‘Exactly,’ said Rooth.
Hiller’s facial colour went down to plum.
‘What a bloody mess,’ he muttered. ‘Krause!’
Krause sat up straight.
‘Yes?’
‘Find out which prize idiot has written this drivel – I’ll be damned if they’re going to get away with it!’
‘Yes sir!’ said Krause.
‘Off you go, then!’ the chief of police roared, and Krause slunk out. Hiller sat down at the end of the table and switched off the overhead projector.
‘Moreover,’ he said, ‘we have too many people working on this case. Just a couple of you will be sufficient from now on. Münster!’
‘Yes?’ said Münster with a sigh.
‘You and Moreno will sort out Leverkuhn from now on. Use Krause as well, but only if it’s really necessary. Jung and Rooth will look after the rapes in Linzhuisen, and Heinemann – what were you working on last week?’
‘That Dellinger business,’ said Heinemann.
‘Continue with that,’ said Hiller. ‘I want reports from all of you by Friday.’
He stood up and would have been out of the room in two seconds if he hadn’t stumbled over Rooth’s briefcase.
‘Oops,’ said Rooth. ‘Sorry about that, but I think I need to have a quick word with Krause.’
He picked up his briefcase and hurried off, while the chief of police brushed off his neatly creased knee and muttered something incomprehensible.
‘Well, what do you think?’ said Münster as he and Moreno sat down in the canteen. ‘A memorable performance?’
‘There’s no doubt about the entertainment value,’ said Moreno. ‘It must be the first time for a month that I very nearly burst out laughing. What an incredible idiot!’
‘A boy scout, perhaps?’ said Münster, and she actually smiled.
‘Still, he says what he means,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t try to fool anybody. Shall we get down to work?’
‘That’s the idea, no doubt. Have you any good ideas?’
Moreno swirled her cup and analysed the coffee lees.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No good ones.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Münster. ‘So we’ll have to make do with bad ones for the time being. We could bring Palinski in, for instance?’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Moreno.
14
After two days out at Bossingen, Marie-Louise Leverkuhn returned to Kolderweg 17 on the Tuesday afternoon.
The children had been, commiserated and gone back home. Emmeline von Post had lamented and sympathized in every way possible, the heavens had wept more or less continuously. It was high time to return to reality and everyday life. It certainly was.
She began by scrubbing the blood-soaked room. She was unable to get rid of the blood that had penetrated the floorboards and walls, despite her best efforts with strong scouring-powder of various makes; nor was there much she could do about the stains on the woodwork of the bed – but then again, she didn’t need the bed any more. She dismantled it and dragged the whole caboodle out onto the landing for Arnold Van Eck to take care of. She then unrolled a large cowhair carpet that had been stored up in the attic for years and covered the floorboards. A couple of tapestries hanging quite low down took care of the wall.
After this hard labour she started going through her husband’s wardrobe: it was a time-consuming and rather delicate undertaking. She didn’t like doing it, but she had no choice. Some stuff ended up in the dustbin, some in the laundry basket, but most of it was put into suitcases and plastic sacks for taking to the charity shop in Windemeerstraat.
When this task was more or less taken care of, there was a ring on the doorbell. It was fru Van Eck, inviting her down for coffee and cake.
Marie-Louise hesitated at first. She had never been on particularly good terms with the caretaker’s wife, but fru Van Eck was insistent and in the end she heaved the sack she had just finished filling into the wardrobe, and accepted the invitation.
Life must go on after all, she thought, somewhat confused.
‘Life must go on,’ said fru Van Eck five minutes later as her husband sliced up the cake with raspberries and blackberries. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad,’ said Marie-Louise. ‘It takes time to get used to things.’
‘I can well imagine that,’ said fru Van Eck, eyeing Arnold for a few seconds with a thoughtful expression on her face.
‘By the way, there was one thing,’ she said eventually. ‘Arnold, will you leave us alone for a minute or two, please. Go and buy a football pools coupon or something, but take that apron off!’
Arnold bowed discreetly and left the ladies alone in the kitchen.
‘There’s one thing I didn’t mention when the police were here,’ said fru Van Eck when she heard the flat door close.
Marie-Louise said nothing, merely stirred her cup of coffee, didn’t look up.
‘I thought perhaps we could discuss it and agree on what line we should take. Do help yourself to a slice of cake. Arnold baked it himself.’
Marie-Louise shrugged, and took a slice.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ she said.
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Rooth as he left Krause’s office. ‘I’ll make sure you get two tickets.’
As he went through the door he found himself confronted by Joensuu and Kellerman, who were steering Adolf Bosch along the corridor. After a search lasting a day and a half, they had eventually found him in a dodgy bar in the block just below the customs station. Rooth turned his nose up and squeezed past. There was a smell of old sweat and drunkenness surrounding the man: Krause immediately ushered him towards the PVC-covered sofa next to the door, and the constables used all their strength to force him to sit down on it.
‘Ouch,’ said Bosch.
‘Shut your trap,’ said Kellerman. ‘That was far from easy, believe you me.’
‘The bastard started pissing in the car,’ said Joensuu.
‘Well done,’ said Krause. ‘You can go now.’
Joensuu and Kellerman left and Krause closed the door. Bosch had already lain down on the short sofa, with his knees raised and his head on the arm rest. Krause sat down at his desk and waited.
‘I don’t feel very well,’ said Bosch after half a minute.
‘You never have done,’ said Krause. ‘Stop putting it on, you know what’s what. If we want we can have you locked away for eighteen months… Unless you tell me a thing or two about certain unpleasant characters. Sit up!’
Bosch was a grass. Or an informer, as he preferred to call himself. A good-for-nothing drop-out in any case – but with just the acute lack of backbone and civil courage required for the role. Krause observed him in disgust. He had always found it difficult to accept this form of cooperation. Bosch was constantly being admitted to various clinics and institutions for detoxification and reform: nobody seriously thought he would live to be much older than the forty-five he had managed to achieve so far – but despite everything, asking him to find out information often produced results. Much more often than one would have expected.
‘When it comes to crooks, you can always rely on Adolf Bosch to stir up the shit,’ Van Veeteren used to say. ‘But never give him more than three days – he has no concept of time any longer than that.’
The threat of being locked away and reprisals from the underworld made him sit up half-straight. His eyes looked shifty and he scratched away at his armpits.
‘Are you listening?’ said Krause.
‘Any chance of a fag, boss?’
Krause took a packet out of the desk drawer where it was kept for this kind of purpose, and handed it over.
‘You can have what’s left, but wait until you’ve left the building.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bosch, taking tight hold of the packet.
‘It’s in connection with a murder,’ said Krause. ‘That pensioner in Kolderweg. Have you heard about it?’
Bosch nodded.
‘But I’ve no idea who did it. I swear…’