over-the-counter sales. Distribution in Maardam: 1,260. One of the subscribers was Waldemar Leverkuhn.
‘One thousand two hundred and sixty!’ exclaimed Rooth. ‘How the hell can there be so many brewery workers in Maardam?’
‘How many beers do you drink a week?’ wondered Jung.
‘Ah, well, yes, if you look at it like that, of course,’ said Rooth.
It was agreed unanimously to put the bankers on the shelf for now, and concentrate instead on the much more respectable producers of beer; but before they could even start there was a knock on the door and an overweight linguist by the name of Winckelhube – a specialist in semiotics and text analysis – entered the room. Reinhart recalled contacting Maardam University the previous evening, and welcomed Winckelhube somewhat reluctantly. He explained the situation in broad outline, gave him a photocopy of the magazine extract, a room to himself, and a request to deliver a report as soon as he thought he had anything useful to say.
While Reinhart was busy doing this, Moreno contacted the editorial office of
‘Good God!’ said Rooth. ‘This is going like clockwork. We’ve barely got time to eat.’
And it was Rooth who found the right page.
‘Here we are!’ he yelled. ‘Three bloody cheers!’
‘Altho’ a poor blind boy…’ said Reinhart. He went over to Rooth to check.
No doubt about it. The little strip of paper sticking out of Else Van Eck’s bottom in Weyler’s Woods came from the September issue of the previous year’s
‘This is pretty clear,’ said Reinhart.
‘Crystal clear,’ said Moreno.
‘It’s obvious he has cirrhosis of the liver,’ said Rooth, examining the governor close up.
There followed a few seconds of silence.
‘Did you say there were twelve hundred and sixty subscribers?’ asked Jung. ‘So it doesn’t necessarily-’
‘Don’t be such a bloody prophet of doom!’ said Rooth. ‘Of course it’s from the Leverkuhns. So she’s done in the old lady Van Eck as well, I’d stake my damned… house on it.’
‘Metaphorically speaking?’ asked Moreno.
‘Literally,’ said Rooth.
Reinhart cleared his throat.
‘The evidence seems to suggest it might be from the Leverkuhns,’ he said. ‘In any case, shouldn’t we order some coffee and discuss the matter in somewhat more formal circumstances?’
‘I’m with you there,’ said Rooth.
During the coffee session another report arrived from the Forensic Chemistry Lab, and Reinhart had the pleasant task of informing Intendent Mulder that they were already dealing with the matter.
Since it was rather urgent. In the unlikely event of there being other things to attend to at the lab, there was nothing now to prevent them from getting on with them.
‘I understand,’ said Mulder, and hung up.
Reinhart did the same, lit his pipe and smiled grimly.
‘So, where were we?’ he said, looking round the table.
‘Oh, bugger!’ said Inspector Moreno.
‘There speaks a real lady,’ said Rooth.
But Moreno made no attempt to comment.
‘It’s just dawned on me,’ she said instead.
‘What has?’ said Jung.
‘I think I know how it happened,’ said Moreno.
Thursday, 8 January was a comparatively fine day in Frigge too. Before setting off Munster noted that the gale had died down during the night, and that the morning presented a pale blue non-threatening sky, and a temperature probably a few degrees above freezing.
He set out shortly after nine, weighed down by the same tiredness he had been feeling for the past few months. Like an old friend, almost. At least I have a faithful stalker, he thought cynically.
According to the directions he had been given, the Gellner Home was situated just outside the town of Kielno, only a couple of miles from Kaalbringen where he had spent a few weeks some years ago in connection with a notorious axe murder. As he sat driving through the flat countryside, he recalled those weeks in September. The idyllic little coastal town, and all the bizarre circumstances that eventually led to the capture of the killer.
And Inspector Moerk. Beate Moerk. Another female colleague he had got to know rather too well. Perhaps he ought to ask himself if this was a flaw in his character – being unable to keep certain female colleagues at the necessary professional distance?
He wondered what she was doing nowadays. Was she still in Kaalbringen? Was she still single?
And Bausen! What the devil was Chief Inspector Bausen doing now? He made up his mind to ask Van Veeteren the next time he saw him. If anybody knew, he would.
The drive took less than an hour. For some reason the Gellner Home was signposted from the motorway, and he had no trouble in finding it. He parked in a car park with space for a hundred or so cars, but there was only a handful of vehicles there at the moment. He followed a series of discreet signs and entered the reception in a low, oblong building on top of a ridge. The whole complex seemed to be spread out over a considerable area. Yellow and pale green buildings two or three storeys high. Lawns and plenty of flowerbeds and trees. Small copses, and a strip of larches and mixed deciduous trees encircling the grounds. Irregular paths, paved with stone, and frequent groups of benches round small tables. The whole place seemed attractively peaceful, but he didn’t see a single person in the open air.
I expect it’s very different in the summer, he thought.
As agreed, he first met the woman he had spoken to twice on the telephone – the same confidence-inspiring welfare officer who had informed him about Irene Leverkuhn’s illness during the first stages of the investigation back in October.
Her name was Hedda deBuuijs, and she looked about fifty-five. A short, powerfully built woman with dyed iron-grey hair and a warm smile which seemed unable to keep away from her face for more than a few seconds at a time. It was clear to Munster that the respect for her he had felt during the telephone calls was in no way precipitate or unfounded.
She gave him no new information in connection with his impending meeting with Irene Leverkuhn, merely explained that he should not expect too much, and that she would have time for a brief chat with him afterwards, if he felt that would help.
Then she rang for a nurse, and Munster was led along several of the stone paths to one of the yellow buildings at the far end of the grounds.
He didn’t really know what to expect from his meeting with Irene Leverkuhn – or indeed if he expected anything at all. In appearance she was nothing at all like her overweight brother and sister. More like her mother: slim and wiry, it seemed, under her loose-fitting pale blue hospital jacket. Slightly hunch-backed, with long, thin arms and a bird-like face. Narrow nose and pale eyes noticeably close together.
She was sitting at a table in quite a large room, painting in watercolours on a pad. Two other women were sitting at different tables busy with some kind of batik prints, as far as Munster could tell. The nurse left, and he sat down opposite Irene Leverkuhn. She glanced at him, then returned to her painting. Munster introduced himself.
‘I don’t know you,’ Irene said.
‘No,’ said Munster. ‘But perhaps you’d like to have a little chat with me even so?’
‘I don’t know you,’ she repeated.
‘Do you mind if I sit here for a while, and watch while you’re painting?’
‘I don’t know you. I know everybody here.’
