Better to strike while the iron is hot – both Reinhart and Van Veeteren were well aware what a few extra hours presented unnecessarily to a murderer might lead to. In the worst-case scenario.
And there were indications that this was a worst-case scenario.
They arrived at twenty minutes past four. A grey mist was slowly lifting over the lake, and the forest was filled with the sound of birds. They parked in a row on the narrow dirt road, and approached the house in close formation; the chief inspector belted twice on the door, but there was no sign of life.
He tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked, and as quietly as possible the whole group crept in and assembled in the pitch-black living room. Jung found a switch and turned on the light. The chief inspector nodded to Kluuge, and they set off together up the stairs.
They paused halfway up. A door opened on the upper floor and Mrs Fingher came towards them.
She was wearing slippers and a worn blue dressing gown, but displayed no obvious signs of having been woken up.
Van Veeteren nodded again at Kluuge.
‘Mrs Fingher,’ said Kluuge. ‘I’d like to arrest you on suspicion of having murdered Oscar Yellinek, and for…’
He lost the thread. Would like to? Reinhart thought.
‘… And for complicity in the murders of Clarissa Heerenmacht and Katarina Schwarz. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say may be used in evidence against you.’
Mrs Fingher stood still and hung on to the banister. A shudder passed over her roughly chiselled face, then she sank down onto the stair and buried her face in her hands. Five seconds passed.
‘It’s all over now,’ said Van Veeteren, holding out his hand.
She grasped it and he led her down to the living room. Sat her down on one of the upright armchairs and waited for a few more seconds. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s all over now.’
‘Where’s your son?’ Reinhart asked.
She gestured with her head towards the upper floor. Reinhart and Jung set off up the stairs and vanished into the darkness.
‘Why did you kill Oscar Yellinek?’ the chief inspector asked.
She took a deep breath.
‘I had to,’ she said.
‘Really?’ said the chief inspector.
‘He turned up.’
‘Turned up?’
She shuddered once again, but it didn’t seem to affect her adversely. The chief inspector realized that the border between her body and her mind was sealed off for the time being.
‘Yes, on the road. He turned up.’
‘Just after you had left Clarissa’s body by the aspen tree?’
She nodded.
‘Yes. I saw… I saw that he understood. He said as much. What else could I do?’
‘How did you go about it?’
‘The spade,’ she said. ‘I hit him with the spade. I’m sorry… I had… It was…’
But there was no follow-up. Instead, Reinhart appeared on the landing.
‘He’s not in his bed,’ he explained. ‘Where’s your son, Mrs Fingher?’
She looked up in surprise.
‘I don’t understand…’
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Mathias Fingher’s powerful bulk – in pale blue washed-out pyjamas – elbowed its way past Reinhart, with Jung in tow.
‘What the devil do you think-’
‘Sit down and shut up!’ said Van Veeteren, cutting him short. ‘We have come to arrest your son for the murder of two little girls, and your wife for the murder of Oscar Yellinek!’
‘What?’
‘Are you claiming that you knew nothing about it?’ snapped Reinhart. ‘You are also under suspicion of complicity and withholding information.’
For a moment it looked as if Mathias Fingher was about to faint. He swayed, but recovered his balance. Walked down the remaining stairs, looked round in confusion, and was then pushed down onto the striped sofa by Servinus.
‘What the hell…?’ he stammered. ‘There must be…’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Fingher without looking at her husband. ‘It’s… There just wasn’t any other way.’
‘Go to hell!’ bellowed Reinhart. ‘What have you done with your son?’
‘Well?’ said the chief inspector.
‘He must be asleep…’ said Mrs Fingher. ‘Why…?’
‘Are you saying you don’t know where he is?’
‘No, how…’
It didn’t take Van Veeteren many seconds to realize that her surprise was genuine.
‘Jung and Servinus!’ he said. ‘Search the upstairs rooms! Lauremaa and Tolltse, take Mrs Fingher to the car!’
‘But…’ said Mathias Fingher.
‘Let her get dressed first.’
The chief inspector shoved Servinus out of the way and sat down opposite Mr Fingher. Stared into his eyes from half a metre away.
‘Mr Fingher,’ he said. ‘It’s possible that you know nothing at all about any of this, in which case you’re in a goddamned awful situation. But the fact is that your son is a murderer and a rapist.’
Fingher opened and closed his mouth several times, and once again looked as if he were about to lose consciousness. His face was drained of colour, and his hands were shaking on his knee.
‘We have to get him. Where is he?’
‘I… I don’t know.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘It… Yesterday evening.’
‘He was watching a film on the telly,’ interrupted Mrs Fingher. ‘We went to bed earlier.’
‘And why isn’t he in his bed now?’
Mathias Fingher shook his enormous head.
‘He’s probably gone out,’ said Mrs Fingher and went to get dressed. Tolltse and Lauremaa followed close behind her. A few seconds of silence followed.
‘Gentlemen,’ burst out Mathias Fingher to break it. ‘Tell me you’re only joking! For Christ’s sake tell me you’re only joking!’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the chief inspector.
‘The missing bike!’ said Reinhart. ‘The bastard has gone off on his bike!’
The caravan was on its way back to base through the forest. In slightly different formation – the chief inspector, Reinhart and Jung in the first car. Tolltse, Lauremaa and Mrs Fingher in the second. Kluuge, Servinus and Mr Fingher in the third.
‘What should we do now?’ said Jung.
‘Issue a Wanted notice, of course!’ snorted Reinhart. ‘Get every damned police officer for miles around out of bed and set ’em on the bastard’s tail! On his bike!’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘Phone Suijderbeck immediately,’ he said. ‘It’s not five o’clock yet, but we can’t lose any more time. Yes, get that Wanted notice out in every single branch of the media that exists!’
Reinhart followed the chief inspector’s instructions, then stepped on the gas.
‘I feel awful,’ he said. ‘Fucking hell, I hate every second of this! We’re up the creek without a paddle again.’
Van Veeteren said nothing.
‘Do we have a picture?’ wondered Jung.
‘Hell’s bells,’ said Reinhart. ‘Of course we ought to…’
‘Przebuda,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘Eh?’ said Jung.
‘The local newspaper,’ the chief inspector explained. ‘They must have one. I’ll phone the editor and wake him up when we get to the station.’
Reinhart cleared his throat.
‘Do you think…?’ he began. ‘I mean, do you think he’s at it again?’
‘What do you think?’ said Van Veeteren.
For the rest of the journey all three of them remained immersed in their own silence.
38
Van Veeteren carried the tray in himself and placed it in front of Mirjan Fingher.
Tea. Juice. Sandwiches with cheese and cold sausage. He stepped back to close the door, then sat down on the other bunk.
‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘I have a few questions. I take it for granted that you will cooperate – there’s no point in making things even more difficult for yourself.’
She nodded and took a sip of tea. He watched her closely. Her powerfully built body seemed to have shrunk during the journey to Sorbinowo. It was noticeably smaller. As if her outer features were being eaten up from inside, he thought.