“How?”
“I don’t really know. I think it was something to do with a party of some kind. Some of the girls from our class were there, in any case, and there was an accident.”
“What sort of an accident?”
“This boy died. He fell over a cliff. They were in a holiday cottage at Kerran-there are quite a few escarpments out there, a geological fault, I think they say-I seem to remember they found his body the next morning. I assume strong drink played a part as well. . ”
“But are you quite sure that Eva was present?”
“Yes, she must have been there. They tried to hush it all up, I seem to recall. Nobody wanted to talk about what had happened. It was as if. . as if there was something shameful, in fact.”
“And it was an accident?”
“Excuse me? Er, yes. . Of course.”
“There were never any, er, suspicions?”
“Suspicions? No. What kind of suspicions?”
“Never mind,” said Van Veeteren. “Miss Lingen, did you ever speak to Eva Ringmar about what happened? Later, I mean. In Karpatz, or when you used to see each other here in Maardam?”
“No, never. We didn’t really spend time with each other in Karpatz. We just met occasionally, as you do when you’re in the same class. It was more of an obligation, I think, almost. .
She had her own circle of friends, and so did I, come to that.”
“But then in Maardam. Did you used to talk about your school days?”
“No, not really. We might have mentioned a teacher, but as I say, we moved in different circles. There wasn’t a lot to talk about.”
“Did you have the impression that Eva Ringmar was reluctant to talk about the past?”
She hesitated.
“Yes. .” she said eventually. “I suppose you could say that.”
Van Veeteren said nothing for several seconds.
“Miss Lingen,” he said eventually, “I’m very keen to hear about certain matters from that period-the high school years in Muhlboden. Do you think you could give me the name of somebody who was close to Eva Ringmar at that time?. .
Somebody who knows more about her than you do? Preferably several.”
Beate Lingen thought about that.
“Grete Wojdat,” she said after a while. “Yes. . Grete Wojdat and Ulrike deMaas. They were great pals, I know that.
Ulrike was from the same place, I think: Leuwen. They came to school on the same bus, in any case.”
Van Veeteren made a note of the name.
“Have you any idea of where they are now?” he wondered.
“If they’ve got married and changed their name, for instance?”
Beate Lingen thought that over again.
“I know nothing at all about Grete Wojdat,” she said. “But Ulrike. . Ulrike deMaas, I met her a few years ago, in fact. She was living in Friesen. . She was then, in any case. . married, but I think she kept her maiden name.”
“Ulrike deMaas,” said Van Veeteren, underscoring the name. “Friesen. . Do you think it’s worth a visit?”
“How on earth would I know, Inspector?” She looked at him in surprise. “I don’t even have the slightest idea about what you’re trying to find out!”
I think you ought to be grateful for that, Miss Lingen, Van Veeteren thought.
When he left it was dark, and the wind was blowing stronger.
When he came to the tram stop he found that it was in posses-sion of a gang of soccer hooligans shrieking and yelling, in their red-and-white scarves and woolly hats. Van Veeteren decided to walk instead.
As he passed through the Deijkstraat district he crossed over Pampas, the low-lying area just to the south of the municipal forest, where, once upon a time, he had set out on his checkered career as a police officer. When he came to the corner of Burgerlaan and Zwille, he paused and contemplated the dilapidated property next to the Ritmeeters brewery.
It looked exactly as he remembered it. The facade cracked and disintegrating, the plaster flaking away. Even the obscene graffiti at street level seemed to be from another age.
There was no light in either of the two windows on the third floor, just as had been the case that mild and fragrant summer evening twenty-nine years ago when Van Veeteren and Inspector Munck had broken into the flat after a hysterical telephone call. Munck had gone in first and taken the volley of shots from Mr. Ocker in his stomach. Van Veeteren had sat on the hall floor, holding Munck’s head while the man bled to death. Mr. Ocker was lying on the floor three meters farther into the apartment, shot through the throat by Van Veeteren.
Mrs. Ocker and their four-year-old daughter were found by the ambulance team: strangled and stuffed into a wardrobe in the bedroom.
He tried to recall when he had last heard anything from Elisabeth Munck. It must have been many years ago; despite the fact that he had very nearly become her lover, in a desperate attempt to make amends and build bridges and come to terms with his own distorted feelings of guilt.
He continued strolling over the Alexander Bridge, while asking himself why he had chosen this particular route. For Christ’s sake, there were plenty of memories to keep the Burgerlaan 35 story alive: it wasn’t necessary to dig up anything new.
It was several minutes after half past five when he entered his office on the fourth floor, and a mere fifteen minutes later he had established contact with Ulrike deMaas. Spoken to her on the telephone, and arranged a meeting for the following day.
Then he phoned the police garage and ordered the same car as he’d had the previous Sunday. When that was sorted out, he switched off the light and remained seated in the darkness with his hands clasped behind his head.
Strange how everything fell into place.
It’s as if somebody were pulling the strings, he thought.
It wasn’t a new thought, and as usual he cast it aside.
36
The body of Elizabeth Karen Hennan was found near the edge of Leisner Park in Maardam by an early riser taking his dog for a walk. It was naked and had been thrown into a hawthorn thicket only a few meters from the path for cyclists and horseback riders that cut across the whole park, and there was good reason to suspect that the murderer had taken her there in a car or some other vehicle.
No attempt had been made to conceal the body. Mr.
Moussere saw it even before his German shepherd had reached the thicket, although his attempt to prevent the dog from following its natural instincts had been in vain.
The police were called from a nearby telephone kiosk, and the call was logged at 6:52. First on the scene, after only a few minutes, was patrol car No. 26; Constables Rodin and Markovic immediately cordoned off the area and carried out the first interrogation of Mr. Moussere.
At 7:25, Inspector Reinhart arrived, accompanied by Inspector Heinemann and two crime-scene technicians. The medical team arrived twenty minutes later, and the first journalist, Aaron Cohen from the Allgemejne, failed to put in an appearance until about half past eight. Evidently whoever was supposed to be listening in to the police radio had fallen asleep, but Cohen insisted that he was not to blame.
Almost everything was clear by then, and for once Reinhart was able to make a fairly considered and appropriately doctored summary of the situation.
The body appeared to be that of a certain Elizabeth K.
Hennan, aged thirty-six, resident in Maardam and employed as an assistant at the souvenir boutique Gloss in Karlstorget.
Although the body had been naked when discovered, identification had been easy, as the victim’s belongings had been found a little farther into the same thicket. The police had recovered her clothes-apart from her knickers-and her purse, containing money, keys, and identification documents.
The time of death had not yet been established, but the police pathologist, Meusse, had been able to make an estimate. Judging by the temperature of the corpse and the degree of rigor mortis, it would seem to have ceased to live at some time between one o’clock and three o’clock in the morning.