“Thank you,” said Münster. “We’ve found a dead body in some woods not far from here, and it seems possible that it might be Pierre Kohler, who was reported missing in August last year.”
“Why should it be him?” the woman wondered, tightening the belt of her robe.
“Well, we don’t know for certain, of course,” said Münster. “We’re just checking everybody who’s been reported missing. The age seems to fit, and his height; but this is purely a routine check. There’s nothing else to suggest that it could be him.”
Why am I being so polite to this damned bitch? he wondered. It’s obvious I should have clamped down on her right from the start.
“Well?” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“There is one detail,” said Münster.
“One detail?”
“Yes, something that will enable us to make a positive identification. You see, the body we found didn’t have a head. That’s what’s making it so difficult for us to establish who it is.”
“You don’t say?”
A man had appeared in the hall behind her. Nodded brusquely at Münster and put his hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“What kind of a detail?” he asked.
“Er,” said Münster. “Well, our victim is missing a testicle. Presumably it was operated on some considerable time ago. Do you happen to know…?”
The man started coughing, and Münster broke off. When the attack was over, Münster realized that it had been more of an outburst of laughter. He was grinning. The woman as well.
“Well, mister fucking chief of police,” said the man, hammering his clenched fist against his forehead. “This is my head. If you want to count my balls, you’d better step inside. My name is Pierre Kohler.”
Why the hell didn’t I telephone instead? thought Münster.
When he’d got back home and read the bedtime stories for the kids, Rooth rang.
“How did you get on?” he asked.
“It’s not him,” said Münster. “He’s alive and kicking. They’d forgotten to inform the police.”
“Oh dear,” said Rooth.
“What about yours?”
“Same thing, presumably,” sighed Rooth. “Doesn’t seem to be missing a testicle, in any case. Nor does his wife. The fact is, he’s probably done a runner.”
“Huh,” said Münster. “What do we do now, then?”
“I had a bright idea,” said Rooth. “About that butchery job. Either there must have been some kind of distinguishing feature on his hands or feet, or there might be a simpler explanation.”
“Simpler?” wondered Münster.
“Fingerprints,” said Rooth.
Münster thought for a moment.
“You don’t get rid of fingerprints by cutting a man’s feet off,” he said.
“True,” said Rooth. “But he probably did that to confuse us. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
Münster thought for another couple of seconds.
“Of course,” he said. “We’ve got his fingerprints. He’s on our crime register.”
“There’s a clever boy,” said Rooth. “Yes, we’ve got his fingerprints somewhere in the archives; I’ll bet my damned life on it. Do you know how many we have, by the way?”
“Three hundred thousand, I think,” said Münster.
“Just over, yes. Ah well, given the way things are we can’t pin him down that way, in any case, but at least it’s a lead. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, see you,” said Münster, putting the phone down.
“What’s keeping you so busy?” asked Synn when they had switched the light off and he’d put his left arm around her.
“Oh, nothing special,” said Münster. “We’re looking for an old lag who disappeared sometime last year, that’s all. He’s between fifty-five and sixty, and only has one testicle.”
“How fascinating,” said Synn. “How are you going to find him?”
“We have done already,” said Münster. “He’s dead, of course.”
“Ah,” said Synn. “I’m with you. Could you cuddle me a bit more tightly, please?”
8
It was true that Münster won all three sets, but there was no doubt that this was the closest match they had played for many a long year. The final scores were 15–10, 15–13, 15–12—not that anybody bothered to record them—and Van Veeteren had been leading for much of the time, in both the second and the final set. In the latter by as much as 12–8.
“If I hadn’t mishit that crappy serve, you’d have bitten the dust,” he maintained as they strolled back to the changing rooms. “I want you to be quite clear about that.”
“An unusually good game,” said Münster. “You seem to be on song.”
“On song!” snorted Van Veeteren. “I’m just going through the death throes. I shall be under the surgeon’s knife tomorrow, let me remind you.”
“Oh yes, so you will,” said Münster, as if it wasn’t a fact that everybody at the police station knew all about it. “When exactly will it happen?”
“I’ll go in this evening. The operation is set for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Ah well, it happens to all of us sooner or later.”
“An uncle of mine has had cancer of the intestine,” said Münster. “They’ve operated on him twice. He’s fighting fit now.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventy, I think,” said Münster.
Van Veeteren muttered something and flopped down on the bench.
“Let’s have a glass at Adenaar’s when we’ve been in the shower,” he said. “I want to hear about how you’re getting on.”
“OK,” said Münster. “I’ll have to ring Synn first, though.”
“By all means,” said Van Veeteren. “Give her my regards.”
He doesn’t think he’s going to pull through, Münster thought, and it occurred to him that he felt sorry for his boss. This was very definitely the first time ever, and it was a surprising feeling. He ducked under the shower and allowed the hot water to rinse away the smile it brought on.
But at Adenaar’s the detective chief inspector was his usual self again. He complained peevishly that there was water in his beer, and had his glass changed twice. Sent Münster to buy him some cigarettes. Knocked ash into the flowerpots.
“As I said, you’d better make the most of it while I’m still available. You’re not getting anywhere, I gather?”
Münster sighed, took a deep drink and started to explain the position.
No, he had to admit that Van Veeteren was quite right in his assumption. The unidentified body in Behren was still just as unidentified as ever. Two weeks had gone by, and they had made no progress.
Not that the effort being put in by everybody left anything to be desired; it was simply that it wasn’t producing any results. They had made several appeals, in the press, on the radio and on television. There was no doubt that the case fascinated the whole country, even if the interest of the mass media had waned after the first week. Every missing-person case nationwide (males between forty and seventy, just to cover the unlikely possibility that Meusse had made a mistake) had been investigated, but none of them tallied: If it wasn’t the testicle business, it was something else. Rooth had contacted several hospitals and established that between nine thousand and ten thousand men in that age group were missing one testicle, for one reason or another. Considerably more than one might have guessed, but it was virtually impossible to follow all of them up via case notes and similar data, not least because of the secrecy oath applying to the medical profession. Münster had also been in touch with three or four prison governors, but found that checks on prisoners’ genitalia was regrettably not a priority as far as looking after criminals was concerned.
“It seems pretty pointless bothering about prisons,” Münster said. “That business of fingerprints was only a guess, after all.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“What about the carpet?” he asked.
“Well,” said Münster, “we know quite a lot about it, of course. Do you want to hear it all?”