magazine class, but nevertheless not from an ordinary daily newspaper such as
Mulder pronounced the names of the two newspapers in such a way that it was obvious to Rooth that only in a state of dire emergency would he condescend to wipe his arse with either of them.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Reinhart. ‘If it had been from the
At about the same time they received a photocopy of the strip of paper. Reinhart and Rooth – and Moreno, who had just arrived – crowded round it and established that the banana shape was unfortunately in a vertical plane, as it were, and that it was not possible to extract anything meaningful from the fragments of text. Not at the moment, at least – despite the fact that the technicians had managed to define individual letters with unexpected clarity. Nine-tenths of the reverse side seemed to be covered by a very murky black-and-white picture that was at least as impossible to interpret. Rooth maintained that it was a cross-section of a liver in an advanced state of cirrhosis, but his opinion was not shared by his colleagues.
By shortly after three o’clock they had also started to draw cautious conclusions about the typeface – even if that was not something within the range of competence of the forensic chemistry technicians, as Mulder was careful to point out. It was not one of the three or four usual faces in any case – so not Times or Geneva – which obviously enhanced the long-term possibilities of eventually establishing the origins of the scrap of paper.
At five o’clock Inspector Mulder shut up shop for the day, but nevertheless expressed a degree of optimism – scientifically restrained – with regard to the continued analysis the following day.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Reinhart. ‘But what are the odds?’
‘The odds?’ wondered Mulder, slowly raising one well-trimmed eyebrow.
‘The probability of whether or not you will be able to tell me exactly what rag the bit of paper comes from before you go home tomorrow.’
Mulder lowered his eyebrow.
‘Eighty-six out of a hundred,’ he said.
‘Eighty-six?’ said Reinhart.
‘I rounded it off,’ said Mulder.
‘Wrapping paper,’ commented Reinhart later in the car, as he gave Moreno a lift home. ‘Just like at the butcher’s.’
‘But surely they don’t wrap meat up in newspaper?’ said Moreno. ‘I’ve never come across that.’
‘They used to,’ said Reinhart. ‘You’re too young, you’re just a little girl.’
I’m glad there are some people who still think that, Moreno thought as she thanked him for the lift.
35
He had to ring the bell three times before Mauritz Leverkuhn opened the door.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Munster. ‘It’s me again.’
Presumably it took Mauritz a few seconds to remember who the visitor was, and perhaps it was that short space of time that put him out of step somewhat from the very start.
Or perhaps it was his illness. In any case, when it had registered with him that it was the police again he didn’t react with his usual aggression. He simply stared at Munster with vacant, feverish eyes, shrugged his coat- hanger shoulders and beckoned him in.
Munster hung up his jacket on a hook in the hall and followed him into the living room. Noted that it looked bare. It seemed temporary. A sofa and two easy chairs round a low pine table. A teak-veneered bookcase with a total of four books, half a metre of videotapes and a collection of various ornaments. A television set and a music centre in black plastic. On the table was a girlie magazine and a few advertising leaflets, and the two-metre-long windowsill was livened up by a cactus five centimetres high, and a porcelain money-box in the shape of a naked woman.
‘Do you live here alone?’ Munster asked.
Mauritz had flopped down into one of the easy chairs. Despite the fact that he was obviously still unwell, he was fully dressed. White shirt and neatly pressed blue trousers. Well-worn slippers. He hesitated before answering, as if he still hadn’t made up his mind what attitude to adopt.
‘I’ve only been living here for six months,’ he said in the end. ‘We split up.’
‘Were you married?’
Mauritz shook his head with some difficulty and took a drink from the glass in front of him on the table. Something white and fizzy: Munster assumed it was some kind of vitamin drink, or something to reduce his temperature.
‘No, we just lived together. But it didn’t last.’
‘It’s not easy,’ said Munster. ‘So you’re on your own now?’
‘Yes,’ said Mauritz. ‘But I’m used to that. What do you want?’
Munster took his notebook out of his briefcase. It wasn’t necessary to sit taking notes in a situation like this, of course, but it was a habit, and he knew that it gave a sort of stability. And above all: an opportunity to think things over while he pretended to be reading or writing something.
‘We have a bit of new evidence,’ he said.
‘Really?’ said Mauritz.
‘It could well be that your mother is innocent, in fact.’
‘Innocent?’
There was nothing forced about the way he pronounced that one word. Nothing, at least, that Munster could detect. Just the natural degree of surprise and doubt that one might have expected.
‘Yes, we think she might have confessed in order to protect somebody.’
‘Protect somebody?’ said Mauritz. ‘Who?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Munster. ‘Have you any suggestions?’
Mauritz wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Why should she do anything like that? I don’t understand this.’
‘If this really is the case,’ said Munster, ‘she must have known who actually killed your father, and that must have been somebody close to her, in one way or another.’
‘You don’t say?’ said Mauritz.
‘Can you think of anybody who would fit the bill?’
Mauritz coughed for a few seconds, his flabby body making the chair shake.
‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at. She didn’t have much of a social life, as you know… No, I can’t believe this. Why should she do that?’
‘We’re far from sure,’ said Munster.
‘What’s the new evidence you referred to? That would suggest this interpretation?’
Munster studied his notebook for a few seconds before replying.
‘I can’t go into that, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But there are a few other things I’d like to talk to you about.’
Excessively phlegmatic, he thought. Is it the flu, or is that his normal state? Or is he putting on a show?
‘What other things?’
‘Your sister, for instance,’ said Munster. ‘Irene.’
Mauritz put down his glass with an unintentional clang.
‘What do you mean?’ he said – and now, at last, there was a trace of irritation in his voice.
‘They’ve sent us a letter from the home where she lives.’
That was a bare-faced lie, but it was the line he’d decided to take. Sometimes it was necessary to take a shortcut. He was reminded of a wise Persian saying he’d picked up somewhere:
Not a bad truth to bear in mind, Munster thought. With regard to short-term decisions, at least.
‘You have no right to drag her into this business,’ said Mauritz.
‘Does she know what’s happened?’ Munster asked.
