Mauritz nodded.
‘Pampas, yes. Shoeboxes for the working class. Four rooms and a kitchen. Twenty square metres of lawn.’
‘I know,’ said Munster. ‘And where did you move to when it became too cramped?’
‘Aarlach. I started at the commercial college in 1975. This can’t be important, surely?’
Munster pretended to check his notebook again. Mauritz had folded his arms over his chest and was gazing out of the window at the rain-filled clouds. His aggressiveness seemed to have lapsed into genuine lethargy again. As if he were sitting there reflecting the weather, Munster thought.
‘Who do you think did it?’ he asked speculatively.
Mauritz turned his head to look at Munster dismissively.
‘I don’t know. How the hell should I? I haven’t had any real contact with my father for over twenty years, and I’ve no idea who he used to knock around with. Can’t we stop all this crap now so that I can get away from here?’
‘All right,’ said Munster. ‘Just one more thing. Do you know if your father was not short of a bob or two? If he had any cash stashed away, for instance?’
Mauritz had already stood up.
‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘He worked for half his life at Gahn’s, and for the other half at the brewery. Those are not the kind of places at which you can scrape together a fortune. Goodbye, Intendent!’
He started to reach out over the desk with his hand, but changed his mind halfway through and put it in his pocket instead.
‘Do you miss him?’ Munster asked, but the only response he got was a vacant look. Nevertheless, Mauritz paused in the doorway.
‘When I was a teenager I actually considered applying to police college,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I didn’t.’
‘So are we,’ Munster muttered when the door had closed. ‘Very glad indeed.’
When he was alone in the room, he went to the window and looked out over the town, as he generally did. Over the streets, rooftops and churches; over Wejmargraacht and Wollerims Park, where the grey mist enveloped the trees in a blanket of damp, obliterating outlines. Like an amateurish watercolour painting, he thought, in which the colours have spread and mixed with one another and with the water. The skyscrapers a little further off, up on the ridge at Leimaar, could hardly be made out, and the thought struck him that if there was any town in the whole world where a murderer had a good chance of hiding away, it was here.
When he looked down he saw Mauritz Leverkuhn walking across the car park towards a white and fairly new Volvo. Some kind of company car, presumably – with the boot and back seat crammed full of serviettes and candle-rings in every cheerful colour imaginable. For the benefit of mankind and their endless striving after the greatest possible enjoyment.
Hmm, I seem to be a bit disillusioned today, Intendent Munster thought, turning his back on the town.
Chief of Police Hiller looked like a randy frog.
At least that was Munster’s immediate reaction when he came into the conference room where the run- through was set to take place, a few minutes late. The whole man seemed to be inflated, especially over his shirt collar; his eyes were bulging, his cheeks swollen and his face was deep red in colour.
‘What the hell’s the meaning of this?’ he hissed, drops of saliva glittering in the reflected light from the overhead projector which was switched on, ready for use. ‘Explain what the hell this means!’
He was holding a newspaper in his hand, waving it at the cowering assembly – Intendent Heinemann, Inspectors Rooth, Jung and Moreno, and in the far corner the promising young Constable Krause.
Munster sat down between Heinemann and Moreno without speaking.
‘Well?’ snorted Hiller, hurling the
The headline ran across all eight columns, and was followed by three exclamation marks:
THE POLICE ARE SEARCHING FOR A RED-HEADED DWARF!!!
and underneath, in less bold type:
IN CONNECTION WITH THE PENSIONER MURDER
Heinemann put on his glasses.
‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve been informed.’
Hiller closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Evidently in an attempt to calm himself down, for his next comment came through clenched teeth.
‘I want to know the meaning of this. And who is responsible.’
Moreno glanced at the newspaper and cleared her throat.
‘Red-haired dwarf?’ she said. ‘It must be a joke.’
‘A joke?’ snarled Hiller.
‘I agree,’ said Rooth. ‘Surely none of you is looking for a dwarf?’
He looked enquiringly around the table, while Hiller chewed at his lower lip and tried to stand still.
‘I’m not,’ said Heinemann.
Munster glanced at Jung. Realized that a disastrous burst of laughter was on the point of breaking out, and that he had better intervene before it was too late.
‘It’s just a newspaper cock-up,’ he said as slowly and pedagogically as he could. ‘Some bright spark has no doubt phoned the editorial office and spun them a yarn. And some other bright spark has swallowed the bait. Don’t blame us!’
‘Exactly,’ said Rooth.
Hiller’s facial colour went down to plum.
‘What a bloody mess,’ he muttered. ‘Krause!’
Krause sat up straight.
‘Yes?’
‘Find out which prize idiot has written this drivel – I’ll be damned if they’re going to get away with it!’
‘Yes sir!’ said Krause.
‘Off you go, then!’ the chief of police roared, and Krause slunk out. Hiller sat down at the end of the table and switched off the overhead projector.
‘Moreover,’ he said, ‘we have too many people working on this case. Just a couple of you will be sufficient from now on. Munster!’
‘Yes?’ said Munster with a sigh.
‘You and Moreno will sort out Leverkuhn from now on. Use Krause as well, but only if it’s really necessary. Jung and Rooth will look after the rapes in Linzhuisen, and Heinemann – what were you working on last week?’
‘That Dellinger business,’ said Heinemann.
‘Continue with that,’ said Hiller. ‘I want reports from all of you by Friday.’
He stood up and would have been out of the room in two seconds if he hadn’t stumbled over Rooth’s briefcase.
‘Oops,’ said Rooth. ‘Sorry about that, but I think I need to have a quick word with Krause.’
He picked up his briefcase and hurried off, while the chief of police brushed off his neatly creased knee and muttered something incomprehensible.
‘Well, what do you think?’ said Munster as he and Moreno sat down in the canteen. ‘A memorable performance?’
‘There’s no doubt about the entertainment value,’ said Moreno. ‘It must be the first time for a month that I very nearly burst out laughing. What an incredible idiot!’
‘A boy scout, perhaps?’ said Munster, and she actually smiled.
‘Still, he says what he means,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t try to fool anybody. Shall we get down to work?’
‘That’s the idea, no doubt. Have you any good ideas?’
Moreno swirled her cup and analysed the coffee lees.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No good ones.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Munster. ‘So we’ll have to make do with bad ones for the time being. We could bring Palinski in, for instance?’
