But that was not what happened. Instead, in the case of Miss Ubrecht, it was a dam bursting. Before they had the chance to take in what was happening, she had already lashed out with several blows and kicks (Jung’s head, Reinhart’s shin, Jung’s back), hurled a chair and a vase across the room and run screaming straight into a wall. The latter – they assumed, at least – was a desperate attempt to knock herself senseless. They eventually forced her down to the floor, and by the time the significantly more hardened medical orderlies arrived, her bellowing had begun to sound more like a sort of epileptic gurgling. The older of the two orderlies produced a syringe and without any hesitation stuck it into her stomach, whereupon she lost consciousness after about ten seconds.
To be on the safe side, the orderlies stayed in an adjoining room when it was time for the third confrontation – with Ulriche Fischer, to whom Jung had already spoken. But when Reinhart delivered the news to her face, this time very cautiously and on his guard, she reacted at first as silently as Madeleine Zander. But then she slumped down over the table, her arms clasped round her head, and burst out crying.
‘I expected this!’ she whimpered, rubbing her fists back and forth over her face and the top of her head. ‘There was no other explanation! He would never have abandoned us like that! He just couldn’t!’
Not much more was said, and Inspector Jung at least was so shattered by now that he felt nothing more than extreme and genuine gratitude to the doctor who had been summoned in connection with Miss Ubrecht’s outburst, who hurried into the room and wondered what the hell was going on.
‘Routine investigation,’ Reinhart explained. ‘But we’ve finished now.’
Jung felt ready to drop when he clambered out of the car in the car park outside Grimm’s Hotel. So much so that he firmly declined Reinhart’s offer of a nightcap, and instead went straight to his room and collapsed onto the bed without having taken off anything but his jacket and shoes.
A hell of a Wednesday as somebody had said.
There was something about Penderecki.
Something about this pain-filled Polish requiem that was quite unlike anything else he knew, and which almost without exception made him feel liberated. Cleansed, and as tall as a cathedral.
Touched by the divine, as Mahler would have said. His good friend the poet, that is. Not the composer.
And of course it was also to do with suspense. Suspense loosening its grip, and suspense building up; a sort of acupuncture of the soul, and an escape route away from the torments of the flesh. Probably also Mahler’s words, he assumed… Something that applied to all music, in fact; but nowhere else was it so clear and so painfully beautiful as in Penderecki.
And it was in this space, under this dome of cruel clarity that he drove the two hundred kilometres from Stamberg back to Sorbinowo.
And in that space that he solved the remaining questions in the Waldingen case.
This case that had been going on for two weeks now. No matter how he calculated this never-ending period, filled with evil, it was no more than fourteen days since he had stood in the car park and gazed out over the idyllic summer vista and the dark, glittering water.
Two weeks.
Two raped and murdered young girls. A priest beaten to death.
A burned-down church and a sect in meltdown.
That was the gist of it.
The yield of his final case. A pretty good conclusion, he thought. No doubt about that.
And the solution, what could you say about that? It had come to him via a mundane telephone directory. Thanks to an extremely trivial misspelling. The familiar old thought about lines and patterns and tuning in to existential processes felt so straightforward that he didn’t even bother to keep it in mind.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, he thought. At least one difference between real life and a game of chess.
No, better to try to anticipate what would happen in a few hours’ time, and to concentrate on what remained to be done. The conclusion. Confronting the guilty people with what they were accused of. Making them give in and confess. Make them face up to the overwhelming proof, and watch them break down.
The last verse. The checkmate manoeuvre.
In the lowest possible number of moves.
Needless to say he was tempted to leave this to the others, but it was his duty, he knew that. That as well.
Patterns as patterns.
He allowed himself only a five-minute stop on the way back to Sorbinowo, and when he finally walked through the door into Grimm’s Hotel after an absence of four days, it was no more than half past midnight. He asked to check the hotel ledger, and five minutes later he knocked on the door of Reinhart’s room with two beers in each hand.
Two light and two dark.
For the first time since that afternoon in the boat he felt the stimulus. That tingling feeling in his groin and thighs, and he knew that the time had come once more. Time to come to terms with it.
After watching a rather insipid action thriller on the television, he went to bed around midnight, tried to masturbate himself to sleep, but wasn’t up to it. Lay awake for a few hours, waiting while the urge grew stronger and stronger and eventually dominated more or less every nook and cranny of his being. The compulsion. That evil instinct.
In the end he got out of bed. It was only just starting to get light, and he hesitated for a moment. Stared out of the window at the narrow bands of red over the forest to the east. Thought about the girls. About their outspread legs and fluffy cunts. Their naked helplessness. Then he dressed, checked to make sure he had the condoms in his breast pocket – the little extra pleasure he derived from rolling them into place was not to be scoffed at. He smiled at his indistinct reflection in the mirror, tiptoed down the stairs and out through the kitchen door.
Fetched his bicycle from the shed. Checked the tyre pressure and secured the rubber baton to the luggage carrier. Set off.
It took him twenty minutes to get to the main road. The regular pedalling sparked off an impulse that aroused images in his mind’s eye of what was in store, overpowering and with no room for mercy.
No room for mercy. The black rubber baton that forced its way in and opened up the way. Their smoothly resilient skin. So smooth and so magnificently resilient. The hole, that hole. The pleasure that passeth all understanding. The wild terror in their eyes before he extinguished the sparkle. Extinguished it for ever.
Powerful images. Irresistible images. He checked his watch. Only half past three. He would have to lie down in the forest and wait for a few hours, but that didn’t seem much of a problem. The main point was that the time had come once more. That before long – before the day that was just breaking had come to a close – he would meet another one… Fair hair: he hoped that she would have long, fair hair this time. Yes indeed, if circumstances dictated that he would have a choice, that’s the one he would select.
He pedalled away, and listened to the rhythm that welled up inside him.
37
There were three cars.
Van Veeteren, Reinhart and Kluuge were in the first one. Then came Tolltse and Lauremaa, with Jung and Servinus bringing up the rear. At his own request Suijderbeck stayed behind in the police station; obviously it was not a bad idea to have some back-up there. In case something went wrong – it had happened before.
They set off at exactly a quarter to four, when the first signs of dawn were no more than a faint hint over the string of lakes and the sleeping forests. Waking everybody up, assembling and bringing them all up to date had taken a fair amount of time; the chief inspector had reported, elaborated and explained at a leisurely pace, but once the truth had sunk in everybody agreed that there was no real reason to wait until a new day had dawned.