kills him. It happens up there’ – he gestured towards the ceiling – ‘less than seven metres from this kitchen table. The murderer then saunters out again through the door, down the stairs and disappears. And you don’t notice anything at all. That’s what I call strange!’
Now she’ll thump me, he thought, bracing himself against the edge of the table so that he would be able to get quickly to his feet, but evidently his aggressive tone of voice had thrown her off balance.
‘But good grief, Constable…’
‘Inspector,’ insisted Rooth, ‘Detective Inspector Rooth.’
‘Really? Anyway, no matter what, we didn’t notice a thing, neither me nor Arnold. The only thing we heard that night was those screwing machines, that nigger and his slut… Isn’t that right, Arnold?’
‘Er, yes,’ said Arnold, scratching his wrists nervously.
‘We’ve already explained this, both to you and that other plod, whatever his name is. Why can’t you find whoever did it instead of snooping around here? We’re honest people.’
I don’t doubt that for a second, Rooth thought. Not for a single second. He decided to change track.
‘The front door?’ he said. ‘What about that? It’s usually left unlocked, I gather?’
‘No,’ said fru Van Eck. ‘It could very well have been locked – but it’s a crap lock.’
‘You can open it simply by peeing on it,’ squeaked Arnold Van Eck somewhat surprisingly, and started giggling.
‘Hold your bloody tongue!’ said his wife. ‘Pour some more coffee instead! Yes, it’s a crap lock, but I assume the door was probably standing ajar so that Mussolini could get in.’
‘Mussolini?’ said Rooth.
‘Yes, he’d probably gone out for a screw as usual – I don’t understand why she doesn’t castrate the bloody thing.’
‘It’s a cat,’ explained Arnold.
‘He’ll have gathered that, for Christ’s sake!’ snorted fru Van Eck. ‘Anyway, she’d no doubt propped it open with that brick like she usually does.’
‘I see,’ said Rooth, and started to draw a cat in his notebook while trying to recall if he had ever come across such a vulgar woman before. He didn’t think so. In the earlier interrogation, conducted by Constable Krause, it had emerged that she had worked for most of her life as a teacher in a school for girls, so there was considerable food for thought.
‘What do you think about it?’ he asked.
‘About what?’ asked fru Van Eck.
‘The murder,’ said Rooth. ‘Who do you think did it?’
She opened her mouth wide and tossed in two or three small biscuits. Her husband cleared his throat but didn’t get as far as spitting.
‘Immigrants,’ she said curtly, and washed down the biscuits with a swig of coffee. Slammed her cup down with a bang. ‘Yes, if you take my advice you’ll start interrogating the immigrants.’
‘Why?’ asked Rooth.
‘For Christ’s sake, don’t you see? It’s sheer madness! Or it could be some young gangsters. Yes, that’s where you’ll find your murderer. Take your pick, it’s up to you.’
Rooth thought for a while.
‘Do you have any children yourselves?’ he asked.
‘Of course we bloody well don’t,’ said fru Van Eck, starting to look threatening again.
Good, Rooth thought. Genetic self-cleansing.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I won’t disturb you any longer.’
Mussolini was lying on his back on the radiator, snoring.
Rooth had never seen a bigger cat, and purposely sat as far away on the sofa as possible.
‘I’ve spoken to the Van Ecks,’ he said.
Leonore Mathisen smiled.
‘You mean you’ve spoken to fru Van Eck, I take it?’
‘Hm,’ said Rooth. ‘Perhaps that
‘I understand.’
‘One thing that puzzles us is the fact that nobody heard anything. For example, you, froken Mathisen, have your bedroom almost directly above the Leverkuhns’, but you fell asleep at…’
He rummaged through his notebook and pretended to be looking for the time.
‘Half past twelve, roughly.’
‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. In fact Leonore Mathisen was not much smaller than fru Van Eck, but the raw material seemed to be completely different. Like a… a bit like a currant bush as opposed to a block of granite. To take the comparison further, the bush was wearing cheerful home-dyed clothes in red, yellow and violet, and an intertwined hair ribbon in the same colours. The block of granite had been greyish brown all over and at least a quarter of a century older.
‘I heard when he came home, as I said. Shortly before midnight, I think. Then I switched on the clock radio and listened to music until… well, I suppose I dozed off after about half an hour.’
‘Was he alone when he came in?’ Rooth asked.
She shrugged.
‘No idea. I’m not even sure it was him. I just heard somebody coming up the stairs, and a door opening and closing. But it was their door, of course – I’m sure about that.’
‘No voices?’
‘No.’
Rooth turned over a page of his notebook.
‘What was he like?’ he asked. ‘Leverkuhn, I mean.’
She started fiddling with one of the thin wooden beads she was wearing in clusters around her neck while weighing her words.
‘Hmm, I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘Very courteous, I’d say. He was always friendly and acknowledged me; rather dapper and correct; occasionally drank one glass too many when he was out with his old mates – but never drank so much that he became unpleasant with it. I suppose I only saw him when he was on his way in and out, come to think about it.’
‘How long have you been living here?’
She counted up.
‘Eleven years,’ she said. ‘I suppose the Leverkuhns have been living here twice as long as that.’
‘What about his relationship with his wife?’
She shrugged again.
‘As it usually is, I suppose. Old people who’ve been living together all their lives… She tended to wear the trousers, but my dad had a much rougher time.’ She laughed. ‘Are you married, Inspector?’
‘No,’ Rooth admitted. ‘I’m single.’
She suddenly burst out laughing. Her heavy breasts bobbed up and down, and Mussolini woke up with a start. It struck Rooth that he had never made love to a woman as big as she was, and for a few moments – while her salvo of laughter ebbed away and Mussolini slunk away in the direction of the hall – he sat there trying to imagine what it would be like.
Then he returned to the job in hand.
‘Did they have much of a social life?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Frequent visitors?’
‘No, hardly ever. Not that I noticed, in any case. They live directly below this floor, and I have to say that for the most part it’s as quiet as the grave, even when they’re both at home. The only sounds you ever hear in this building come from the young couple, who live-’
‘I know,’ said Rooth quickly. ‘And they were at it as usual that night, were they?’
‘Yes, they were at it as usual that night,’ she repeated, stroking her index finger along her bare lower arm,
