this Vera Miller… If she was having an affair with another man, it would make sense if we found the bloke in question.’
‘You’re a genius,’ said Jung. ‘How do you do it, Constable?’
‘I haven’t finished yet. There’s no doubt it would make things easier if we knew where to look for him.’
Jung yawned.
‘This is where the hypothesis bursts out into full bloom,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s obvious that we’re looking for a doctor.’
‘A doctor? Why the hell…?’
‘It’s as clear as a summer’s day. She worked at a hospital. Sooner or later all nurses fall for a man in a white coat with knick-knacks round his neck. The stethoscope syndrome. It affects all the women who work in that line of business. We should be looking for Dr X, it’s as simple as that. At Gemejnte Hospital. Perhaps I should have studied medicine…’
Jung succeeded in grabbing the last of the peanuts.
‘How many are there? Doctors at the Gemejnte, I mean.’
‘God only knows,’ said Rooth. ‘A few hundred, I assume. But it must surely be somebody she came into contact with… In the line of work, as they say. On the same ward, or whatever. What do you think?’
Jung thought for a moment.
‘If we believe what Meusse has told us,’ he said, ‘how does this fit in with the postage stamp theory and the blackmailer theory?’
Rooth belched discreetly into his armpit.
‘My young friend,’ he said with a fatherly smile. ‘You can’t just mix theories up with hypotheses as the whim takes you — I thought you knew that. Was it the police college you attended, or the dog handlers’ college?’
‘Go and buy a couple of beers,’ said Jung. ‘But don’t mix them up.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Rooth, standing up.
He’s not as stupid as he looks, thought Jung when he was alone at the table.
Thank God for that.
Why do I do this? Moreno thought when she had come home.
She kicked off her shoes in irritation and threw her jacket into the basket chair.
Why do I tell Reinhart to go to hell and slam the door behind me? Am I becoming a man-hater? A bitch?
He was right, after all. Absolutely right. There had been something going with Munster — even if she couldn’t be more precise about it than Reinhart had been.
Only something. It had come to an end when Munster had been stabbed up in Frigge last January, and very nearly lost his life. Since then he had been in hospital for months, and was now mixed up in some dodgy inquiry at the ministry, filling in time until he was fit for battle again. That would be a few more months yet, if rumour was correct.
Hell and damnation, she thought. And when he’s back on duty, what then? Presumably in February. What would happen then?
Nothing at all, of course. Intendent Munster had gone back to his wife and children — and he had never left them in the first place, not for a second. What had she imagined? What was she waiting for? Was she really waiting for something? She had only met him a couple of times since it happened, and there hadn’t been the slightest trace of any vibrations. Not even a flutter in the air… Well, maybe a little one that first time, when she and Synn were both sitting at his bedside… There had been something in the air then.
But no more than that. A slight flutter. Once.
And who the hell was she to come between Munster and his wonderful Synn? And the children?
I’m losing the plot, she thought. I’m becoming just as dotty as all the rest of the lonely spinsters. Did it really take no longer than that to become an old maid? Was it really as simple as that? To be sure, when she left that shit-head Claus she had been furious with him, and the wasted five years she’d spent with him. But she hadn’t tarred all men with the same brush. Not Munster, at least. Certainly not him.
But now she had more or less told Reinhart to fuck off. Just because he had happened to tread on the right toe. To be sure, Reinhart was not her type (was there such a creature?), but she had always regarded him as a good person and a good police officer.
And a man.
I must do something about all this, she told herself as she turned on the shower in the hope of washing all the horrors away.
Maybe not right away, but in the long run I really must. Thirty-one and an embittered man-hater?
Or a desperate hunter? Even worse, much worse. No, there are — there must be — better strategies for the future.
But not just at the moment. This evening she had neither the time nor the strength. And no ideas, either. Better to get down to something different. To the challenge she had presented him with, perhaps?
Ten possible links between Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller.
Ten? she thought. What hubris.
Let’s see if I can find three.
Or two.
Or even one, at least?
Winnifred had just started her period, and Joanna had finally accepted the blessings bestowed by penicillin, so as far as Reinhart was concerned it was neither one thing nor the other. Instead he sat down on the sofa to watch an old Truffaut film while Winnifred prepared the next day’s seminar in the study. She woke him up when the film had finished. They spent a quarter of an hour comparing the relative attractions of Leros and Sakynthos with an eye to a possible trip at Easter, and when they eventually went to bed he was unable to sleep.
Two thoughts were buzzing around in his head.
The first concerned Van Veeteren. He was due to meet The Chief Inspector the next day and would be forced to admit that they were still marking time on square one. That after three weeks’ work they still hadn’t a single lead, not even the slightest sniff of one, in their hunt for his son’s murderer. Needless to say he would report on the strange circumstance regarding the blow to the back of Vera Miller’s head, but there wasn’t a lot to say about that.
We simply don’t know what lay behind it, he would have to admit. What a bloody mess, Reinhart thought.
The other thought concerned Ewa Moreno.
I’m a cretin, he thought. Not always, but now and then. He had promised her ten plausible scenarios to
