‘Didn’t he come home last night, then?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
She came up on deck and peered at Bonger’s boat.
‘No lights, no smoke,’ she said. ‘That means he’s not in, as I explained yesterday. Anything else you want to know?’
‘Does he often go away?’
She shrugged.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, he isn’t often away for more than an hour or two. Why do you want to find him?’
‘Routine enquiries,’ said Jung.
‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ said the woman. ‘I’m not an idiot, you know.’
‘We just want to ask him a few questions.’
‘What about?’
‘You don’t seem to be too fond of the police,’ said Jung.
‘Too right I’m not,’ said the woman.
Jung thought for a moment.
‘It’s about a death,’ he explained. ‘One of Bonger’s friends has been murdered. We think Bonger might have some information that could be useful for us.’
‘Murder?’ said the woman.
‘Yes,’ said Jung. ‘Pretty brutal. With something like that.’
He pointed at the carving knife. The woman frowned slightly, no more.
‘What’s your name, by the way?’ Jung asked, taking a notebook out of his pocket.
‘Jümpers,’ said the woman reluctantly. ‘Elizabeth Jümpers. And when is this murder supposed to have taken place?’
‘On Saturday night,’ said Jung. ‘In fact herr Bonger is one of the last people to have seen the victim alive. Waldemar Leverkuhn. Perhaps you know him?’
‘Leverkuhn? No… I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Do you know of any relatives or friends he might be staying with? Bonger, that is.’
She thought for a moment then shook her head slowly.
‘No, I don’t think so. He’s a pretty solitary character.’
‘Does he often have visitors on his boat?’
‘Never. At least, I’ve never seen any.’
Jung sighed.
‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘I expect he’ll turn up. If you see him, could you please tell him we’ve been looking for him. It would be good if he could contact us as soon as possible. He can ring at any time.’
He handed her a business card. The woman put the knife down, took the card and put it in her back pocket.
‘Anyway, thank you for your help,’ said Jung.
‘You’re welcome,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll tell him.’
Jung hesitated.
‘Is it a good life, living on a boat like this?’ he asked.
The woman snorted.
‘Is it a good life, being a detective inspector like you?’ she asked.
Jung gave her a quarter of a smile, and took his leave.
‘Good luck with the stew!’ he shouted as he passed by Bonger’s boat, but she had already gone inside.
Not an easy person to make contact with, he thought as he clambered into his car.
But with a heart of gold under that rough exterior, perhaps?
Being a detective inspector like you?
A good question, no doubt about that. He decided not to consider it in any detail. Checked his watch instead, and realized he would be hard pressed to get to the update meeting in time.
7
It was in fact true that Emmeline von Post had been a colleague of Marie-Louise Leverkuhn’s for twenty-five years.
And it was also true that they had known each other for nearly fifty. That they had never really lost contact since they left Boring’s Commercial and Office College at the end of the 1940s. Despite getting married, having children, moving house and all the other things.
But it was hardly true to say that fru von Post counted fru Leverkuhn among her very best friends – something the latter might well have claimed, had she been asked. What was true was that since Edward von Post died of cancer four years ago, the two women had socialized much more than they had previously done: they met two Saturdays every month, alternating between Kolderweg in the town centre, and the terraced house out at Bossingen – but in reality, well… something vital was missing. And Emmeline von Post knew exactly what it was. That important little ingredient, that dimension of trust, open-heartedness and jokey exchanges; that simple and yet difficult element that she so eagerly and painlessly developed when she was with two or three other close friends, all of them in the prime of life it has to be said. But this… this dimension was simply never present when she was together with Marie-Louise Leverkuhn.
That was simply the way it was. Unfortunately and regrettably. It was difficult to say why, but there was no doubt a limit to their intimacy – she had thought about it many times – an invisible line that they were careful not to cross. On the few occasions when she happened to cross it even so, she could immediately see the effect by her friend’s reaction. A reserved shaking of the head. Tightly pinched lips, raised shoulders… Even a negative silence. When she thought about it she realized that it had been that way from the very beginning – it was not something that had developed over the years. Perhaps the fact of the matter was (Emmeline used to think in moments of philosophical perspicacity) that the relationship between people was established and written in stone during the very first contacts, the earliest meetings, and there was not much one could do about it afterwards.
Just as it said in that American investigation she had received from her book club a year or so ago.
Not that she herself was especially keen to pass on intimate details about her husband and children and their private life, of course not; but nevertheless, most people seemed to be rather more willing than Marie-Louise Leverkuhn to lift the veil of secrecy, even if only a tiny little bit.
However, that’s the way it was. Marie-Louise simply wasn’t the confiding type, and of course there were other worthwhile aspects of life: they had no difficulty in talking about their aches and pains, their medication, and their recipes for rhubarb pie. About colleagues, television personalities and the price of vegetables; but their really private lives remained exactly that: private.
The fact that Emmeline von Post had rushed over to help out in a catastrophic situation like this one was naturally due to the fact that there was no one else. She knew that. For Marie-Louise Leverkuhn, just as she had explained to the police, she was the faithful friend who would do whatever she could to help, no matter what the weather.
The loyal and only friend.
So there was no need to hesitate.
Not much was said during the drive to the Sunday-sleepy suburb. Marie-Louise Leverkuhn sat hunched up, her handbag on her knee, staring out through the side windows at the pouring rain, and seeming to be in a state of shock. Her shoulders were raised up – as if to shield her from the hard and far too intrusive world outside – and all Emmeline’s questions were answered with at best a slight movement of the head or a monosyllabic yes or no.
‘Have you slept at all?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to phone your children?’
No answer.
Oh dear, Emmeline thought. She’s not well at all.
Hardly surprising. Murdered? Waldemar Leverkuhn murdered? Emmeline shuddered. Who on earth could have imagined such a thing? An old fart like that.
For a few minutes she said nothing, concentrating on her driving and trying to imagine what it must feel like to come home and find your husband manhandled like that. Dead. Murdered and wallowing in his own blood, as they had put it on the radio. A carving knife!
After a while she gave up the attempt to imagine it. It was simply too much to ask.
Much too much. Emmeline peered cautiously from the side at her motionless friend. Poor Marie-Louise, she thought, I promise to take care of you! You’re bound to be in shock and confused; the main thing is to get a few tablets down you and then tuck you up in bed. I hope I have the strength.
When the police rang that morning her first and immediate reaction had been to rush and do what she could for her friend; but it was only now, as she sat here with the silent widow beside her in the car, that she began to realize what was involved.