Or however you might prefer to express it.
He opened one reluctant eye and glared at the confounded contraption in a vain attempt to shut it up. It kept on ringing even so. Ring after ring carved its way through his dawn-gray bedroom.
He opened another eye. The clock on the aforementioned table indicated 7:55. Who in hell's name had the nerve to wake him up on a Saturday morning when he wasn't on duty he wondered. Who?
In January.
If there was a month he hated, it was January-it went on forever with rain or snow all day long, and a grand total of half an hour's sunshine.
There was only one sane way of occupying oneself at this lugubrious time of year: sleeping. Period.
He stretched out his left hand and lifted the receiver.
“Van Veeteren.”
“Good morning, Chief Inspector.”
It was Reinhart.
“Why the flaming hell are you ringing to wake me up at half past five on a Saturday morning? Are you out of your mind?”
But Reinhart sounded as incorruptible as a traffic warden.
“It's eight o'clock. If you don't want to be contacted, and refuse to buy an answering machine, you can always pull out the plug. If you'd like to listen, Chief Inspector, I can explain how you-”
“Shut up, Inspector! Get to the point!”
“By all means,” said Reinhart. “Dead body in Leufwens Allé. Stinks of murder. One Ryszard Malik. The briefing's at three o'clock.”
“Three?”
“Yes, three o'clock. What do you mean?”
“I can get from here to the police station in twenty minutes. You could have phoned me at twelve.”
Reinhart yawned.
“I was thinking of going to bed for a bit. I've just left there. Been at it since half past one… I thought you might like to go there and have a look for yourself.”
Van Veeteren leaned on his elbow and raised himself to a half-sitting position. Tried to see out through the window.
“What's the weather like?”
“Pouring down, and windy. Fifteen meters a second, or thereabouts.”
“Excellent. I'll stay at home. I suppose I might turn up at three, unless my horoscope advises me not to… Who's in charge now?”
“Heinemann and Jung. But Jung hasn't slept for two nights, so he'll probably need some rest soon.”
“Any clues?”
“No.”
“How did it happen?”
“Shot. But the briefing is at three o'clock, not now. I think it's a pretty peculiar setup. That's why I rang. The address is Leufwens Allé 14, in case you change your mind.”
“Fat chance,” said Van Veeteren, and hung up.
Needless to say it was impossible to go back to sleep. He gave up at a quarter to nine and went to lie down in the bath instead. Lay there in the half-light and thought back to the previous evening, which he'd spent at the Mephisto restaurant with Renate and Erich.
The former wife and the lost son. (Who had still not returned and didn't seem to have any intention of doing so.) It had been one of Renate's recurrent attempts to rehabilitate her guilty conscience and the family that had never existed, and the result was just as unsuccessful as one might have expected. The conversation had been like walking on thin ice over dark waters. Erich had left them halfway through dessert, giving as an excuse an important meeting with a lady. Then they had sat there, ex-husband and ex-wife, over a cheese board of doubtful quality, going through agonies as they tried to avoid hurting each other any more than necessary. He had seen her into a taxi shortly after midnight and walked all the way home in the pious hope that the biting wind would whip his brain free from all the murky thoughts lurking inside it.
That had failed completely. When he got home he had slumped into an armchair and listened to Monteverdi for an hour, drunk three beers, and not gone to bed until nearly half past one.
A wasted evening, in other words. But typical, that was for sure. Very typical. Mind you, it was January. What else could he have expected?
He got out of the bath. Did a couple of tentative back exercises in front of the bedroom mirror. Dressed, made breakfast.
Sat down at the kitchen table with the morning paper spread out in front of him. Not a word about the murder. Naturally enough. It must have happened as the presses were rolling… Or whatever the presses did nowadays. What was the name of the victim? Malik?
What had Reinhart said? Leufwens Allé? He had a good mind to phone the inspector and ask a few questions, but pricks of conscience from his better self, or whatever it might have been, got the upper hand, and he refrained. He would find out all he needed to know soon enough. No need to hurry. Better to make the most of the hours remaining before the whole thing got under way, perhaps. There hadn't been a murder since the beginning of December, despite all the holidays, and if it really was as Reinhart said, an awkward-looking case, no doubt they would have their hands full for some time to come. Reinhart generally knew what he was talking about. More so than most of them.
He poured himself another cup of coffee, and started studying the weeks chess problem. Mate in three moves, which would presumably involve a few complications.
“All right,” said Reinhart, putting down his pipe. “The facts of the case. At six minutes past one this morning, an ambulance driver, Felix Hald, reported that there was a dead body at Leufwens Allé 14. They'd gone there because the woman of the house, Ilse Malik, had phoned for an ambulance. She was extremely confused, and had failed to contact the police even though her husband was as dead as a statue… Four bullet wounds, two in his chest, two below the belt.”
“Below the belt?” wondered Inspector Rooth, his mouth full of sandwich.
“Below the belt,” said Reinhart. “Through his willy, if you prefer. She'd come home from the theater, it seems, at about midnight or shortly before, and found him lying in the hall, just inside the door. The weapon seems to be a Berenger-75; all four bullets have been recovered. It seems reasonable to suspect that a silencer was used, since nobody heard anything. The victim is fifty-two years old, one Ryszard Malik. Part owner of a firm selling equipment for industrial kitchens and restaurants, or something of the sort. Not in our records, unknown to us, no shady dealing as far as we are aware. Nothing at all. Hmm, is that it, Heinemann, more or less?”
Inspector Heinemann took off his glasses and started rubbing them on his tie.
“Nobody noticed a thing,” he said. “We've spoken to the neighbors, but the house is pretty well protected. Hedges, big yards, that sort of thing. It looks as if somebody simply walked up to the door, rang the bell, and shot him when he opened up. There's no sign of a struggle or anything. Malik was alone at home, solving a crossword and sipping a glass of whiskey while his wife was at the theater. And then, it seems the murderer just closed the door and strolled off. Quite straightforward, if you want to look at it from that point of view.”
“Sound method,” said Rooth.
“That's for sure,” said Van Veeteren. “What does his wife have to say?”
Heinemann sighed. Nodded toward Jung, who gave every sign of finding it difficult to stay awake.
“Not a lot,” Jung said. “It's almost impossible to get through to her. One of the ambulance men gave her an injection, and that was probably just as well. She woke up briefly this morning. Went on about Ibsen-I gather that's a writer. She'd been to the theater, we managed to get that confirmed by a woman she'd been with… a Bernadette Kooning. In any case, she can't seem to grasp that her husband is dead.”
“You don't seem to be quite with it either,” said Van Veeteren. “How long have you been awake?”
Jung counted on his fingers.
“A few days, I suppose.”
“Go home and go to bed,” said Reinhart.
Jung stood up.
“Is it okay if I take a taxi? I can't tell the difference between right and left.”