The visitor’s name was Barga – Jung couldn’t make out whether this was her first name or her surname – a robust woman of an uncertain age. Probably somewhere between forty and seventy. Despite the fact that it was relatively warm on board, both ladies were wearing rubber boots, thick woollen jumpers and long scarves, wrapped round and round their heads and necks. Without much in the way of ceremony, four tin mugs appeared on the table and were promptly filled with two centimetres of gin and three centimetres of coffee. Then a sugar lump, and a toast was proposed.
‘Aah!’ exclaimed Barga. ‘God is not as dead as they say.’
‘But He’s on His last legs,’ said fru Jumpers. ‘Believe you me!’
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘In that connection, do you happen to have seen herr Bonger lately? That’s why we’ve called on you, of course.’
‘Bonger?’ said Barga, unwinding her headscarf slightly. ‘No, that’s a mystery. Makes you wonder what the bloody police do in this town.’
‘These gentlemen are from the police,’ said the hostess, with a wry smile.
‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ said Barga. ‘Still, I suppose somebody has to do it, as the arse-licker said.’
‘Exactly,’ said Rooth. ‘So you also knew herr Bonger?’
‘You can bet your bleeding bollocks I did, Constable,’ said Barga. ‘Better than anybody else, I reckon…’ She glanced at her friend. ‘With the possible exception of this old cow.’
‘Do you also live on the canal?’ Jung asked.
‘No fear,’ said Barga. ‘On the contrary… Up under the roof beams in Kleinstraat, that’s where I have my abode. But I do descend down here now and then.’
‘Descend down here, kiss my arse!’ snorted fru Jumpers, unscrewing the top of the bottle again. ‘Can I offer anybody a drop more?’
‘Just a little one,’ said Jung.
‘A fairly big one,’ said Rooth.
Fru Jumpers poured out the gin and Barga laughed so expansively that the fillings in her teeth glittered.
‘A fairly big one!’ she repeated in delight. ‘Are you really a police officer, my dear?’
‘I wasn’t good enough to do anything else,’ said Rooth. ‘But this Bonger character – if you knew him so well, perhaps you have some idea of where he might be?’
A few seconds passed while the large woman’s facial expression turned serious. She peered between swollen eyelids at fru Jumpers, who was meticulously blending the coffee and gin. Then she cleared her throat.
‘Either he’s been murdered…’ she said.
She lifted her mug. Three seconds passed.
‘Or?’ said Jung.
‘Or he’s done a runner.’
‘Don’t talk crap,’ said fru Jumpers.
‘Why would he do a runner?’ asked Rooth.
‘Business,’ said Berga secretively. ‘He had no choice.’
Jung stared sceptically at her and Rooth shook his head.
‘What kind of business?’
‘Debts,’ said Berga, tapping the table three times with her fist. ‘He owed a lot of money. They were after him – I spoke to him just a few days before he disappeared. He’s gone underground, that’s all there is to it. You don’t mess about with the characters in that branch.’
‘What branch?’ wondered Rooth.
‘It could have something to do with his sister as well,’ said Berga, gazing down into her mug as if her friend had got the proportions wrong.
‘I didn’t know he had a sister,’ said Jung. ‘Where does she live?’
‘Nobody knows,’ interjected fru Jumpers. ‘She also vanished in mysterious circumstances… when would it be now? Fifteen years ago? About that. Took leave of her senses and turned up later in Limburg, or so they say.’
‘What branch were you talking about?’ Rooth insisted.
‘I’m not saying, so I haven’t said anything,’ said Berga, fishing out a crumpled cigarette. ‘It’s not good to give your tongue its head.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ sighed Jung.
‘Cheers!’ said fru Jumpers. ‘Pay no attention to her. She always rambles on like that when she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s been senile for the last thirty years.’
‘Bah,’ said Berga, lighting the cigarette. ‘Bonger had problems, there’s no doubt about that. My tip is that he’s in Hamburg or maybe South America, and that he’ll make bloody sure he doesn’t come back here.’
There was silence for a few seconds while the mugs were emptied. Then Rooth thought it was time to change tack.
‘Why is his boat moored as it is?’ he asked. ‘It seems a bit odd.’
‘Burp,’ belched fru Jumpers. ‘It’s been moored like that for twenty years. The former owner did it – he was a Muslim of some kind or other and wanted open water on all sides of his boat, said it was good for his karma or something.’
Jung suspected she had mixed up the religions, but let it pass. He glanced at Rooth, who was looking increasingly tormented. Best leave it at that, he thought.
‘Anyway, we’d better be making a move,’ he said, draining the last drops from his mug.
‘You may be right,’ said Rooth. ‘Thank you very much. It’s been most interesting.’
‘Bye bye,’ said Barga, waving her cigarette around. ‘Make sure you clean up a bit among the riff-raff so that it’s safe for a respectable lady to walk home.’
‘Huh, kiss my arse,’ said fru Jumpers.
‘What the hell did we come here for?’ wondered Rooth when they were back on the frosty quay.
Jung shrugged.
‘Search me. Munster just wanted us to check up on the situation. He seems to have trouble in letting this case go.’
Rooth nodded glumly.
‘He certainly does,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned I’d like to forget all about this visit. I’ve come across fairer maidens in my time.’
‘I should hope so,’ said Jung. ‘But what d’you think about that Barga?’
Rooth shuddered.
‘Away with the fairies,’ he said. ‘Nothing of what she said made sense. First it was a mystery, then she knew all about it… But if that Bonger really did owe money, surely this was an ideal situation for him to pay it back, now that they’d won the lottery.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ said Jung.
‘I doubt it,’ said Rooth. ‘Shall we move on now?’
‘By all means,’ said Jung.
Moreno drove up to Wernice. She doubted if she would be well received by Ruth Leverkuhn, and while she sat waiting for the bascule bridge over the Maar to go up and down, she also wondered about the point of the visit. Always assuming there was one. Ruth Leverkuhn had sounded quite off-putting on the telephone, finding it hard to understand why the police needed to stick their noses still further into this personal tragedy than they had done already.
Her father had been murdered in his bed.
Her mother had confessed to doing it.
Wasn’t that quite enough?
Was it really necessary to pester the survivors still more, and didn’t the police have more important things to do?
Moreno had to admit that she could understand Leverkuhn’s point of view.
And the visit didn’t turn out to be especially successful either.
Ruth Leverkuhn received her in a loose-fitting wine-red tracksuit with the text PUP FOR THE CUP in flaking yellow over her chest. She had a wet towel wound around her head, dripping water on her bosom and shoulders, and on her feet were wrinkled, thick skiing socks. On the whole she was not a pretty sight.
