Woman with Birthmark

“A quarter to five,” answered Wolff without hesitation. “A bit earlier than usual as he had to collect his car from a repair shop. I stayed there on my own until half past five.”

“And he didn't behave unusually in any way?”

“No. I've said that already.”

“This Rachel deWiijs, who works for you. What have you to say about her?”

“Rachel? A treasure. Pure gold, through and through. Without her we wouldn't survive for more than six months…” He bit his lip and drew at his cigarette. “But everything has changed now, of course. Hell.”

“So Malik didn't have anything going with her, then?”

“Malik and Rachel? No, you can bet your life that he didn't.”

“Really?” said Reinhart. “Okay, I'll take you at your word, then. What about you yourself? Did you have any reason to want him out of the way?”

Wolff's jaw dropped.

“That was the most fucking-”

“There, there, don't get overexcited. You must realize that I have to ask that question. Malik has been murdered, and the fact is that most victims are killed by somebody they know. And you are the person who knew him best, I thought we'd agreed on that already?”

“He was my business partner, for Christ's sake. One of my best friends…”

“I know. But if you had a motive even so, it's better for you to tell us what it is yourself rather than leaving us to find out about it later.”

Wolff sat in silence for a while, thinking about that one.

“No,” he said eventually. “Why the hell should I want to kill Malik? His share in the firm goes to Ilse and Jacob, and all that will do is to make a mess of everything. You must understand that his death is a shock for me as well, Inspector. I know I sometimes sound a bit brusque, but I'm grieving over his death. I'm missing him as a close friend.”

Reinhart nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I think we'll leave it at that for today, but you'll have to count on us turning up again before long. We are very eager to catch whoever did this.”

Wolff stood up and flung out his arms.

“Of course. If there's anything I can do to help… I'm at your disposal at any time.”

“Good,” said Reinhart. “If anything occurs to you, let us know. Go back to the kids now. How many have you got, incidentally?”

“Six,” said Wolff. “Three from before and three new ones.”

“Go forth and multiply, and replenish the earth,” said Rein-hart. “Isn't it a bit of a strain? Er, looking after them all, I mean.”

Wolff smiled and shook his head.

“Not at all. The tipping point is four. After that, it makes no difference if you have seven or seventeen.”

Reinhart nodded, and resolved to bear that in mind.

8

In their eagerness to sell a few extra copies to casual readers with nothing better to do over the weekend, the Sunday papers made a meal of the Ryszard Malik murder. Bold-print headlines on billboards and front pages, pictures of the victim (while still alive, smiling) and his house, and a double-page spread in both Neuwe Blatt and Telegraaf. Detailed and noncommittal, but needless to say they were pitching it right-what the hell did people have to keep them occupied on a damp and windy day in January apart from sitting indoors and lapping up the story of somebody who had suffered even more than they were doing?

Van Veeteren had a subscription to both papers and had no need to stick his nose outside the door in order to buy one. Instead he stayed in all day, reading selected chapters of Rimley's Famous Chess Games and listening to Bach. He had paid a brief visit to Leufwens Alle on Saturday evening and established that there was nothing useful for him to do there. The technicians and crime-scene boys had run a fine-tooth comb over both house and garden, and for him to imagine he would be able to find something they'd missed would be to overestimate his abilities. Although it had happened before.

And in any case, it was not even certain that he would need to bother about it. Hiller would no doubt decide when he emerged from the sea on Monday morning; perhaps he would judge it best for Reinhart and Munster to continue pulling the strings. That would be good, he had to admit. A blessing devoutly to be wished, he thought-if he'd been able to choose a month in which to hibernate or to spend in a deep freeze, he would have gone for January without hesitation.

If he could pick two, he would take February as well.

On Monday his car refused to start. Something to do with damp somewhere or other, no doubt. He was forced to walk four blocks before he was able to scramble into a taxi, soaking wet, at Rejmer Plejn; and he was ten minutes late for the run-through.

Reinhart, who was in charge, arrived a minute later, and the whole meeting was not exactly productive.

The forensic side was done and dusted, and had uncovered nothing they didn't know already. Or thought they knew. Ryszard Malik had been shot at some time between half past seven and half past nine on Friday evening, with a 7.65-millimeter Berenger. As none of the neighbors had heard a shot, it could be assumed that the killer had used a silencer.

“How many Berengers are floating around town?” asked Munster.

“Le Houde guesses about fifty” said Rooth. “Anybody can get one in about half an hour if he has a bit of local knowledge. There's no point in starting to look, in any case.”

Van Veeteren sneezed and Reinhart carried on describing the wounds, the angles, and similar melancholy details. The murderer had probably fired his gun at a distance of between one and one and a half meters, which could suggest that he hadn't even bothered to step inside first. The door opened inward, and in all probability he'd have been standing ready to shoot the moment Malik opened it. Two shots in the chest, then, each of which would have been fatal-one through the left lung and the other through the aorta. Hence all the blood.

And then two below the belt. From a bit closer.

“Why?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Well, what do you think?” said Reinhart, looking around the table.

Nobody spoke. Heinemann looked down at his crotch.

“A professional job?” asked Munster.

“Eh?” said Reinhart. “Oh, you mean the fatal shots… No, not necessarily. A ten-year-old can shoot accurately with a Berenger from one meter away. Assuming you're ready for a bit of a recoil, that is. It could be anybody. But the shots below the belt ought to tell us something, or what do you think?”

“Yes, sure,” said Rooth.

For a few seconds nobody spoke.

“Don't feel embarrassed on my account,” said Moreno.

“Could be a coincidence,” said Munster.

“There's no such thing as coincidence,” said Reinhart. “Only a lack of knowledge.”

“So the shots in the chest came first, is that right?” Heinemann asked, frowning.

“Yes, yes,” sighed Reinhart. “The other two were fired when he was already lying on the floor-we've explained that already. Weren't you listening?”

“I just wanted to check,” said Heinemann.

“It doesn't seem to make much sense, shooting somebody's balls off after you've already killed him,” said Rooth. “Seems a bit mad, I'd say. Sick, in a way.”

Reinhart nodded and Van Veeteren sneezed again.

“Are you cold, Chief Inspector?” Reinhart wondered. “Shall we ring for a blanket?”

“I'd prefer a hot toddy,” grunted Van Veeteren. “Is the forensic stuff all finished? I take it they didn't find any