‘Just a name,’ said Marlene. ‘Keller.’
‘Keller?’
‘Yes, Keller. It’s not exactly an unusual name, but I don’t know anybody called that. And it’s not in the address book. Anyway, that was all. Do you think I should phone the police and tell them about it?’
Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
‘Yes, do that,’ he said. ‘Keller? Keller? No, I don’t know anybody of that name either. But phone them, as I said. Give Reinhart a buzz — they need all the help they can get. Have you got his number?’
Marlene nodded. Then she hugged them both, and after she’d gone it felt as if she’d left a vacuum behind her.
It was remarkable. A big vacuum.
‘You’re going to be a granddad,’ said Ulrike, sitting down on his knee.
‘Ouch,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I know. Was it three days you said?’
‘Nights,’ said Ulrike. ‘I’m working during the day. Tomorrow, at least.’
Aron Keller saw the red Audi drive past in the street outside. Then he watched it park on the drive up to number seventeen. He was able to do that because his living room had a bay window on the front of the building. That was where he was standing. It was where he often stood. On the second floor, half-hidden by the two magnificent hibiscus bushes. It provided him with a first-class view of what was going on outside.
Which was not normally very much. Nevertheless, he often stood there. It had become a habit as the years passed. Standing in the bay window for a while, now and then.
A bit later he thanked his lucky stars that he had done so. That he had stayed there for a minute or so after he’d watched the murderer-doctor pass by in his shiny-clean car.
He came back. The doctor came walking back again. Went to the kiosk and bought a newspaper. He didn’t usually do that. Not normally.
Aron Keller remained standing in the bay window, waiting. Just as motionless as the hibiscus bushes. Watched the Audi back out into the street, then reverse back up the drive. Then the doctor got out of the car, and disappeared into his house to fetch something — Keller couldn’t see what it was. Came back and sat behind the wheel again. Sat there in the car in front of his house. Keller felt the sweat in the palms of his hands. After only another minute or so the doctor got out of the car and started walking to the kiosk again. Just outside the entrance door, Keller’s own entrance door, he slowed down and stared at the scooter. Then continued to the kiosk. Bought something he put into a brown paper carrier bag and came back once more. Keller took two paces backwards into the room until the doctor had gone past. Then returned to his position in the bay window, and watched the doctor sit down behind the wheel of his car again.
Sit there and stay there. The minutes passed. Still he sat there in the front seat, doing nothing.
Bugger, Keller thought. He knows. The bastard knows.
When he walked past number seventeen quite a long time later, the doctor was still sitting in the car. That was the final proof he needed. Keller went round the back of the row of terraced houses and returned to his flat from the rear. Took a beer from the refrigerator when he was back inside, and emptied it in three swigs. Stood in the bay window. The Audi outside number seventeen was empty. The sun had set.
But he doesn’t know, he thought. The murderer-doctor doesn’t know that I know that he knows. I’m one step ahead. I’m still in control.
FIVE
29
If you look at it from a purely quantitative point of view, Chief Inspector Reinhart thought during a brief smoking break at about eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, we don’t need to be ashamed of the work we’ve put in.
There was plenty of evidence to back up that thought. After hearing what Edita Fischer had to say, they suddenly found themselves with so many doctors to interview that Rooth, deBries and Bollmert were all pressed into duty as well. To be sure, if he were honest with himself Reinhart regarded the whole rigmarole as grasping at straws: but as there were no other straws lying around (and in view of Chief of Police Hiller’s generous promise of unlimited resources), they had to follow everything up, of course. Nobody called the operation ‘Rooth’s hypothesis’ any more — least of all Rooth himself once it had become clear that he would have to work on both Saturday and Sunday.
The New Rumford Hospital was rather smaller than the Gemejnte, but even so it employed 102 doctors — 69 of whom were men. With this new group, they were naturally unable to pretend they were simply looking for impressions of the murdered nurse Vera Miller — among other reasons due to the simple fact that nobody could be expected to have any impressions.
With the possible exception of the murderer himself, as deBries very rightly pointed out: but he would presumably not be especially keen to unburden himself simply because he’d been asked a few polite questions. Everybody in the investigation team was agreed on that score.
Instead, Reinhart decided to proceed with all his cards laid on the table. There was information to suggest that Vera Miller might have been having an affair with a doctor at one of the two hospitals: did anybody know anything about this? Had anybody heard any rumours? Could anybody contribute any guesses or speculations?
The latter question was perhaps on the borderline of bad taste, but what the hell? If you asked a hundred people to guess, Reinhart thought, there could well be somebody who guessed right.
For his part Inspector Jung had never counted this type of mass interrogation among his favourite tasks (informal conversations like the one he’d had with Nurse Milovic were an entirely different category, of course), and when he met Rooth for a well-earned coffee break in the afternoon, he took the opportunity of thanking him for the weekend’s stimulating work.
‘A pity you picked on the doctors, of all people,’ he said.
‘What are you on about?’ said Rooth, swallowing a bun.
‘Well, if you’d hit upon a shop-assistant hypothesis instead, we’d have had ten times as many nice interviews to carry out. Or a student hypothesis.’
‘I’ve already told you I don’t know what a hypothesis is,’ said Rooth. ‘Am I not allowed to drink my coffee in peace?’
As had been the case with conversations with Erich Van Veeteren’s friends and acquaintances, all the new interviews were recorded; and when Reinhart contemplated the pile of cassettes on his desk on Sunday evening — especially if he were to combine them with those from the earlier interviews — the material began to acquire a scope comparable to that in the investigation into Prime Minister Palme’s murder.
Borkmann’s point? he thought. The Chief Inspector had talked about that some time ago. Was it not true to say that the quantity of evidence had long since superseded the quality? Without his having noticed. Did he not already know what he needed to know? Surely the answer… or answers?… were contained (and hidden) in the vast mass of investigation material already collected? Somewhere.
Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps not. How could one possibly know? Intuition as usual? Bugger that for a lark.
A little later on the Sunday evening they had a run-through meeting. Reinhart bore in mind Hiller’s insistence that there should be no holding back of resources, and in order to help his colleagues survive had purchased four bottles of wine and two large savoury sandwich layer cakes. Since there were only six officers involved, he felt he had followed the chief of police’s exhortations to the letter.
Not even Rooth was able to eat the last half of the sandwich layer cake.
It was always possible to summarize work done in terms of quantity. And they did just that.
In the course of two-and-a-half days six detective officers had interviewed 189 doctors, 120 of them male, 69 female.
None of those questioned had confessed that he (or she) had murdered Vera Miller — or even that they had had a sexual relationship with her.
