At the moment of death Leverkuhn had been wearing a white shirt, tie, underpants, trousers and one sock, and the alcohol content in his blood had been 1.76 per thousand.
No weapon had been recovered, but there was no doubt that it must have been a large knife with a blade about twenty centimetres long – possibly identical with the carving knife reported missing by fru Leverkuhn.
No fingerprints or any other clues had been found at the scene of the crime, but chemical analysis of textile fibres and other particles had yet to be carried out.
All this was carefully noted on two densely typed pages, and Münster read through it twice.
Then he phoned Synn and spoke to her for ten minutes.
Then he put his feet up on his desk.
Then he closed his eyes and tried to work out what Van Veeteren would have done in a situation like this.
That did not take very long to work out. He rang down to the duty officer and announced that he would like to see Inspector Jung and Inspector Moreno in his office at four o’clock.
Then he took the lift down to the basement and spent the next two hours in the sauna.
‘Nice weather today,’ said Jung.
‘We had sun yesterday,’ Münster pointed out.
‘I’m serious,’ said Jung. ‘I like these curtains of rain. The grey all around you sort of makes you want to look inside yourself instead. At the essentials of life, if you follow me… The internal landscape.’
Moreno frowned.
‘Sometimes, you know,’ she said, ‘sometimes an unassuming colleague can say things that are very sensible. Have you been on a course?’
‘The university of life,’ said Jung. ‘Who’s going to kick off?’
‘Ladies first,’ said Münster. ‘But I agree with you. There’s something special about black, wet tree trunks… But perhaps we ought to discuss that another day.’
Ewa Moreno opened her notebook and started things going.
‘Benjamin Wauters,’ she said. ‘Born 1925 in Frigge. Lived in Maardam since 1980. All over the place before that. He’s worked on the railways all his life – until he retired, that is. Confirmed bachelor… No relations at all – none that he wants to acknowledge, at least. Suffers from verbal diarrhoea, to be honest. Loquacious and lonely. The other old codgers he meets at Freddy’s are the only company he keeps, apart from his cat. Half angora, I think. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so well groomed. I had the impression that they take their meals together. A very neat and tidy flat as well. Flowers on the window ledges and all that.’
‘What about last night?’ Münster interjected.
‘He didn’t have much to say about that,’ said Moreno. ‘Apparently they had a decent meal for once – they usually spend their time in the bar. They got a bit drunk, he admitted that. Leverkuhn fell under the table, and so they thought they ought to accept a walkover – that’s the way he put it. He’s sport mad, and a gambler, he made no attempt to conceal that. Anyway, that’s about it: but it took two hours with coffee and all his dirty jokes.’
‘No views about the murder?’
‘No views he’d thought through,’ said Moreno. ‘He was sure it must have been a madman, and pure coincidence. Nobody had any reason to bump Leverkuhn off, he maintained. A good mate and a real brick, even if he could be a bit cussed at times. To tell you the truth I tend to agree with him. At any rate it seems out of the question that any of these old codgers could have had anything to do with the murder.’
‘I agree,’ said Jung, and recapitulated his meeting with Palinski and his visit to Bonger’s canal boat.
Münster sighed.
‘A complete blank, then,’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose that was only to be expected.’
‘Were the doors unlocked, then?’ Jung asked. ‘At the Leverkuhns’, I mean.’
‘Apparently.’
‘So we only need some junkie as high as a kite to go past, sneak inside and find a poor old buffer fast asleep that he can take his revenge on. Then sneak out again the same way as he came in. Dead easy, don’t you think?’
‘Good thinking,’ said Moreno. ‘But how are we going to find him?’
Münster thought for a moment.
‘If that’s the answer,’ he said, ‘we’ll never find him.’
‘Unless he starts talking out of turn,’ said Jung. ‘And somebody is kind enough to tip us off.’
Münster sat in silence for a few seconds again, eyeing his colleagues one after the other.
‘Do you really think this is what happened?’
Jung shrugged and yawned. Moreno looked doubtful.
‘It’s very possible,’ she said. ‘As long as we don’t have the slightest hint of a motive, that could well be the answer. And nothing had been stolen from the flat – apart from that knife.’
‘You don’t need to have a motive for killing anybody nowadays,’ said Jung. ‘All that’s needed is for you to feel a bit annoyed, or to think you’ve been slighted for one reason or another, and that gives you the green light to go ahead and throw your weight around. Would you like a few examples?’
‘No thank you,’ said Münster. ‘Motives are beginning to be a bit old-fashioned.’
He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. Moreno’s digital wristwatch produced a mournful chirruping sound.
‘Five o’clock,’ she said. ‘Was there anything else?’
Münster leafed through the documents on his desk.
‘I don’t think so… Hang on, though: did any of the old boys say anything about having won some money?’
Moreno looked at Jung and shook her head.
‘No,’ said Jung. ‘Why?’
‘Well, the people at Freddy’s had the impression that they were celebrating something last night, but I suppose they were just guessing. This fourth character… Bonger: we’d better make sure we find him, no matter what?’
Jung nodded.
‘I’ll call in on him again on the way home,’ he said. ‘Otherwise it’ll be tomorrow. He doesn’t have a telephone; we’d have to contact him via his neighbour. Just think that there are still people like that about.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Moreno.
‘People without a phone. In this day and age.’
Münster stood up.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Thank you for this Sunday. Let’s cross our fingers and hope that somebody confesses tomorrow morning.’
‘Yes, let’s hope,’ said Jung. ‘But I very much doubt if somebody who bumps off a poor old buffer the way that was done is going to start being bothered by pangs of conscience. Let’s face it, this is not a very pleasant story.’
‘Very nasty,’ said Moreno. ‘As usual.’
On the way home Münster called in at the scene of the crime in Kolderweg. As he was the one in charge of the investigation, for the moment at least, it was of course about time he did so. He stayed for ten minutes and wandered around the little three-roomed flat. It looked more or less as he had imagined it. Quite run-down, but comparatively neat and tidy. A hotchpotch of bad taste on the walls, furniture of the cheap fifties and sixties style. Separate bedrooms, bookcases with no books, and an awful lot of dried blood in and around Leverkuhn’s sagging bed. The body had been taken away, as had the bedlinen: Münster was grateful for that. It would have been more than enough to examine the photographs during the course of the morning.
And of course, what Moreno had said described the scene of the crime exactly.
Very nasty.
When he finally came home he could see that Synn had been crying.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, hugging her as gently as if she were made of dreams.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just don’t want life to be like this. We get up in the mornings and get ready for work, and send the children off to school. We see each other again after it’s dark, we eat and we go to sleep. It’s the same all week long… I know it has to be like this just at the moment, but what if we were to snuff it a month from now? Or even six months? It’s not what it should be like for human beings, there ought to be time to live as well.’