Nevertheless, the evening brought with it a faint ray of light, even if it had nothing to do with the case. Just as he was about to go to bed, Renate had called and announced that she didn’t think it was such a good idea for them to move back together after all. In any case, there was certainly no hurry.
There’s a time for everything, she had said; and for once he was in full agreement with her. They had concluded their telephone conversation on the best of terms, and she had even persuaded him to promise to pay a visit to their lost son in state prison as soon as he had time.
He drove on through the afternoon, along the narrow, winding roads over the moors and beside the river, as the darkness and the fog grew, and now came the illusory opening he had been hoping for. The very essence of motion. . where moving through space and time seemed to stimulate an impression of movement in other spheres as well. Thoughts and patterns and deductions flowed through his consciousness, effortlessly and without resistance, accompanied by the unfilled space created by the classical guitar.
But the direction taken by these expanding movements kept pace with the oncoming darkness. There was something about this case, about both these murders, that was constantly forcing everything onto a downward path, and leaving a nasty taste in his mouth. A feeling of disgust and impotence, similar to what he used to experience every time he was confronted by a violent murder; when he’d still been a young police officer who believed he could bring about change; before the daily confrontation with a certain kind of behavior blunted him sufficiently for him to be able to carry out his job properly.
Hand in hand with these suspicions was the fear that he knew more than he understood. That there was a question, a clue, that he ought to be able to pin down and examine in more detail, or some connection that he had overlooked, which, when exposed to the light of day, would prove to be the key to the case as a whole.
But this was no more than a vague feeling, perhaps no more than a false hope given the lack of anything else; and whatever the truth was, it had not become one jot clearer this afternoon. It had been, and continued to be, a journey into the unknown. What was growing inside him was worry-the worry that everything would take too long, that he would get it all wrong again, that evil would turn out to be much more powerful than he had wanted to acknowledge.
Evil?
That was not a concept he liked to be confronted with.
The woman who opened the door had long red hair and looked as if she might give birth at any moment.
“Van Veeteren,” he said. “I phoned yesterday. You must be Mrs. Berger?”
“Welcome,” she said with a smile; and as if she had been able to read his thoughts, she added, “Don’t worry about me; there’s a whole month to go yet. I always get to look like this.”
She took his coat and ushered him into the house. Introduced two children, a boy aged four to five, and a girl aged two to three; it was a long time since he’d been any good at making more precise estimates in that age group.
She shouted upstairs, and a voice announced that he was on his way. Mrs. Berger invited Van Veeteren to sit down in a cane armchair, part of a small group in front of an open fire, and excused herself, saying her presence was needed in the kitchen. The boy and girl peered furtively at Van Veeteren, then decided to accompany their mother.
He was left alone for about a minute. It was clear that the Berger household was not exactly suffering from a shortage of money. The house was located securely and well away from the nearest neighbors at the edge of the little town, with unin-terrupted views of the countryside. He had not had enough time to form an opinion about the exterior of the house, but the interior and fittings demonstrated good taste and the means to satisfy it.
For a brief moment, he may have regretted accepting the invitation he had been given. Interrogating one’s host over dinner was hardly an ideal situation. Not easy to bite the hand that feeds you, he thought; much easier to stare somebody down across a rickety hardboard table in a dirty prison cell.
But no doubt all would be well. It was not his intention to cross-question Andreas Berger, even if it might be difficult to resist the pleasure of doing so. Van Veeteren had come here simply to establish an impression-surely there was no more to it than that? For even if he had every confidence in Munster’s judgment, much more so than Munster could ever have imagined, there was always a little chance, a possibility that Van Veeteren might notice something. Something that might require a special sixth sense to pick up, an advanced sort of intuition or a particular kind of perverted imagination. .
And if nothing else, four eyes had to be able to see better than two.
That boy, for instance. Was it possible that he was a little bit on the old side for the circumstances? No doubt it would be an idea to check the dates when he had an opportunity. For if it really was the case that the new Mrs. Berger had been pregnant before the old Mrs. Berger had made her final exit, well. . That would surely be of some sort of significance?
Andreas Berger looked more or less as Van Veeteren had imagined him. Trim, easygoing, about forty; polo shirt, jacket, corduroy trousers. A somewhat intellectual air.
The prototype of success, Van Veeteren thought. Would fit into any TV ad you cared to name. Anything from aftershave and deodorant to dog food and retirement insurance. Very pleasant.
Dinner took an hour and a half. Conversation was easy and unexceptional, and after the dessert, the wife and children withdrew. The gentlemen returned to their cane armchairs.
Berger offered his guest a range of drinks, but Van Veeteren was content with a whiskey and water, and a cigarette.
“I need to be able to find my way back to the hotel,” he said by way of explanation.
“Why not stay the night with us? We’ve got bags of room.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” said Van Veeteren. “But I’ve already checked in, and I prefer to sleep where my tooth-brush is.”
Berger shrugged.
“I have to get up rather early tomorrow morning as well,”
said Van Veeteren. “Would you have any objection to our coming to the point now, Mr. Berger?”
“Of course not. Don’t be afraid to ask, Chief Inspector. If I can help in any way to throw light on this terrible tragedy, I’d be only too pleased to do so.”
No, Van Veeteren thought. I’m not normally accused of being afraid to ask questions. Let’s see if you are afraid of answering them.
“How did you discover that Eva was being unfaithful?” he asked to start with.
It was a shot in the dark, but he saw immediately that he had scored a bull’s-eye. Berger reacted so violently that the ice cube he was in the process of dropping into his glass landed on the floor.
“Oh, bugger,” he said, groping around in the shaggy carpet.
Van Veeteren waited calmly.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
It was so amateurish that Van Veeteren couldn’t help smiling.
“Did you find out yourself, or did she tell you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.”
“Or did somebody else tip you off?”
Berger hesitated.
“Who has told you about this, Inspector?”
“I’m afraid we shall have to stick to the rules, Mr. Berger, even if you have served me a delicious dinner.”
“What rules?”
“I ask the questions, you answer them.”
Berger said nothing. Sipped his drink.
“You really have been most hospitable,” said Van Veeteren, making a vague gesture that incorporated the food, the wine, the whiskey, the open fire, and all the other things Berger had provided: but your thinking time is now over!