“What?” wondered Rooth.
“You’re accusing somebody else in the village of murder.”
Nobody spoke, and Münster could see exactly how long it took for Reinhart’s words to sink into each one of them.
“But that’s not certain,” said Rooth.
“No,” said Reinhart. “Of course it’s not certain that there’s another murderer in the village, but it’s shit-hot certain that the thought will occur to people. Suspicion. If you keep your mouth shut, you’re not going to put your foot in it.”
“Very true,” said Moreno.
“Well,” said Münster when he had switched off the tape recorder and the others had left them alone. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think anything,” sighed Rooth. “Or rather, I think anything’s possible. I’d give a lot for a couple of hot tips at this stage. What the hell should we be concentrating on?”
“I don’t know,” said Münster. “I have the feeling Hiller will want to take several officers off the case. It’ll probably be just you and me from now on. And the boss, of course.”
He nodded toward the tape recorder.
“Unless we come across something vital,” said Rooth.
“Unless the newspapers decide to make a meal of it, more likely,” said Münster. “They’ll have the story tomorrow, in any case. Maybe that’s just as well. We need all the help we can get.”
“What do you really think yourself?” said Rooth before they went their separate ways in the underground car park. “Do you really think there’s a triple murderer on the loose in this backwater? That sounds to me like a damn awful film.”
“It wouldn’t be a better film even if the locals knew who it is,” said Münster. “No, I think I’d switch it off right away.”
Rooth pondered.
“Maybe we are sort of sitting in a movie theater, as well,” he said. “It can be damn hard getting out if you’re stuck in the middle of a row.”
“Dead right,” said Münster.
They stood in silence for a while.
“How about a beer?” said Roth.
Münster checked his watch.
“No time,” he said. “I have to visit the patient. They won’t let me in after eight.”
“Pity,” said Rooth, and shrugged. “Pass on greetings. I reckon we could do with him around.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Münster.
Why do I keep lying? Münster asked himself as he sat in the car on the way to his suburb. Why couldn’t I have simply told him straight up that I wanted to go home to Synn and the kids? Why did I have to drag in the chief inspector?
Van Veeteren would get his tape after breakfast the next morning, as they had agreed. But if he didn’t want to offend Rooth by turning down his offer of a drink, why should some old cop recovering from an operation be a better excuse than his wife and children?
A good question, no doubt about it.
He decided to think about something else instead.
26
Van Veeteren folded up the Allgemenje and dropped it on the concrete floor. Then he inserted the cassette, adjusted the earphones and leaned back against the pillow.
Elgar’s cello concerto. The sun in his face and a warm breeze. Could be worse.
It wasn’t exactly normal routine to allow patients to lie out on the balcony and enjoy themselves, he had realized that. On the other hand, it was hardly the only rule the hospital staff had broken during the five days he’d been in their care. The hospital rules left a great deal to be desired in every respect, but at least the staff had begun to grasp who they were dealing with. Modified rapture.
“But no more than half an hour at most,” Sister Terhovian had insisted, and for some reason held up four fingers close to his face.
“We’ll see about that,” he’d responded.
Getting on for three quarters of an hour must have passed by now. Presumably they’d discovered that it was less trouble to let him be outside.
He called up from his memory the stuff he’d just been reading. There wasn’t a lot to say about it, in fact. Bold headlines on the front page, of course, and two columns summarizing the case on an inside page, but surprisingly little in the way of speculation. Nothing at all, to be honest.
So this was the fourth time. No getting away from it. Since Verhaven had launched his career as an athlete in his early twenties, he’d taken over the headlines on four different occasions.
As king of the middle distances at the end of the fifties. King, and then cheat.
As a murderer at the beginning of the sixties.
As a murderer once again about twenty years later.
And now, in the middle of the nineties, as a victim. The last time, it seemed reasonable to assume.
Was this a logical development and an expected conclusion? Van Veeteren wondered as he turned up the volume to exclude the noise of the buses in Palitzerlaan down below.
The logical conclusion of a wasted life?
Hard to say.
What pattern could be applied to Leopold Verhaven’s time on earth? Was there any pattern behind this bizarre and complicated human destiny?
Would it be possible, Van Veeteren asked himself, to make a film about his life, and thereby say something fundamental about his existence? About everybody’s existence? That was a good question, in any case. A good yardstick.
Or was it just a matter of unfortunate circumstances piling up, one on top of the other? A dismal and ill-starred destiny of an unusual person under pressure, whose mutilated end was just as pointless as the rest of his days in this world?
Not the sort of life to make a film about?
He bit a toothpick and continued his line of thought.
Shouldn’t it be possible to re-create any given life in some artistic form or other, if a big enough effort was made? Perhaps there was a specific genre for every individual. What about his own life, for instance? What could be made of that? A sinfonietta, perhaps? A concrete sculpture? Could Strindberg have turned it into half a sheet of paper?
Who knows, he thought.
And now here he was, lying on the balcony, asking these pointless questions again. Pretentious and incomprehensible questions that seemed to be whirring around inside his head only in order to mount a vain and idiotic struggle with the aggressive cello.
Much better would be a beer and a cigarette, he thought, and pressed the white button. A damn sight better.
But instead of Sister Terhovian, it was Münster who appeared in the doorway. Van Veeteren switched off the cassette and removed the earphones.
“Everything OK?” asked Münster.
“What the devil do you mean? Isn’t it obvious that everything isn’t OK? I’m lying here miles from civilization, and I can’t do anything about it. Have you made any progress?”
“Not really,” said Münster. “It seems pretty good out here in the sunshine, no matter what.”
“Hot and sweaty,” said Van Veeteren. “I could do with a beer. Well?”
“What do you mean by ‘well’?”
“Have you brought the cassettes, for instance?”
“Of course. Both of them. I had a bit of trouble in finding the Gossec, needless to say, but they had it at Laudener’s.”
He produced the two cassettes from a plastic carrier bag and handed them to the chief inspector.
“The red one is from our update meeting.”
“Are you suggesting that I can’t tell the difference between a requiem and a gang of cops droning on and on?”
“No, I take it for granted that you can.”
“I’ve read what the Allgemenje has to say. What’s in the other rags?”
“The same, more or less,” said Münster.
“No speculation about motives?”
“No, not in the ones I’ve read, in any case.”
“Odd,” said Van Veeteren.
“Why?” said Münster.
“Ah well, it’ll come, no doubt. Anyway, I’m quite clear about the matter now. I read through the Marlene papers last night. I’ll wager he’s innocent on both accounts. Do you disagree?”