Aarlach. DeBries was due to interrogate him.
Now, if Malgre was the type used to attending conferences, Reinhart thought, he was bound to be a person with a high level of awareness. Not your usual thickie.
As he registered that thought, the usual flag of protest was raised in the back of his mind, condemning such prejudiced thoughts. But his exhaustion had the upper hand. Reinhart sighed, turned onto his side, and fell asleep.
By that time the minutes had ticked their way forward to 3:12. All evening and night he hadn't devoted a single second to thinking about the motive.
That would have to wait until tomorrow.
He'd been working today. Tomorrow he would start using his brains.
14
Baushejm was only a few stone's throws away from the suburb where Munster lived, and he drove straight there on Friday morning. If for no other reason than to save time. Wanda Piirinen (formerly Maasleitner) had to get to work-she was a secretary at one of the town's most reputable attorneys' offices-and despite the murder of her ex-husband, she had no intention of taking any more leave than necessary. Half a day, to be precise.
The children-three of them, aged seventeen (the girl who had found her father murdered the previous day), thirteen, and ten-had been allowed an extended weekend, and when Munster was shown into the well-kept villa, they had just been collected by an aunt, and would be spending at least two days with her and their cousins out at Dikken.
“We divorced eight years ago,” explained Wanda Piirinen. “It was not a good marriage, and relations have not improved since then. I don't have any feelings, although I know I ought to have.”
“You have three children together,” said Munster, devoting a rapid thought to his own two.
She nodded and gestured toward the coffeepot on the table. Munster poured himself a cup.
“That's the only reason why we still remain in contact. Or used to, perhaps I should say.”
Munster took a sip of coffee and observed her covertly over the edge of his cup. An elegant lady that was for sure. Round about forty-five, he thought; fit-looking and suntanned despite the time of year, but also displaying signs of ruthlessness which she had difficulty concealing.
Perhaps she doesn't want to, Munster thought. Perhaps she wants her independence and strength to be noticed immediately. To deter men from getting any inappropriate ideas or taking liberties. Her thick, ash-blond hair was skillfully done in a French braid, and her makeup seemed to be fastidious and understated. He guessed that she spent rather a long time at the dressing table every morning. Her nails were long and well manicured, and it was a little difficult to believe that she had been solely responsible for bringing up three children. On the other hand, of course, this is what people working in an attorney's office should look like-efficiency and well- directed energy radiated from her like an aura, and he realized that he would have to deal with what Rein-hart generally called a modern woman.
Or possibly postmodern?
“Well?” she said, and he became aware that he had lost himself in thought.
“Describe him!” he said.
“Rickard?”
“Yes, please.”
She gave him a searching look.
“I don't think I want to.”
“Why not?”
“I would only have negative things to say. It doesn't seem appropriate for me to disclose my feelings about my former husband when he has just been murdered. Please excuse me.”
Munster nodded.
“I understand. How was contact with the children? Between him and the children, I mean.”
“Bad,” she said, after a moment's hesitation. “At first they used to go and stay with him occasionally. Every other weekend, and sometimes during the week. We live in the same town, after all. It ought to have been a practical possibility to arrange something along those lines, but after a year I realized that it would be better for them to live with me all the time. They needed
“Did he protest?” Munster asked.
“Not really. Just a little bit, for appearances' sake. He no doubt thought it was a bit of a nuisance, having them in his house. That is… was… his attitude toward quite a lot of people.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm sure you understand. If you talk to some of his colleagues, you will soon get a clear idea about that. And his friends, always assuming that he has any left…”
“We'll do that, of course,” said Munster.
He looked around the modern kitchen. There was very little to show that four people had recently had breakfast there, but no doubt there are painless routines for cleaning up, he assumed.
Why am I feeling so aggressive? he wondered, slightly surprised. What's the matter with me?
He had managed to find time to make love to Synn, take a shower, and have breakfast before leaving home, so he ought not to be so irritated. Surely she wasn't all that dangerous?
“What do you think about it?” he asked.
“About the murder?”
“Yes.”
She leaned back and gazed out the window.
“I don't know,” she said, and for the first time there was a trace of doubt in her voice. “A lot of people don't like Rickard, that is no secret; but that anybody would want to murder him… no, I'd never have thought that.”
“Why didn't people like him?”
She thought for a moment, searching for the right words.
“He could see no further than himself,” she said. “Contemptuous of everybody and everything that didn't suit his taste. Or didn't fit in with his way of thinking.”
“And what was that?”
“Excuse me?”
“His way of thinking.”
She hesitated slightly again.
“I think it can be traced back to his upbringing,” she said. “He was an only child from the age of ten onward. He had an elder brother who drowned at the age of fourteen. After that, his parents devoted all their care and attention to Rickard, but they were totally blind to the fact that he might have any faults or shortcomings. Yes, that was the basis of it all, of course.”
“Why did you marry him?” Munster asked, wondering if he might be being impertinent.
But she smiled for the first time.
“Feminine weakness,” she said. “He was handsome and I was young.”
She took a sip of coffee and sat for a few moments with the cup in her hand.
“He was overflowing with manly attributes,” she said eventually. “They are best in the early stages. By the age of forty they have somehow changed. I hope you don't mind my saying that.”
“Not at all,” said Munster. “I'm forty-three. But that isn't what we should be talking about. You don't have any suspicions, I take it?”
She shook her head.
“And he hadn't mentioned anything?”
“No. But we didn't talk to one another all that often. A telephone call once a week, perhaps. He had a life of his own.”
“What was your daughter doing there? When she found him, that is.”
“She'd gone to fetch some books. She was the one most in touch with him. They could talk to each other, I
