answered. And nobody on his ward knows where he is. There might be something fishy about his week on sick leave as well, but I’m only guessing, of course.’
‘Family?’ said Reinhart. ‘Is he married?’
Moreno shook her head.
‘No, he lives alone. Out at Boorkhejm. Divorced several years ago. But he’s been working at Rumford for ten years, and he hasn’t collected any black marks.’
‘Not until now,’ said Reinhart.
‘Not until now,’ repeated Moreno thoughtfully. ‘But we shouldn’t get carried away. I only had time to speak to Leissne and one of the ward nurses — it didn’t crop up until half past four.’
‘How did it crop up?’
‘Dr Leissne’s secretary came and said she wanted to talk to me. I’d just finished one of these.’
She foraged in her handbag and produced three cassettes, which she put on the table.
‘I see,’ said Reinhart. ‘Have you got any more information about him?’
Moreno handed over a sheet of paper, and Reinhart studied it for a while.
Personal details. Posts held and qualifications. A black-and-white photograph of a man about thirty-five years old. Short, dark hair. Thin lips, long thin face. A little birthmark on one cheek.
‘Could be anybody,’ he said. ‘Is it an old photo?’
‘Five or six years, I reckon,’ said Moreno. ‘He’s just turned forty now.’
‘Does he have any children? From that old marriage, for instance?’
‘Not as far as Leissne knew.’
‘Women? Fiancee?’
‘Not clear.’
‘And no black marks?’
‘None that has been recorded, at least.’
‘What about his ex-wife?’
Moreno went to close the window.
‘Nobody knows. They didn’t even know what she was called. But I’ve got the name of a colleague who Leissne thought might be able to give us a bit more information. Apparently he knocked around a bit with Clausen outside working hours.’
‘And what does he have to say?’
‘Nothing. I’ve only spoken to his answering machine.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ said Reinhart.
Moreno looked at the clock.
‘Half past seven,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could drive out and take a look? To Boorkhejm, I mean. We’ve got his address.’
Reinhart knocked out his pipe and stood up.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked.
On the way out to Boorkhejm they were subjected to a hailstorm that made the suburban gloom even gloomier than usual. It took them a while to find Malgerstraat, and when Reinhart pulled up outside number seventeen, he felt even more sorry for the human race than he usually did. It must be difficult to find any sort of meaning of life when you live out here, he thought. In these grey boxes in this dreary climate. The street that God forgot. Grey, wet and narrow.
But it was middle-class even so. Standing outside each of the row of houses was a caravan of more or less identical small Japanese cars, and a blue television screen could be seen in every third window.
But number seventeen was shrouded in darkness. Both downstairs and upstairs. The house was one of a terrace of two-storey boxes in grey or possibly brown brick, with nine square metres of garden and an asphalted drive leading to the garage. A soaking wet flowerbed overgrown with weeds and a letter box made of concrete with black iron fittings.
Reinhart switched off the engine, and they remained sitting in the car for a while, looking at the house. Then he got out and lifted the lid of the letter box. It was fitted with a lock, but through the slit he could see several newspapers and rather a lot of mail. In fact, it was crammed full — he doubted if there would be room for another newspaper. He returned to the car.
‘Would you like to go and ring the bell?’ he said to Moreno.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t seem much point.’
But she got out of the car even so and walked up to the door. Pressed the bell push and waited for half a minute. Tried again. Nothing happened. She went back to Reinhart, who was standing beside the car, smoking with the pipe upside down in view of the rain.
‘Now what?’ she said.
‘We raid the house tomorrow morning,’ said Reinhart. ‘He has twelve hours in which to turn up.’
They crept back into the car and started trying to find their way out of the suburb.
31
‘Who did you say?’ said Constable Klempje, dropping his newspaper on the floor. ‘Oh dear… I mean, good morning, Chief Inspector!’
He stood up and bowed solemnly.
‘No, he’s not in, but I saw Krause in the corridor two seconds ago — shall I shout for him?’
He stuck his head out of the door and was lucky enough to attract Krause’s attention.
‘ The Chief Inspector,’ he whispered when Krause came closer. ‘On the phone… The Chief Inspector! ’
Krause stepped inside and took over the receiver.
‘Krause here. Good morning, Chief Inspector… What can I do for you?’
He listened and made notes for about a minute. Then he wished him a pleasant day and hung up.
‘What did he want?’ asked Klempje, scratching his ear with his index finger.
‘Nothing you need bother about,’ said Krause, and left.
Stuck-up ass, Klempje thought. I was only trying to help…
It took a few hours to prepare the necessary documentation for raiding the house, but at ten o’clock they were in place outside Malgerstraat 17. Reinhart, Moreno, Jung, and a car with four technicians and equipment worth a quarter of a million. If it’s going to be done, we’d better do it properly, Reinhart thought. He had rung Clausen’s number twice an hour since half past six; Rooth, deBries and Bollmert had been sent to the New Rumford Hospital to gather more facts, and it had stopped raining ten minutes ago. Everything was ready for the big breakthrough.
‘It looks a bit better in daylight in any case,’ said Reinhart. ‘Let’s go.’
The front door lock was opened by one of the technicians in thirty seconds flat, and Reinhart entered first. He took a look around. Hall, kitchen and large living room on the ground floor. Everything looked very ordinary: not all that clean, some unwashed cups, glasses and cutlery in the kitchen sink. The living room had a sofa group, teak bookcases, a hi-fi system and a substantial cupboard in what he thought was red oak. A television set without a video recorder, but with a thick layer of dust. On the smoke-coloured glass table was a fruit bowl with three apples and a few sorry-looking grapes. A copy of the Neuwe Blatt from last Thursday was lying open on the floor beside one of the armchairs.
Thursday? he thought. Four days already. Time to fly to the moon several times over.
He walked up the stairs. Jung and Moreno followed at his heels while the technicians carried in their equipment then stood in the hall, waiting for instructions.
Three rooms on the upper floor, one of which served as a study with a desk, a computer and a few rickety bookcases; another was a box room. The third was the bedroom: he walked in and looked around. Large double bed with pine head- and footboards. The bedding was primitively masculine… A bedcover with a large multi-coloured check pattern was draped over haphazard groups of pillows and blankets. A Van Gogh reproduction hung on one wall, suggesting a lack of interest in art. Reinhart had the impression that he had even seen the motif on tins of
