coffee. Various items of clothing lay about, both in and around a brown plastic laundry basket. Shirts and trousers were hanging on both white-painted chairs. Two books, a telephone and a clock radio were standing on one of the bedside tables… A dry cactus on the window ledge between half-drawn curtains… A series of dark stains on the beige fitted carpet.
He beckoned Jung and pointed at the carpet.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Tell them to start up here.’
While the technicians were carrying their equipment upstairs, Reinhart and Moreno went through the kitchen and into the garage. There was a red Audi, probably a couple of years old, and about as ordinary as everything else in the house. He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He bent down and looked inside, first the front seat and then the back. Stood up again and nodded to Moreno.
‘When they’ve finished upstairs I think they should take a look at this.’
He had left the back door open, and Moreno looked inside.
‘It could be anything,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t have to be blood.. Neither here nor in the bedroom.’
‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Reinhart. ‘Of course it’s blood. I can smell it. The devil be praised, we’ve got him!’
‘Really?’ said Moreno. ‘Aren’t you overlooking something?’
‘What?’
‘He doesn’t seem to be at home. Hasn’t been since last Thursday, as far as I can judge.’
‘Thank you for reminding me,’ said Reinhart. ‘Come on, let’s call on the neighbours.’
Reinhart and Moreno stayed out at Boorkhejm until half past twelve, which was when Intendent Puijdens, the man in charge of the technicians, finally announced — with a hundred per cent certainty — that the stains were in fact blood, both in the bedroom and in the car, the red Audi, which was indeed registered in the name of Pieter Clausen. Establishing whether the blood was from a human being, and possibly from the same human being, would take another hour or so of analysis, Puijdens reckoned.
Ascertaining if it was Vera Miller’s blood, from both the afternoon and the evening.
‘Come on,’ said Reinhart to Moreno. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here. Jung can continue with the neighbours — let’s hope he finds somebody who isn’t both blind and deaf. I want to hear how things are going at the hospital, if there’s anybody who can suggest where the bastard has run away to. If the blood turns out to be what I assume it is, he’s already linked to the crime, for God’s sake!’
‘Don’t you mean crimes?’ wondered Moreno, getting into the car.
‘Piffling details,’ snorted Reinhart. ‘Where is he? Where has he been since Thursday? Those are the questions to which you should be devoting your little grey cells instead.’
‘All right,’ said Moreno, and remained sunk in thought all the way back to the police station.
‘A breech presentation,’ said Dr Brandt. ‘First child. It took some time — sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘You can’t rush a breech presentation,’ said Rooth. ‘I know all about that — it’s how I was born.’
‘Really?’ said Brandt. ‘Well, I suppose you were a bit smaller in those days. What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Maybe we could go down to the cafeteria?’ suggested Rooth. ‘I can treat you to a cup of coffee.’
Dr Brandt seemed to be about forty, but was small and slim, and moved with a youthful eagerness that reminded Rooth of a puppy. It was Jung who had spoken to him previously: Rooth hadn’t got round to listening to the recording of the conversation, but he knew Brandt had said something about Dr Clausen. Assuming Jung hadn’t simply nodded off, that is.
But now it was Clausen everything was centred on, only Clausen, and Rooth didn’t beat about the bush once they had sat down at the rickety rattan table.
‘Your good friend,’ he said. ‘Dr Clausen. He’s the person we’re interested in.’
‘Clausen?’ said Brandt, adjusting his glasses. ‘Why?’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘Well…’ Brandt opened his arms out wide. ‘We socialize a bit. I’ve known him since I was a lad — we went to secondary school together.’
‘Excellent,’ said Rooth. ‘Tell me about him.’
Dr Brandt looked at him with a sceptical frown on his face.
‘I’ve been questioned by the police once.’
‘But not about Clausen, I think?’
‘Hmm. No, but I find it hard to understand why you want information about him. Why don’t you speak to him instead?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Rooth. ‘It will be easier if I ask the questions and you answer them. Believe me. So, let’s hear it!’
Brandt sat demonstratively silent for a while, stirring his coffee. Come on, you little obstetric obstacle, Rooth thought, and took a bite of his ham sandwich while waiting.
‘I don’t know him all that well,’ said Brandt eventually. ‘A group of us meet now and again — we’ve all kept in touch since we left school. We call ourselves Verhouten’s Angels.’
‘Verhouten’s what…?’
‘Angels. A maths teacher we used to have. Charles Verhouten. A bit of a rum customer, but we liked him. And he was a damned good teacher.’
‘Really?’ said Rooth, and began to wonder if the doctor maybe had a screw loose. I wouldn’t want to be delivered by him, in any case, he thought.
‘But we usually just call ourselves The Brothers. There are six of us. We go out for a meal now and then, then sit and natter. We do have a few formalities as well.’
‘Formalities?’
‘Nothing serious. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘I see,’ said Rooth. ‘Any women?’
‘No, it’s a men-only club,’ said Brandt. ‘That gives us a bit more freedom, if you see what I mean.’
He gave Rooth a knowing look, peering over his glasses. Rooth returned his gaze, his face expressionless.
‘I understand. But enough of the other angel brothers, let’s concentrate on Clausen. When did you see him last, for instance?’
Brandt looked a little put out, but scratched his head and seemed to be thinking.
‘It was quite some time ago,’ he said. ‘We had a meeting last Friday — at the Canaille in Weivers Plejn — but Clausen was ill and couldn’t come. I don’t think I’ve seen him for about a month, come to think about it. No, not since the last meeting…’
‘Do you never meet here at the hospital?’
‘Very seldom,’ said Brandt. ‘We work quite a long way away from each other. Clausen is based in C Block, and I… Well, I work here in obstetrics, as you know.’
Rooth thought for a moment.
‘What about his relationships with women?’ he asked. ‘Are you married, incidentally?’
Dr Brandt shook his head energetically.
‘I’m single,’ he said. ‘Clausen was married for a few years, but it didn’t last. They divorced. That was about four or five years ago, if I remember rightly.’
‘Do you know if he’s had any affairs with women recently? If he’s met somebody new, for instance?’
Brandt suddenly seemed to cotton on to what it was all about. He took off his glasses. Folded them ostentatiously and put them in his breast pocket. Leaned forward over the table and tried to focus his short-sighted eyes on Rooth.
You should have kept your glasses on, little man, Rooth thought, and drank the remains of his coffee. That would have made it easier.
‘Inspector… What did you say your name was?’
‘Poirot,’ said Rooth. ‘No, I’m only joking. My name’s Rooth.’
‘My dear Inspector Rooth,’ said Brandt impassively. ‘I don’t like having to sit here and listen to your insinuations about a colleague and a good friend. I really don’t. I can assure you that Dr Clausen has nothing at all to do with this business.’
‘With what business?’ said Rooth.
