“Why not?” asked somebody.
The chief inspector shrugged.
“I don't really know,” he said. “I suppose I hold the old-fashioned view that one ought to stick to the facts when it comes to the media. Theories are best suited to the inside of my head. At least, my theories are. Any more questions?”
“How long is it since you failed to solve a case?”
“About eight years.”
“The G-file?”
“Yes. You seem to know about it… As you can all hear, the level of questioning has sunk. I think we'd better leave it at that.”
“What the hell?” exclaimed the red-haired reporter.
“As I said,” said Van Veeteren, rising to his feet.
“For Christ's sake, this is incredible!” said Reinhart when he, Munster, and Van Veeteren gathered in the chief inspector's office ten minutes later. “The murderer rings the doorbell, is let in, sits down on the sofa, and drinks a cup of tea. Then takes out a gun and kills him. Incredible!”
“And then simply goes away,” Munster added.
“Conclusion?” demanded Van Veeteren.
“He knew him,” said Munster.
“Or her,” said Reinhart.
“You mean the bullet in the balls suggests a her?”
“Yes,” said Reinhart. “I do.”
“But it's hardly any less incredible if it's a woman,” said Munster.
There was a knock on the door and Heinemann came in.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he perched cautiously on the window seat.
“These two are standing here saying it's incredible all the time,” muttered the chief inspector. “I'm just sitting and thinking.”
“I see,” said Heinemann.
“What's everybody else doing?” asked Reinhart.
“Rooth and deBries have gone off to interview the neighbors in a bit more detail,” said Heinemann. “ Moreno and Jung were going to take his workplace, I think you said.”
“That's right,” said Van Veeteren. “There doesn't seem to be much point in looking for a murderer among his relatives and friends in this case, but we have to hear what they have to say. Somebody might have noticed something. You can take this little lot, Munster…”
He handed a list to Munster, who read it as he walked slowly backward through the door.
“Heinemann,” said the chief inspector, “I suggest you continue searching for links… Now you've got an extra one to work on. Let's hope there's a lower common denominator than the whole group.”
Heinemann nodded.
“I think there will be,” he said. “I'm thinking of asking Hiller for a bit of help in getting me permission to look at their bank details.”
“Bank details?” said Reinhart. “What the hell for?”
“There's no harm in having a look,” said Heinemann. “If these three have been up to something, the odds are it won't withstand all that much daylight. And such things usually leave traces in bank accounts. Is there anything else you want me to do, Chief Inspector?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “You might as well keep on doing what you've been doing.”
Heinemann nodded. Put his hands in his trouser pockets and left Van Veeteren and Reinhart on their own.
“He's not so thick,” said Reinhart. “It's mainly a question of tempo.”
Van Veeteren took out a toothpick and broke it in half.
“Reinhart,” he said after a while. “Will you be so kind as to explain something for me?”
“Shoot,” said Reinhart.
“If it's as Heinemann says and these three have had some kind of criminal past together, and that they know very well… er, knew very well… who the perpetrator is, why the hell did Innings let him in and serve him tea before allowing himself to be shot?”
Reinhart thought for a while, digging away with a matchstick at the bowl of his pipe.
“Well,” he said eventually. “He-or she, I mean-must have been in disguise, I assume. Or else…”
“Well?”
“Or else they know who it is, but don't know what the person looks like. There's a difference. And it was a long time ago, of course.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Have you any cigarettes?”
Reinhart shook his head.
“Afraid not.”
“Never mind. Just a few more questions, so that I know I'm not barking up the wrong tree. If it really is just a small group that the killer is after, Innings must have known that his turn would be coming. Or suspected it, at least. Isn't that right?”
“Yes,” said Reinhart. “Especially if he was going to be the last one.”
Van Veeteren thought about that for a few seconds.
“And must have known who the killer is?”
“Who's behind it all, in any case. A slight difference again.”
“Is there any possibility do you think, that Innings wouldn't recognize one of the group?”
Reinhart lit his pipe and thought that one over.
“They haven't seen one another for thirty years,” he said. “We know what they all look like nowadays, but they don't. They may just have that old photograph to go on… And their memories, of course.”
“Go on,” said Van Veeteren.
“Even so, I think I'd recognize the blokes I did National Service with. Without any trouble at all, in fact.”
“Same here,” said the chief inspector. “Especially if I'd been prepared for it. So, conclusion?”
Reinhart puffed away at his pipe. “If we're talking about a small group,” he said, “then the murderer is an outsider. It could be a contract killer, of course, but I think that's hardly likely.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Yes,” said Reinhart. “As I've said before, I'm inclined to think that the murderer is a woman, and as far as I know, there isn't a woman in the group.”
“You're sometimes bloody brilliant at observing things,” said the chief inspector.
“Thank you. There's one thing we mustn't forget, though.”
“What's that?”
“There's nothing to stop it being a woman who intends to kill the whole lot of 'em.”
“There's nothing much to stop a woman doing anything at all,” sighed Van Veeteren. “Apart from us. Shall we get this thing solved now, then?”
“Let's. It's about time,” said Reinhart.
26
The distance to Loewingen, the latest murder scene, was not much more than thirty kilometers, and as he settled down in the car, he regretted that it wasn't a bit farther. A few hours' driving wouldn't have done him any harm; even when he got up, he'd felt the unfulfilled need for a long and restful journey. Preferably through a gray, rain-sodden landscape, just like this one. Hours in which to think things over.
But in fact it was minutes instead-he managed to stretch it to half an hour by taking the alternative route via Borsens and Penderdixte, where he had spent a few summers as a seven- or eight-year-old.
