And which didn’t fit in specially well with the latest development. The murder of Oscar Yellinek. Or did it?
Might as well leave them in peace to get on with their work, he thought.
Might as well keep out of the way and let others take over. Wasn’t that what he’d already decided he was going to do?
She was sitting waiting for him in the cafe they’d agreed on, and he wondered again why she had preferred to meet him here rather than in her own home.
To protect her privacy? he thought as he sat down opposite her. To keep something sacrosanct despite everything? That would be perfectly understandable.
He introduced himself, and she reached out a hand over the table to greet him, somewhat nervously.
‘So, here we are,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get away earlier. A lot has happened today.’
He nodded and dug out a toothpick. The thought suddenly struck him: I’m right. I can see it in her appearance and behaviour. How the devil could I have known that?
‘You understand what I want to talk to you about, I take it?’
He was taking a big risk, but he’d decided on that opening gambit. There weren’t really any other possibilities. No alternative moves.
She hesitated for a moment.
‘I think so.’
He could see that there was no point in rushing her. It was more important to give her plenty of time, and let things come out in whatever order seemed most natural to her. Or rather, least unpleasant.
‘We’d been together for eight years before I caught on,’ she began. ‘Eight years, and married for five.’
‘It can be something that suddenly strikes,’ he said. ‘It might not have been there all the time.’
She nodded.
‘I’ve tried to convince myself of that as well, but I don’t know if it would be much consolation. It’s so… well, so damned incomprehensible. It’s simply not possible to understand it, that’s the only conclusion I can reach. I just can’t get over it, I have to forget it and bury it. I thought that was my only chance – but now I realize that was also wrong, of course.’
She paused and rummaged in her bag. A waiter appeared, and without even asking Van Veeteren ordered coffee and cognac for them both.
‘Tell me about it,’ he said when she had lit a cigarette.
She scraped with her fingernail at a speck of candle wax on the tablecloth, and blinked several times. The chief inspector was holding his breath; it was his very presence that was digging up these old horrors, but he hoped to reduce the awfulness to a minimum.
‘It went too far,’ she said. ‘What I can never forgive myself for is that I allowed it to go on for so long, instead of reacting to the signs immediately. Over six months… I just couldn’t believe it was true. It’s the kind of thing you read about, and… Well, you know what I mean.’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘It was in the bath that I caught him at it. Judith was only five, but old enough to understand what was going on. And to be ashamed. What was hardest to understand was that he could be so unconcerned about it.’
‘Did he admit it?’
She inhaled and took a sip of cognac before replying.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Or maybe yes and no. He pretended that he didn’t know what I was talking about, but on the other hand he agreed to an immediate divorce. He moved out – I made him move out the very same day.’
‘And you no longer meet?’
‘No. When I’d got over the shock I hired a lawyer, of course. Prepared myself for a fight, but there was no fight. He gave up everything and left us without saying a word. That’s what I regard as proof that he admitted what he’d done.’
Another pause. Van Veeteren snapped the toothpick and took a cigarette instead.
‘How far had it gone?’ he asked.
‘A long way,’ was all she said.
‘Did you have her examined?’
She nodded.
‘Yes, I wanted to know. Oh yes, he’d gone all the way. There was no doubt about it.’
The chief inspector felt a surge of disgust rising within him, and he emptied his glass of cognac as an antidote.
‘When exactly was this?’ he asked.
‘Four years ago,’ she said. ‘Four years and two months.’
‘You didn’t report him?’
‘No,’ she said, sighing deeply. ‘I didn’t.’
Van Veeteren observed her hands clamped round her glass. He could have reproached her now. Turned up the heat and asked how the hell she could have failed to follow up something as horrendous as that – but of course, there was no need.
No need to torture her any longer. The whole conversation had taken less than ten minutes, and it had turned out exactly as he’d expected.
Or dreaded, rather.
Knew it would?
‘I’ll try to make sure that you are not involved in what happens next,’ he said. ‘But it’s not easy to see how it will-’
She interrupted him.
‘I’ll say my piece,’ she assured him. ‘You don’t need to worry. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.’
‘Okay,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ll be in touch when the time comes.’
They shook hands again, and he took his leave. When he emerged into the street, he was shivering. It was a chill that had nothing to do with the warm, pleasant summer evening. Nothing at all.
He found a public telephone and called Sorbinowo again, but all he got was a recording of Miss Miller’s voice informing him that the police station was now closed for the day, and providing two numbers to call if he had relevant information to provide regarding the Waldingen affair.
Oh yes, Van Veeteren thought. I have relevant information all right.
But he didn’t make any further calls. There were still several question marks – with regard to Yellinek’s death, for instance – and what he would most like to do was to serve up the solution to his colleagues on a plate. All done and dusted.
That had a whiff of vanity, of course; but if this really was to be his last case, perhaps he could be forgiven that.
And needless to say there was nothing – nothing at all – better able to eliminate any further question marks than a car journey. A long, calm drive through the night.
He pondered for a while. Then made up his mind: together with Penderecki.
Yet again Penderecki.
36
‘It’s five to twelve,’ said Reinhart. ‘We might as well go straight to the hotel. I wouldn’t have thought they’d still be sitting around deliberating.’
‘We can always phone and check,’ said Jung. ‘Mind you, I don’t know what we can say about these ladies.’
‘Good God, no,’ groaned Reinhart. ‘Although Lauremaa had a point when she talked about them having their differences.’
‘She certainly did,’ said Jung, suppressing a yawn. ‘But surely there was something distinctly unchristian about them, don’t you reckon?’
The visit to Wolgershuus was over and done with, and perhaps the word ‘unchristian’ was not the most appropriate in the context. But when Jung tried to sum up his impressions, he couldn’t think of anything better off the top of his head. All he knew was that he’d never experienced anything like it. Never ever.
So unchristian. Even so, they had followed the agreed tactic to the letter. Discretion. Professional approach; no more fuss than necessity and the law required. Without too much effort they had found a neutral room, away from the main corridors, and summoned the women in order to pass on the news without further ado.
The news of Oscar Yellinek’s death.
One at a time. First Madeleine Zander.
Reaction: none at all. She listened to them for half a minute, then turned on her heel and left the room. Jung thought he had noticed a few twitches at one side of her mouth, but that was all. There was no denying the fact that both he and Reinhart had felt somewhat uncomfortable after that first round – and when Mathilde Ubrecht was ushered in and presented with the same unvarnished facts as her friend, Jung at least was worried that they were going to be faced with the same silent reaction all three times. The same rigid autism.