There didn't seem to be any doubt that Biedersen was willing to provide those hands.
“Long time no see,” he said. “You are Innings, I presume?”
Innings nodded and sat down. Closer inspection suggested that Biedersen had changed rather less than he had expected. The last time they'd met had been by pure chance some ten years earlier-but they hadn't really spent time together since those days in June 1976.
The same powerful, sturdy figure. Rugged face, sparse reddish hair, and eyes that seemed to burn. They were never still. He recalled that some people had been afraid of them.
Perhaps he had been one of them.
“So, here we are,” he said. “I tried to get hold of you several times. Before you rang, that is.”
“Have you gathered what's going on?” said Biedersen.
Innings hesitated.
“Yes, er, well, I don't know…”
“The other two have been murdered.”
“Yes.”
“Somebody has killed them. Who do you think it is?”
Innings recognized that somehow or other, he had succeeded in avoiding that question so far, goodness knows how.
“Her,” he said. “It must be her…”
“She's dead.”
Biedersen spoke the words just as a waiter came to take their orders, and there was a pause before he was able to expand on what he had said.
“She's dead, as I said. There must be somebody else acting on her behalf. I think it's her daughter.”
To his surprise, Innings noticed a trace of fear in Biedersen's voice. The same broad, off-putting dialect, certainly, but with the addition of something forced, a touch of nervousness.
“Her daughter?” he said.
“Yes, her daughter. I've tried to trace her.”
“And?”
“She doesn't exist.”
“Doesn't exist?”
“Impossible to pin down. She vacated her apartment in Stamberg in the middle of January, and nobody knows where she's gone to.”
“You've tried, you say…”
“A bit.” He leaned forward over the table. “That bloody bitch isn't going to get us as well!”
Innings swallowed.
“Have you received any of these music calls?”
Innings shook his head.
“I have,” said Biedersen. “It's a right bastard. But you must have had a letter from the police?”
“This morning,” said Innings. “It looks like you're next.”
It slipped out of him before he could stop it, and he was well aware that the relief he felt for a brief moment was a very transitory phenomenon.
First Biedersen. Then him. That's what was planned.
“You could be right,” said Biedersen. “But don't feel too secure, that's all. We have to put a stop to her-I mean, that's why we're sitting here.”
Innings nodded.
“We've got to get her before she gets us. I take it you're on board?”
“Yes…”
“Are you hesitating?”
“No, no, I'm just wondering what we ought to do.”
“I've already thought that through.”
“You don't say. What do you mean?”
“Like with like. There's a bag under the table, can you feel it?”
Innings felt around with his feet and hit against something next to the wall.
“Yes,” he said.
“Your weapon's in there. You owe me eight hundred for the trouble.”
Innings felt a wave of dizziness envelop him.
“But… er, haven't you thought about… er, another possible alternative?”
Biedersen snorted.
“Huh. What might that be?”
“I don't know…”
Biedersen lit a cigarette. A few seconds passed.
“Shall we go and look for her?” Innings said. “Or just sit here and wait?”
“For Christ's sake!” Biedersen snorted. “We don't even know what she looks like! But if you're prepared to travel to Stamberg and try to get hold of a photo of her, by all means. But how the hell do we know that she's not wearing a wig? And other stuff? You must know how easy it is for a fucking woman to change her appearance!”
Innings nodded.
“It could happen tonight, do you realize that? Or tomorrow. The next person to ring your doorbell could be her. Have you thought of that?”
Innings didn't reply. The waiter came with their food, and they started eating in silence.
“That music…?” said Innings after a while, wiping his mouth.
Biedersen put down his knife and fork.
“Twice,” he said. “Somebody's called a couple of times and hung up when my wife answered. But it's that bloody tune in any case… I can't remember what it's called, but we were playing it all the time. But I suppose I don't need to tell you that-you were pretty sober.”
“I wasn't sober,” said Innings. “You know I wasn't, I'd never do anything like that-”
“All right, all right, we don't need to go through all that again. What was the band called?”
“The Shadows?”
“Yes, that's it. You remember it. I've looked, but I don't seem to have the record anymore.”
“Isn't it possible to trace the phone calls?”
“For God's sake,” said Biedersen. “You don't seem to understand this. Naturally we can bring in the police and get as much bloody protection as we like-I thought we'd agreed not to do that?”
“Okay,” said Innings. “I'm with you on that.”
Biedersen stared hard at him.
“I don't know what your circumstances are,” he said, “but I've got a family, have had for twenty-five years. A wife, three kids, and a grandchild as well. I have my own firm, good friends, business contacts… For Christ's sake, I have a whole world that would collapse like a house of cards! But if you're doubtful, just say so. I can manage this on my own if need be. I just thought it would be beneficial if we collaborated a bit. Shared the responsibility.”
“Yes…”
“If you don't want to play along, just say so.”
Innings shook his head.
“No, I'm with you. Sorry. What do you think we should do?”
Biedersen flung out his hands.
“Maybe just wait,” he said. “Be ready with the gun. You'd hardly need to explain why you acquired it, either- everybody will believe us. A man must have the right to protect his life, for God's sake.”
Innings thought for a moment.
“Yes,” he said. “It would be self-defense, of course.”
Biedersen nodded.
“Sure,” he said. “But we have to keep in touch as well. We have no other allies, and there could come about a
