would probably be several days before the patient could be allowed to undergo more vigorous questioning. Assuming that would be necessary, that is.
Hubner had called it a state of deep shock. Very strong medicines to begin with, then a gradual reduction. Unable to accept what had happened. Encapsulation.
Not surprising in the circumstances, Munster thought.
“What did she actually say?” he asked.
“Not a lot,” said Moreno with a sigh. “A happy marriage, she claimed. Malik stayed at home yesterday evening while she went to see A Doll's House at the Little Theater. Left home about half past six, drank a glass of wine with that friend of hers afterward. Took a taxi home. Then she starts rambling. Her husband had been shot and lay in the hall, she says. She tried to help him but could see that it was serious, so she called an ambulance. She must have delayed that for getting on an hour, if I understand the situation rightly. Fell asleep and managed to injure herself too. She thinks her husband is in this same hospital and wonders why she's not allowed to see him… It's a bit hard to know how to handle her: the nurse tried to indicate what had happened, but she didn't want to know. Started speaking about something else instead.”
“What?”
“Anything and everything. The play-a fantastic production, it seems. Her son. He hasn't time to come because of his studies, she says. He's training to be a banking lawyer, or something of the sort.”
“He's supposed to be arriving about an hour from now,” said Munster. “Poor bastard. I suppose the doc had better take a look at him as well.”
Moreno nodded.
“He'll be staying with his aunt for the time being. We can talk to him tomorrow.”
Munster thought for a moment.
“Did you get any indications of a threat, or enemies, or that kind of thing?”
“No. I tried to discuss such matters, but I didn't get anywhere. I asked her sister, but she had no suspicions at all. Doesn't seem to be hiding anything either. Well, what do we do next, then?”
Munster shrugged.
“I suppose we'd better discuss it on Monday with the others. It's a damned horrific business, no matter which way you look at it. Can I drive you anywhere?”
“Home, please,” said Ewa Moreno. “I've been hanging around here for seven hours now. It's time to spend a bit of time thinking about something else.”
“Not a bad idea,” Munster agreed, and started the engine.
Mauritz Wolff opted to be interviewed at home, an apartment in the canal district with views over Langgraacht and Megsje Bois and deserving the description “gigantic.” The rooms were teeming with children of all ages, and Reinhart assumed he must have married late in life-several times, perhaps-as he must surely be well into his fifties. A large and somewhat red-faced man, in any case, with a natural smile that found it difficult not to illuminate his face, even in a situation like this one.
“You're very welcome,” he said. “What an awful catastrophe. I'm really shocked, I have to say. I can't take it in.”
He shooed away a little girl clinging on to his trouser leg. Reinhart looked around. Wondered if a woman ought to put in an appearance from somewhere or other before long.
“Not a bad apartment you have here,” he said. “Is there anywhere we can talk in peace and quiet?”
“Follow me,” said Wolff, clearing a way through a corridor to a room that evidently served as a library and study. He closed the door and locked it. Invited Reinhart to sit down on one of two armchairs by a low smoking table, and sat down heavily in the other one.
“Too awful,” he said again. “Have you any idea who might have done it?”
Reinhart shook his head.
“Have you?”
“Not the remotest.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Inside out,” said Wolff, holding out a pack of cigarettes. Reinhart took one. “Would you like anything to drink, by the way?”
“No thank you. Go on.”
“Well, what can I say? We've worked together for sixteen years. Ever since we started the firm. And we knew each other before that.”
“Did you mix privately as well?”
“Do you mean families and so on?”
“Yes.”
“Well, not really. Not since I met Mette, my new wife, at least. It must be absolutely awful for Ilse. How is she? I've tried to call her…”
“Shocked,” said Reinhart. “She's still in the hospital.”
“I understand,” said Wolff, and tried to look diplomatic. Rein-hart waited.
“She can be a bit nervy,” Wolff explained.
“I've heard it said, yes,” said Reinhart. “How's the firm going?”
“So-so. We're keeping going. A good niche, even if it went better in the eighties. But what the hell didn't?”
He started laughing, then checked himself.
“Can it have something to do with work?” Reinhart asked. “The firm, I mean?”
The question was badly formulated, and Wolff didn't understand it.
“Can the murder of Malik have some connection with your business?” Reinhart spelled it out.
Wolff shook his head uncomprehendingly.
“With us? No, how could that be?”
“What do you think it could be, then? Did he have a mistress? Any dodgy business deals? You knew him better than anybody else.”
Wolff scratched the back of his head.
“No,” he said after a while. “Neither of those things. If Malik had been seeing other women I'd have known about it. And I can't imagine him being involved in anything illegal.”
“So he's a model of virtue, then,” Reinhart established. “How long have you known him, did you say?”
Wolff tried to work it out.
“We met for the first time about twenty-five years ago… that was through work as well. We were both with Gundler and Wein, and eventually we pulled out and started up on our own. There were three of us to start with, but one left after six months.”
“What was his name?”
“Merrinck. Jan Merrinck.”
Reinhart made a note.
“Can you remember if anything unusual has happened recently? If Malik behaved oddly in some way or other?”
Wolff thought it over.
“No. No, there hasn't been anything as far as I can recall. I'm sorry, but there doesn't seem to be all that much I can help you with.”
Reinhart changed tack.
“What was his marriage like?”
“Malik's?”
“Yes.”
Wolff shrugged.
“Not all that good. But he hung in there. My first was worse, I reckon. Malik was strong. A confident and reliable man. A bit dry, perhaps. My God, I can't understand who could have done this, Inspector. It must be a madman, don't you think? Some lunatic? Have you got a suspect?”
Reinhart ignored the question.
“What time did he leave the office yesterday?”
