because the woman of the house, Ilse Malik, had phoned for an ambulance. She was extremely confused, and had failed to contact the police even though her husband was as dead as a statue… Four bullet wounds, two in his chest, two below the belt.”
“Below the belt?” wondered Inspector Rooth, his mouth full of sandwich.
“Below the belt,” said Reinhart. “Through his willy, if you prefer. She'd come home from the theater, it seems, at about midnight or shortly before, and found him lying in the hall, just inside the door. The weapon seems to be a Berenger-75; all four bullets have been recovered. It seems reasonable to suspect that a silencer was used, since nobody heard anything. The victim is fifty-two years old, one Ryszard Malik. Part owner of a firm selling equipment for industrial kitchens and restaurants, or something of the sort. Not in our records, unknown to us, no shady dealing as far as we are aware. Nothing at all. Hmm, is that it, Heinemann, more or less?”
Inspector Heinemann took off his glasses and started rubbing them on his tie.
“Nobody noticed a thing,” he said. “We've spoken to the neighbors, but the house is pretty well protected. Hedges, big yards, that sort of thing. It looks as if somebody simply walked up to the door, rang the bell, and shot him when he opened up. There's no sign of a struggle or anything. Malik was alone at home, solving a crossword and sipping a glass of whiskey while his wife was at the theater. And then, it seems the murderer just closed the door and strolled off. Quite straightforward, if you want to look at it from that point of view.”
“Sound method,” said Rooth.
“That's for sure,” said Van Veeteren. “What does his wife have to say?”
Heinemann sighed. Nodded toward Jung, who gave every sign of finding it difficult to stay awake.
“Not a lot,” Jung said. “It's almost impossible to get through to her. One of the ambulance men gave her an injection, and that was probably just as well. She woke up briefly this morning. Went on about Ibsen-I gather that's a writer. She'd been to the theater, we managed to get that confirmed by a woman she'd been with… a Bernadette Kooning. In any case, she can't seem to grasp that her husband is dead.”
“You don't seem to be quite with it either,” said Van Veeteren. “How long have you been awake?”
Jung counted on his fingers.
“A few days, I suppose.”
“Go home and go to bed,” said Reinhart.
Jung stood up.
“Is it okay if I take a taxi? I can't tell the difference between right and left.”
“Of course,” said Reinhart. “Take two if you need them. Or ask one of the duty officers to drive you.”
“Two?” said Jung as he staggered to the door. “No, one should do.”
Nobody spoke for a while. Heinemann tried to smooth down the creases in his tie. Reinhart contemplated his pipe. Van Veeteren inserted a toothpick between his lower front teeth and gazed up at the ceiling.
“Hmm,” he said eventually. “Quite a story, I must say. Has Hiller been informed?”
“He's away by the seaside,” said Reinhart.
“In January?”
“I don't think he intends to go swimming. I've left a message for him in any case. There'll be a press conference at five o'clock; I think it would be best if you take it.”
“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I'll need only thirty seconds.”
He looked around.
“Not much point in allocating much in the way of resources yet,” he decided. “When do they say his wife is likely to come around? Where is she, incidentally?”
“The New Rumford Hospital,” said Heinemann. “She should be able to talk this afternoon. Moreno 's there, waiting.”
“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “What about family and friends?”
“A son at university in Munich,” said Reinhart. “He's on his way here. That's about all. Malik has no brothers or sisters, and his parents are dead. Ilse Malik has a sister. She's also waiting at the Rumford.”
“Waiting for what, you might ask?” said Rooth.
“Very true,” said Van Veeteren. “May I ask another question, gentlemen?”
“Please do,” said Reinhart.
“Why?” said Van Veeteren, taking out the toothpick.
“I've also been thinking about that,” said Reinhart. “I'll get back to you when I've finished.”
“We can always hope that somebody will turn himself in,” said Rooth.
“Hope springs eternal,” said Reinhart.
Van Veeteren yawned. It was sixteen minutes past three on Saturday, January 20. The first run-through of the Ryszard Malik case was over.
Munster parked outside the New Rumford Hospital and jogged through the rain to the entrance. A woman in reception dragged herself away from her crochet work and sent him up to the fourth floor, Ward 42; after explaining why he was there and producing his ID, he was escorted to a small, dirt-yellow waiting room with plastic furniture and eye-catching travel posters on the walls. It was evidently the intention to give people the opportunity of dreaming that they were somewhere else. Not a bad idea, Munster thought.
There were two women sitting in the room. The younger one, and by a large margin the more attractive of the two, with a mop of chestnut-brown hair and a book in her lap, was Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno. She welcomed him with a nod and an encouraging smile. The other one, a thin and slightly hunchbacked woman in her fifties, wearing glasses that concealed half her face, was fumbling nervously inside her black purse. He deduced that she must be Marlene Winther, the sister of the woman who had just been widowed. He went up to her and introduced himself.
“Munster, Detective Inspector.”
She shook his hand without standing up.
“I realize that this must be difficult for you. Please understand that we are obliged to intrude upon your grief and ask some questions.”
“The lady has already explained.”
She glanced in the direction of Moreno. Munster nodded.
“Has she come around yet?”
Moreno cleared her throat and put down her book. “She's conscious, but the doctor wants a bit of time with her first. Perhaps we should…?”
Munster nodded again: they both went out into the corridor, leaving Mrs. Winther on her own.
“In deep shock, it seems,” Moreno explained when they had found a discreet corner. “They're even worried about her mental state. She's had trouble with her nerves before, and all this hasn't helped, of course. She's been undergoing treatment for various problems.”
“Have you interviewed her sister?”
Moreno nodded.
“Yes, of course. She doesn't seem all that strong either. We're going to have to tiptoe through the tulips.”
“Hostile?”
“No, not really. Just a touch of the big-sister syndrome. She's used to looking after little sister, it seems. And evidently she's allowed to.”
“But you haven't spoken to her yet? Mrs. Malik, I mean.”
“No. Jung and Heinemann had a go this morning, but they didn't seem to get anywhere.”
Munster thought for a moment.
“Perhaps she doesn't have all that much to tell?”
“No, presumably not. Would you like me to take her on? We'll be allowed in shortly in any case.”
Munster was only too pleased to agree.
“No doubt it would be best for her to talk to a woman. I'll stay in the wings for the time being.”
Forty-five minutes later they left the hospital together. Sat down in Munster's car, where Moreno took out her notebook and started going through the meager results of her meeting with Ilse Malik. Munster had spoken to Dr. Hubner-an old, white-haired doctor who seemed to have seen more or less everything-and understood that it
