way.
‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘Make sure you don’t swim out too far.’
‘I promise,’ she said.
‘I’m working tomorrow,’ said Munster as he shuffled the cards for Marieke. ‘Then I’m off for six days.’
‘About time,’ said Synn. ‘I don’t want this autumn back again. We need to find a strategy to overcome this, we really do.’
‘A strategy?’ asked Munster.
‘Star-tea-gee,’ said Marieke. ‘Jack of clubs.’
‘I’m serious,’ Synn continued. ‘It’s better to throttle the depression before it makes a mess of everything. We have to make time to live. Remember that my mother went to the wall at the age of forty-five. She lived to be seventy, but she didn’t smile once during the last twenty-five years.’
‘I know,’ said Munster. ‘But you’re only thirty-eight. And you look like twenty-two.’
‘Seven of hearts,’ said Marieke. ‘Your turn! How old are you, Daddy?’
‘A hundred and three,’ replied Munster. ‘But I feel older. All right, I agree with you. We need to do something.’
For a second he tried to compare his life with that of the Leverkuhn family, tried to see where they stood in relation to one another – but the thought was so absurd that it collapsed immediately.
‘We’ll start the day after tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Was there any post today?’
‘Only bills and this,’ said Synn, handing him a white envelope. He opened it, and took out a sheet of paper folded twice.
It was a brief message. Only three words. Dated two days ago.
‘Queen of spades,’ said Marieke. ‘Your turn!’
‘Oh hell…’ said Intendent Munster.
29
Judgment in the Marie-Louise Leverkuhn case was announced on the morning of Monday, 22 December, in the Maardam court house.
Unanimously, the jury had found fru Leverkuhn guilty of the first degree murder of her husband, Waldemar Severin Leverkuhn, in accordance with paragraphs forty-three and forty-four of the penal code. She was sentenced to six years in prison, the shortest time allowed by the law: Judge Hart announced in all seriousness that this reflected the fact that the guilty person was already dead and hence was not expected to serve the sentence.
He then explained that an appeal against the verdict could be lodged in accordance with usual procedures within ninety days, slammed his enormous hammer down on the desk, and declared the case closed.
Pathologist Meusse dried his hands on his coat and looked up.
‘Yes, what is it?’
Rooth cleared his throat.
‘It’s about a skull…’
‘That skull,’ added Jung.
Meusse glared at them over the edge of his misted-up glasses and beckoned them to follow him. He led the way through a series of chilly rooms before finally coming to a stop in front of a large refrigerator.
‘It’s in here,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Unless I’m mistaken.’
He took out a white plastic sack and lifted up a decapitated woman’s head by her hair. It was swollen and discoloured, with blotches and pustules of every hue from ochre to deep lilac. The eyes were closed, but a few centimetres of dark brown tongue were sticking out of the mouth. The nose looked like a lump of excrement. Jung could feel his stomach turning over, and hoped he wouldn’t be forced to leave the room.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Rooth.
‘Yes, it’s not going to win a beauty contest,’ said Meusse. ‘She could have been lying there for a couple of months, I would think. The plastic carrier bag was high quality, otherwise rather more might have been nibbled away.’
Rooth swallowed and averted his gaze. For want of anything else he found himself looking at Jung, who was standing about thirty centimetres away. Jung felt another spasm in his stomach, and closed his eyes.
‘Do you recognize her?’ asked Rooth, his voice shaking.
Jung opened his eyes and nodded vaguely.
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘Can you say anything about the cause of death?’
Meusse put the head back into the bag.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘She’s had a few hefty blows with something heavy on the crown of her head, but God only knows if that’s what killed her. But she must have flaked out in any case – it’s one hell of a contusion. You reckon you know who she is?’
‘We think so,’ said Rooth. ‘Two months, is that what you said?’
‘Plus or minus a few weeks,’ said Meusse. ‘You’ll get more accurate data the day after tomorrow.’
‘That’ll be Christmas Eve,’ said Rooth.
‘You don’t say?’ said Meusse.
‘How did the decapitation take place?’ asked Jung.
Meusse stroked over his own bald head a few times as if to check that it was still in place.
‘A knife,’ he said. ‘And a butcher’s cleaver, I think. Not the instruments I would have chosen myself for that kind of operation, but it evidently worked okay.’
‘Evidently,’ said Rooth.
‘How old?’ asked Jung.
Meusse snorted.
‘If you know who it is, you ought to know how old she is,’ he muttered, and started walking back to his office.
‘Just double-checking,’ Rooth explained. ‘Our lady was closer to seventy than anything else. Does that fit in?’
‘Not too bad,’ said Meusse. ‘This head seems to be between sixty-five and seventy-five, according to my preliminary calculations. But I didn’t receive her until yesterday afternoon, so I don’t want to be more precise than that yet.’
Jung nodded. He had never heard Meusse being prepared to give an exact estimation, but on the other hand, he had never heard of Meusse ever guessing wrongly. If Meusse said that the head they had just been gaping at had belonged to a woman of about seventy who had been beaten to death with a blunt instrument hitting the crown of her head about two months ago, there were doubtless good reasons for believing that this was in fact the case.
And that the woman in question was Else Van Eck, and nobody else.
‘Hmm,’ said Rooth when they emerged from the Forensic Medicine Department and turned up their collars to keep out the driving drizzle. ‘That was a turn-up for the bloody books. Changes things quite a bit, I suspect.’
‘Maybe we ought to give Munster a ring,’ said Jung.
‘No doubt we should,’ said Rooth. ‘But I reckon we ought to get a bite to eat first. This is going to cause masses of work and trouble, I can feel it coming.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Jung. ‘It’s in the air.’
