‘Not a bad idea,’ said Moreno.
14
After two days out at Bossingen, Marie-Louise Leverkuhn returned to Kolderweg 17 on the Tuesday afternoon.
The children had been, commiserated and gone back home. Emmeline von Post had lamented and sympathized in every way possible, the heavens had wept more or less continuously. It was high time to return to reality and everyday life. It certainly was.
She began by scrubbing the blood-soaked room. She was unable to get rid of the blood that had penetrated the floorboards and walls, despite her best efforts with strong scouring-powder of various makes; nor was there much she could do about the stains on the woodwork of the bed – but then again, she didn’t need the bed any more. She dismantled it and dragged the whole caboodle out onto the landing for Arnold Van Eck to take care of. She then unrolled a large cowhair carpet that had been stored up in the attic for years and covered the floorboards. A couple of tapestries hanging quite low down took care of the wall.
After this hard labour she started going through her husband’s wardrobe: it was a time-consuming and rather delicate undertaking. She didn’t like doing it, but she had no choice. Some stuff ended up in the dustbin, some in the laundry basket, but most of it was put into suitcases and plastic sacks for taking to the charity shop in Windemeerstraat.
When this task was more or less taken care of, there was a ring on the doorbell. It was fru Van Eck, inviting her down for coffee and cake.
Marie-Louise hesitated at first. She had never been on particularly good terms with the caretaker’s wife, but fru Van Eck was insistent and in the end she heaved the sack she had just finished filling into the wardrobe, and accepted the invitation.
Life must go on after all, she thought, somewhat confused.
‘Life must go on,’ said fru Van Eck five minutes later as her husband sliced up the cake with raspberries and blackberries. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad,’ said Marie-Louise. ‘It takes time to get used to things.’
‘I can well imagine that,’ said fru Van Eck, eyeing Arnold for a few seconds with a thoughtful expression on her face.
‘By the way, there was one thing,’ she said eventually. ‘Arnold, will you leave us alone for a minute or two, please. Go and buy a football pools coupon or something, but take that apron off!’
Arnold bowed discreetly and left the ladies alone in the kitchen.
‘There’s one thing I didn’t mention when the police were here,’ said fru Van Eck when she heard the flat door close.
Marie-Louise said nothing, merely stirred her cup of coffee, didn’t look up.
‘I thought perhaps we could discuss it and agree on what line we should take. Do help yourself to a slice of cake. Arnold baked it himself.’
Marie-Louise shrugged, and took a slice.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ she said.
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Rooth as he left Krause’s office. ‘I’ll make sure you get two tickets.’
As he went through the door he found himself confronted by Joensuu and Kellerman, who were steering Adolf Bosch along the corridor. After a search lasting a day and a half, they had eventually found him in a dodgy bar in the block just below the customs station. Rooth turned his nose up and squeezed past. There was a smell of old sweat and drunkenness surrounding the man: Krause immediately ushered him towards the PVC-covered sofa next to the door, and the constables used all their strength to force him to sit down on it.
‘Ouch,’ said Bosch.
‘Shut your trap,’ said Kellerman. ‘That was far from easy, believe you me.’
‘The bastard started pissing in the car,’ said Joensuu.
‘Well done,’ said Krause. ‘You can go now.’
Joensuu and Kellerman left and Krause closed the door. Bosch had already lain down on the short sofa, with his knees raised and his head on the arm rest. Krause sat down at his desk and waited.
‘I don’t feel very well,’ said Bosch after half a minute.
‘You never have done,’ said Krause. ‘Stop putting it on, you know what’s what. If we want we can have you locked away for eighteen months… Unless you tell me a thing or two about certain unpleasant characters. Sit up!’
Bosch was a grass. Or an informer, as he preferred to call himself. A good-for-nothing drop-out in any case – but with just the acute lack of backbone and civil courage required for the role. Krause observed him in disgust. He had always found it difficult to accept this form of cooperation. Bosch was constantly being admitted to various clinics and institutions for detoxification and reform: nobody seriously thought he would live to be much older than the forty-five he had managed to achieve so far – but despite everything, asking him to find out information often produced results. Much more often than one would have expected.
‘When it comes to crooks, you can always rely on Adolf Bosch to stir up the shit,’ Van Veeteren used to say. ‘But never give him more than three days – he has no concept of time any longer than that.’
The threat of being locked away and reprisals from the underworld made him sit up half-straight. His eyes looked shifty and he scratched away at his armpits.
‘Are you listening?’ said Krause.
‘Any chance of a fag, boss?’
Krause took a packet out of the desk drawer where it was kept for this kind of purpose, and handed it over.
‘You can have what’s left, but wait until you’ve left the building.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bosch, taking tight hold of the packet.
‘It’s in connection with a murder,’ said Krause. ‘That pensioner in Kolderweg. Have you heard about it?’
Bosch nodded.
‘But I’ve no idea who did it. I swear…’
‘Spare us the swearwords,’ said Krause. ‘We think it was some junkie who had a bad trip. See what you can find out and report back to me the day after tomorrow.’
‘I’m a bit short of cash at the moment, boss,’ said Bosch, looking worried.
‘We’ll see about that on Thursday.’
‘But I’m skint,’ said Bosch.
‘Thursday,’ said Krause, pointing at the door.
‘Thursday,’ muttered Bosch, and left reluctantly.
Krause sighed and opened the window.
They stuck to the rule book with regard to Palinski. At first they considered drawing lots, but as Moreno was a woman Munster climbed down and took the first round.
‘Name?’
‘Eh?’ said Palinski. ‘You must know what it is.’
‘We’re recording this conversation,’ explained Munster impatiently, pointing at the tape recorder. ‘Please state your name and date of birth.’
‘Is this an interrogation?’
‘Of course. Name?’
‘Palinski… Jan. Born 1924.’
‘Date?’
‘April 10, but…’
‘Here in Maardam?’
‘Of course. But why are you treating me like this? Police car and everything, I’ve never been involved in anything all my life.’
