‘Yes.’
‘And switched the light on?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you react when you saw what had happened?’
She paused. Sat in silence again for a few seconds, then sat up straight and cleared her throat.
‘I stood there and felt like throwing up,’ she said. ‘It sort of came in waves, but then it stopped. So I went back out to report it.’
‘You set off for Entwick Pleijn?’
‘Yes, I’ve told you already.’
‘Were there many other people about?’
She shook her head.
‘I don’t remember. I don’t think so. It was raining.’
‘Did you go all the way to the police station?’
She thought that over again.
‘No. There were no lights in the windows, I could see that from the other side of the square.’
‘And so you turned back?’
‘Yes.’
‘And went the same way back home?’
‘Yes.’
Münster paused.
‘Shall I tell you something odd, fru Leverkuhn?’ he said.
She didn’t answer.
‘You say you walked nearly two kilometres through the town, and so far not a single witness has come forward to say they saw you. What do you say to that? I mean, the streets were not completely deserted.’
No reply. Münster waited for half a minute.
‘It’s not the case that you’re lying, is it, fru Leverkuhn?’
She looked up and stared at him with mild contempt.
‘Why on earth should I be telling lies?’
To save your own skin, for instance, Münster thought; but that was naturally an extremely dodgy thought, and he kept it to himself.
‘Had he fallen out with any of those old friends?’ he asked instead.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘With herr Bonger, for instance?’
‘I don’t even know which is which of them.’
‘Have they never visited your flat?’
‘Never.’
‘But you knew that they had won some money, I take it?’
He had been leading up to that question for some considerable time, but it was difficult to draw any conclusions from her reaction.
‘Money?’ was all she said.
‘Twenty thousand,’ said Münster.
‘Each?’ she asked.
‘All together,’ said Münster. ‘Five thousand each. But that’s still quite a lot.’
She shook her head slowly.
‘He never mentioned that,’ she said.
Münster nodded.
‘And you still haven’t noticed anything missing from the flat? Apart from the knife, that is.’
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No… Mind you, I haven’t seen any trace of five thousand.’
‘They haven’t collected the money yet,’ said Münster.
‘That would explain it,’ said fru Leverkuhn.
Münster sighed. He could feel weariness creeping up on him, and suddenly – in no more than one second – the pointlessness of it all took possession of him. He suddenly felt that he could see right through this old woman’s vacant face, like looking through a pane of glass; and what he saw was a cul de sac, with himself standing there, staring at a brick wall. From half a metre away. With his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped in despair. In some strange way he was able to look at his own back and the brick wall at the same time. Filthy bricks covered in faded graffiti, and a smell of eternal, acid rain. It was not a pleasant picture of the situation. Not pleasant at all. I’d better retrace my steps, he thought, and blinked a few times in order to come into contact with reality again.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t any more questions for the moment, but I’d still like you to keep thinking, fru Leverkuhn. Even the tiniest insignificant detail might help us to get on the right track.’
‘I want you to leave me in peace.’
‘We want to find your husband’s murderer, fru Leverkuhn. And we shall find him.’
For a moment he thought she looked more than acceptably doubtful, and it was probably that – together with the increasing feeling of gravelliness behind his eyes – that made him raise his voice.
‘We intend to find the murderer, fru Leverkuhn, you can be absolutely bloody certain of that!’
She looked at him in surprise. Then rose to her feet.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Not for the moment,’ said Münster.
The rest of Wednesday passed by in more or less the same tone. Bonger’s canal boat was as deserted as ever, testimony from people who had been out and about on Saturday night was conspicuous by its absence, and the only response from the so-called underworld came from an anonymous source, urging the police to stop rummaging around in the wrong pile of dirty laundry.
Tell us which pile of dirty laundry is the right one, then! Münster thought, aggressively.
He purposely avoided contacting Inspector Moreno, and while he was struggling with an unusually unpalatable lunchtime pasta in the canteen, Krause informed him that she had phoned in earlier that morning and reported sick. At first Münster was relieved to hear that, but then he was filled with a degree of uncertainty that he dare not analyse too closely. The dream he had experienced the previous night was still hovering in the back of his mind – like an X-rated film he had watched by mistake – and he knew that it wasn’t there purely by chance.
He spent the whole afternoon in his office, reading through all the reports and minutes connected with the case that had accumulated already, without becoming much the wiser.
The case of Waldemar Leverkuhn?
That’s the way it is, was how he summed it up in resignation as he left the police station at half past four. For some unknown reason, an unknown perpetrator (man? woman?) had killed a harmless pensioner – in the most bestial fashion imaginable. Four days had passed since the murder, and they were still nowhere near a solution.
Another elderly man had disappeared that same night, and the police knew just as much about that as well.
Nothing.
Yet again – he had lost count of how many times it had happened these last few days – some wise words from Van Veeteren came into his head.
Police work is like life, the chief inspector had announced over a Friday beer at Adenaar’s a few years ago. Ninety-five per cent of it is wasted.
Wasn’t it about time they had got round to that last five per cent? Intendent Münster asked himself as he worked his way up through the labyrinth that formed the exit from the underground garage at the police station. Shouldn’t the breakthrough be due any time now?
Or was it the case, it struck him as he emerged into Baderstraat, that those gloomy words of wisdom from Van Veeteren were a sort of nudge, encouraging him to call in at Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop?
To pay a visit to the chief inspector?
It was a bold thought, of course – probably the only one that had struck him all day – and he decided to leave it in the back of his mind for the moment, and see how it grew.
Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and began to long for Synn and the children.
TWO
17
‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Krause, furrowing his brow.
He noted down the name and telephone number. Chewed at his pencil. There was something about this…
‘Address?’
He wrote that down as well and stared at it.
Surely it was…?
No doubt about it. He asked, and had his suspicions confirmed. Could hear how his voice was becoming rather excited, and tried to cough it away. Said thank you for the call and promised that somebody would be there within half an hour. Replaced the receiver.
My God! he thought. What the hell can this mean?
He dialled Münster’s number. Engaged.
Moreno. No reply.
Van Eck? Surely it can’t be a coincidence, he thought as he rose to his feet.
Münster beckoned him to come in as he continued talking on the telephone. Judging by the expression on his face, it must be Hiller at the other end of the line. Krause nodded to Moreno, who was sitting on one of the visitor chairs, leafing through a sheaf of papers.