‘I took the twelve o’clock train. It leaves at 23.59, and is supposed to arrive at a quarter to one. But it was nearly two.’
‘And then what?’
‘Then I went home and found him.’
She shrugged, and fell silent. She still hadn’t raised her eyes. For a brief second Münster recalled a kitten that had been run over, which he’d found when he was ten or eleven. It was lying there, stuck to the asphalt in a pool of blood as he came cycling past, and it hadn’t raised its eyes either. It simply lay there, staring into the tall grass at the side of the road, waiting to die.
He wondered why that particular image had come back to him on this gloomy morning. It wasn’t fru Leverkuhn who was dying after all, it was her husband who was dead.
Murdered. Seventy-two years of age and he had met his killer, a killer who had found it safest to stab his knife into him between twenty and thirty times, making sure he would never again be able to get out of bed.
At some time between half past twelve and half past two, according to the preliminary forensic report which had been delivered shortly before Münster arrived at the police station.
A bit over the top, to be sure. One or two stabs would presumably have been enough. The loss of blood had been so great that for once it was justified to talk about bathing in his own blood. Apparently there was much more in the bed and on the floor than in the man’s body.
He eyed Marie-Louise Leverkuhn and waited for a few seconds.
‘And so you phoned the police straight away?’
‘Yes… er, no: I went outside for a bit first.’
‘Went outside? What on earth for?’
She shrugged once again.
‘I don’t know. I must have been in some sort of shock, I suppose… I think I was intending to walk to Entwick Plejn.’
‘Why did you want to go to Entwick Plejn?’
‘The police station. I was going to report it there… but then it dawned on me that it would be better to phone. I mean, it was late, and I supposed they would only be open there during office hours. Is that the case?’
‘I think so,’ said Münster. ‘What time did you get back?’
She thought for a moment.
‘Just after half past two, I suppose.’
Münster thumbed through his papers. That seemed to be right. The call had been recorded at 02.43.
‘I see here it says that the door wasn’t locked when you got home.’
‘No.’
‘Had somebody broken in?’
‘No. He sometimes forgot to lock it… or just didn’t bother.’
‘He seems to have been drinking quite heavily.’
She made no reply. Münster hesitated for a few moments.
‘Fru Leverkuhn,’ he said eventually, leaning forward over the desk and trying to fish her gaze up from the floor. ‘There is no doubt at all that your husband was murdered. Have you any idea who might have done it?’
‘No.’
‘Not the slightest little suspicion?… Somebody he might have fallen out with, or something of the sort?’
She shook her head ever so slightly.
‘Was anything missing from the flat? Apart from the knife, that is.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No trace of the killer?’
‘No.’
‘Was there anything at all that you noticed, that you think might be of significance?’
A shudder ran through her body, and she raised her eyes at last.
‘No, everything was the same as usual, everything… Oh, what am I saying? I mean…’
‘It’s okay, I understand,’ said Münster. ‘It’s as you said, you’ve had a nasty shock. We’ll have a break now. I think it would be best if you have a lie-down for a while. I’ll send for a lady officer to look after you.’
He closed his notebook and stood up. Beckoned fru Leverkuhn to accompany him and opened the door for her. As she passed by close to him, he noticed her smell for the first time.
Moth balls, unless he was much mistaken.
Rooth looked very much like how Münster felt.
‘Have you been at it for long?’
Rooth stirred his coffee with a pencil.
‘You can say that again,’ he said. ‘When I was a kid we used to have something called Sunday mornings. Where have they gone to?’
‘No idea,’ said Münster. ‘You’ve been there, I take it?’
‘For three hours,’ said Rooth. ‘I got there shortly after Krause. Spent an hour looking at the bloodbath, two hours interviewing the neighbours. Krause looked after the wife.’
‘So I heard,’ said Münster. ‘What did the neighbours have to say?’
‘Unanimous information,’ Rooth explained as he dug a sandwich out of a plastic bag on his desk. ‘Would you like one?’
Münster shook his head.
‘Unanimous information? What the hell does that mean?’
Rooth blew his nose.
‘There are only six flats in the house. One is empty. Three – including the Leverkuhns’ – are occupied by pensioners. Sixty-five upwards. A fat woman in her forties lives in the fourth, and a young couple in the last one. They were all at home last night and they all heard the same thing.’
‘You don’t say. What?’
‘The young couple screwing away. The sound insulation seems to be bad, and they don’t have the best bed in the world, apparently.’
‘Three hours?’ said Münster.
Rooth took a bite at his sandwich and frowned.
‘Yes, and they admit it. The stallion isn’t exactly a bloody athlete either, by the looks of him. But then, he’s black, of course. It sometimes makes you wonder…’
‘Are you telling me that these old folk were lying awake listening to sexual gymnastics all the time between eleven and two?’
‘Not all the time, they dozed off now and again. There’s only one couple, by the way. Van Ecks on the ground floor. He’s the caretaker. The others are on their own… Herr Engel and fröken Mathisen.’
‘I see,’ said Münster, thinking that information over. ‘But nobody heard anything from the Leverkuhns’ flat?’
‘Not even a fly’s fart,’ said Rooth, taking another bite. ‘Nobody noticed any visitors entering the premises, and nobody heard any suspicious sounds, apart from the screwing. But it seems that getting into the building is no problem. According to Van Eck you can open the outside door with a toothpick.’
Münster said nothing while Rooth finished off his sandwich.
‘What do you think?’ he asked in the end.
Rooth yawned.
‘Not a bloody thing,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit too tired to think. I assume somebody got in, stabbed the poor bastard to death, then left again. Or was sitting waiting for him when he came home. Take your pick.’
‘Twenty to thirty cuts?’ said Münster.
‘Two would have been enough,’ said Rooth. ‘A bloody madman, I assume.’
Münster stood up and walked over to the window. Forced apart a couple of slats in the Venetian blinds and peered out over the mist-covered town. It was nearly half past eight, but it was obvious that it was going to be one of those grey, rainy Sundays when it never became really light. One of those damp waiting rooms.
He let go of the blinds and turned round.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘Who the hell would want to stab to death a seventy-year-old man like this?’
Rooth said nothing.
‘What about the weapon?’
Rooth looked up from his coffee cup.
‘The only thing missing from the flat – according to the wife, at least – is a carving knife. Meusse says it could well have been that he used. The length seems to be about right, so that’s the assumption he’s making.’
‘Hm,’ said Münster. ‘What are you thinking of doing now, then?’
Rooth scratched his chin.
‘Going home and lying down for a bit. You are taking over as I understand it. I’ll be back on duty tomorrow if I’m still alive. There are a few people that need to be informed, by the way. I saved that for you. I hope you’ll forgive me, but you’re better at that kind of thing than I am. Besides, you can’t make phone calls like that at any old time in the morning.’