“The determinant?”
“Yes.”
“No idea,” said Munster.
“Nor have I,” said Van Veeteren. “But I’m on its heels.
That’s what is telling us where to go, Munster; that’s what is pointing out the path we have to follow, what to do next, which turnings to take. I take it you agree that there has to be a plot in a novel?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That there has to be a story, or at the very least a sort of connecting thread that runs through a film or a play and links all the episodes together?”
“Yes. .”
“A novel, a film, or a play, Munster-they are nothing but stuffed life. Life that has been captured and stuffed like a taxi-dermist stuffs a dead animal. They are created so that we can reasonably easily examine it. Clamber out of current reality and look at it from a distance. Are you with me?”
“Yes,” said Munster. “I think so. .”
“Anyway, if there have to be plots and connecting threads ensuring that stuffed life, the artificial version, hangs together, then of course the same thing must apply to the genuine article, to real life. That’s the point.”
“The point?”
“Yes, the point. Obviously, you can choose to live a point-less life if you want to-watch the film backwards, for Christ’s sake, or hold the book upside down as you read it. But don’t kid yourself that if you do, you’ve understood anything. You see, there’s not just one, but thousands of points, whole series of points. . patterns. . rules. . determinants. I’m off to Australia on Thursday, Munster, and I can sure as hell assure you that it’s not mere chance. It’s exactly the right thing to do.
Don’t you think so?”
Just for a moment Munster had visions of his own ideal lagoon. . Synn and the children and two weeks by the blue sea. .
“If we were a movie, you and me,” said Van Veeteren, snapping a toothpick, “or a book, then of course it would be unforgivable of me to tell you certain things at this point in time. It would be a kick in the teeth for cinemagoers, an insult to the genre as such. Perhaps also an underestimate of your talents, Munster. Are you with me?”
“No,” said Munster.
“A crime against the determinant,” said Van Veeteren, looking just for a second as if he might smile. “If we don’t have a religion, the least we can do is to try to live as if we were a book or a film. These are the only hints you are going to get, Munster.”
What the hell’s going on? Munster wondered. Is he really sitting there and saying this, or am I dreaming?
“That’s why I’m annoyed,” said Van Veeteren. “They
ought to find him tonight. I want him here tomorrow, and I want to confront him with the answers we’ve had to our faxes.
And with another person. What we are dealing with is a mass murderer, Munster, are you clear about that? It doesn’t often happen.”
I am dreaming, Munster decided.
There was a knock on the door, and Constable Beygens looked in.
“Excuse me, Chief Inspector, but we’ve just received a fax from abroad.”
“Excellent,” said Van Veeteren. “Hand it over!”
42
“You’re a real pal!” said Ulich.
Tomas Heckel wasn’t supposed to start his shift until ten, but this evening they had a special agreement. If Heckel started at a quarter to nine instead, Ulich would have time to get to the boxing gala where his son was due to take part in a light-heavyweight bout with a black Englishman by the name of Whitecock.
It wasn’t the main event, of course, just one of the supporting fights. But like his dad in the old days, young Ulich packed a formidable punch. And a marked ability to take punishment.
Heckel, who was a second-year medical student, was well aware of the risks boxers took when they allowed other people to bash them around the head for money, but his job as a night porter was too important for him to get into an argument about the rights and wrongs of it. Nor did he want to deprive the father of the opportunity to sit at ringside as his son’s brain cells hit the canvas. As well as sandwiches and coffee, his rucksack contained three fat anatomy books. He intended to stay awake all night, swotting. Time is money, and there were only six days to go before his exam.
“You’re a real pal,” said Ulich again as he eased his gigantic body out of the porter’s booth. “There’ll be a bottle of the hard stuff for you if the lad wins!”
“I wouldn’t dream of accepting it,” said Heckel. “Is there anything I need to know?”
Ulich thought for a moment.
“There’s a handball team from Copenhagen on the third floor,” he said. “You’d better keep an eye on them. Oh yes, there’s somebody who has to move his car. He’s parked in such a way that the garbage truck won’t be able to get at the bins tomorrow morning. Prawitz called in to tell me, there’s a note by the telephone. I think it’s that Czerpinski character in number 26. I rang his room, but he wasn’t there.”
“Okay,” said Heckel. “Have a good time. I hope he does well.”
“He’ll skin the guy alive, dammit!” said Ulich, shadowbox-ing his way out through the swing doors.
Heckel sat down and leafed through the log book. Thirty of the thirty-six rooms occupied-not bad for a Monday in December. He switched on Ulich’s little television set: it might be an idea to watch the news before devoting himself to his anatomy studies. Besides, he usually found it difficult to settle down and read before midnight.
A few minutes still to go. Some ridiculous program called A Question of Sport hadn’t finished yet. What had Ulich said?
A wrongly parked car?
He found the note. Scrutinized it and memorized the car registration number while calling Room 26. No answer. He hung up, but taped the note to the telephone, so that he wouldn’t forget about it.
The news program was starting. The lead item was that murder hunt, of course. He’d heard about it several times during the course of the afternoon. There was something about it in the newspapers lying on the counter as well, he noticed.
Carl Ferger. . at least three murders. . blue Fiat, registration number. .
He stared at the plate on the television screen.
Stared at the telephone.
Switched off the TV and grabbed one of the newspapers.
He snatched at the note he had just taped to the telephone and started comparing, letter for letter, number for number. As if he could barely read. Or was standing there with a lottery ticket in his hand, one that had just won over a million and he couldn’t really believe it was true. .
An absurd but irritating thought buzzed around inside his head: he wasn’t going to get much anatomy revision done that night.
Then he pulled himself together and phoned the police.
The first call came just after half past nine. Munster took it, as Van Veeteren happened to be in the bathroom.
“Excellent,” said Munster. “Yes, I see. He’ll get back to you in five minutes. What’s your number?”
He made a note of it, then settled down again with the evening paper. Van Veeteren returned. Munster waited for a few seconds.
“They’ve got him, up in Schaabe,” he said, in the calmest tone of voice he could manage.
“They’ve what?” Van Veeteren exclaimed. “About bloody time.”
“Well, nearly got him,” Munster added. “You’d better ring back. It was a Detective Chief Inspector Frank. Do you know him?”
Van Veeteren nodded and dialed the number.
“Frank? Van Veeteren here. I’m delighted to hear that a blind chicken can still find a grain of corn. . What did you say?”
Munster observed his boss over the top of his newspaper.
Van Veeteren was hunched over the telephone and looked as if he were trying to squeeze the murderer out of the receiver. All the time he was chewing away at two toothpicks, and listening.