And in any case, it was not even certain that he would need to bother about it. Hiller would no doubt decide when he emerged from the sea on Monday morning; perhaps he would judge it best for Reinhart and Münster to continue pulling the strings. That would be good, he had to admit. A blessing devoutly to be wished, he thought-if he'd been able to choose a month in which to hibernate or to spend in a deep freeze, he would have gone for January without hesitation.
If he could pick two, he would take February as well.
On Monday his car refused to start. Something to do with damp somewhere or other, no doubt. He was forced to walk four blocks before he was able to scramble into a taxi, soaking wet, at Rejmer Plejn; and he was ten minutes late for the run-through.
Reinhart, who was in charge, arrived a minute later, and the whole meeting was not exactly productive.
The forensic side was done and dusted, and had uncovered nothing they didn't know already. Or thought they knew. Ryszard Malik had been shot at some time between half past seven and half past nine on Friday evening, with a 7.65-millimeter Berenger. As none of the neighbors had heard a shot, it could be assumed that the killer had used a silencer.
“How many Berengers are floating around town?” asked Münster.
“Le Houde guesses about fifty” said Rooth. “Anybody can get one in about half an hour if he has a bit of local knowledge. There's no point in starting to look, in any case.”
Van Veeteren sneezed and Reinhart carried on describing the wounds, the angles, and similar melancholy details. The murderer had probably fired his gun at a distance of between one and one and a half meters, which could suggest that he hadn't even bothered to step inside first. The door opened inward, and in all probability he'd have been standing ready to shoot the moment Malik opened it. Two shots in the chest, then, each of which would have been fatal-one through the left lung and the other through the aorta. Hence all the blood.
And then two below the belt. From a bit closer.
“Why?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Well, what do you think?” said Reinhart, looking around the table.
Nobody spoke. Heinemann looked down at his crotch.
“A professional job?” asked Münster.
“Eh?” said Reinhart. “Oh, you mean the fatal shots… No, not necessarily. A ten-year-old can shoot accurately with a Berenger from one meter away. Assuming you're ready for a bit of a recoil, that is. It could be anybody. But the shots below the belt ought to tell us something, or what do you think?”
“Yes, sure,” said Rooth.
For a few seconds nobody spoke.
“Don't feel embarrassed on my account,” said Moreno.
“Could be a coincidence,” said Münster.
“There's no such thing as coincidence,” said Reinhart. “Only a lack of knowledge.”
“So the shots in the chest came first, is that right?” Heinemann asked, frowning.
“Yes, yes,” sighed Reinhart. “The other two were fired when he was already lying on the floor-we've explained that already. Weren't you listening?”
“I just wanted to check,” said Heinemann.
“It doesn't seem to make much sense, shooting somebody's balls off after you've already killed him,” said Rooth. “Seems a bit mad, I'd say. Sick, in a way.”
Reinhart nodded and Van Veeteren sneezed again.
“Are you cold, Chief Inspector?” Reinhart wondered. “Shall we ring for a blanket?”
“I'd prefer a hot toddy,” grunted Van Veeteren. “Is the forensic stuff all finished? I take it they didn't find any fingerprints or dropped cigarette butts?”
“Not even a grain of dandruff,” said Reinhart. “Shall we run through the interviews instead? Starting with the widow?”
“No, starting with the victim,” said Van Veeteren. “Even though I assume he didn't have much to say for himself.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Reinhart, producing a loose sheet of paper from his notebook. “Let's see now… Ryszard Malik was fifty-two years of age. Born in Chadów, but has lived in Maardam since 1960 or thereabouts. Studied at the School of Commerce. Got a job with Gündler & Wein in 1966. In 1979 he started his own firm together with Mauritz Wolff and Jan Merrinck, who jumped ship quite early on-Merrinck, that is. Aluvit F/B, and for God's sake don't ask me what that means. Malik married Ilse, née Moener, in 1968. One son, Jacob, born 1972. He's been reading jurisprudence and economics in Munich for several years now. Anyway, that's about it…”
He put the sheet of paper back where it came from.
“Anything off the record?” Rooth wondered.
“Not a dickie bird,” said Reinhart. “So far, at least. He seems to have been a bit of a bore, as far as I can see. Boring marriage, boring job, boring life. Goes on vacation to Blankenbirge or Rhodes. No known interests apart from crossword puzzles and detective novels, preferably bad ones… God only knows why anybody should want to kill him, but apart from that I don't think there are any unanswered questions.”
“Excellent,” said Van Veeteren. “What about the widow? Surely there's a bit more substance to her, at least?”
Münster shrugged.
“We haven't been able to get much out of her,” he said. “She's still confused and doesn't want to accept what's happened.”
“She might be hiding something, though,” said Heinemann. “It's not exactly anything new to pretend to be mad. I recall a Danish prince…”
“I don't think she is,” interrupted Münster. “Neither do the doctors. We know quite a lot about her from her sister and her son, but it doesn't seem to have anything much to do with the murder. A bit pitiful, that's all. Bad nerves. Prescribed drugs on and off. Taken in for therapy once or twice. Finds it hard to get on with people, it seems. Stopped working at Konger's Palace for that reason, although nobody has said that in so many words… As far as we can see, Malik's firm produces enough cash to keep the family going. Or has done until now, I should say.”
Van Veeteren bit off the end of a toothpick.
“This is more miserable than the weather,” he said, spitting out a few fragments. “Has Moreno anything to add?”
Ewa Moreno smiled slightly.
“The son is rather charming, actually,” she said. “In view of the circumstances, that is. He flew the nest early, it seems. Left home as soon as he'd finished high school and he doesn't have much contact with his parents, especially his mother. Only when he needs some money. He admits that openly. Do you want to know about the sister as well?”
“Is there anything for us to sink our teeth into?” asked Rein-hart with a sigh.
“No,” said Moreno. “Not really. She also has a stable but rather boring marriage. Works part-time in an old folks' home. Her husband's a businessman. They both have alibis for the night of the murder, and it seems pretty unlikely that either of them could be involved-completely unthinkable, in fact.”
All was quiet for a while. Rooth produced a bar of chocolate from his jacket pocket and Heinemann tried to scrape a stain off the table with his thumbnail. Van Veeteren had closed his eyes, and it was more or less impossible to make out if he was awake or asleep.
“Okay,” said Reinhart eventually. “There's just one thing I want to know. Who the hell did it?”
“A madman,” said Rooth. “Somebody who wanted to test his Berenger and noticed that the lights were on in the house.”
“I reckon you've hit the nail on the head,” said Heinemann.
“No,” said Van Veeteren without opening his eyes.
“Oh, really?” said Reinhart. “How do you know that?”
“By the prickings of my thumb,” said Van Veeteren.
“Eh?” said Heinemann. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Shall we go and get some coffee?” suggested Rooth.
Van Veeteren opened his eyes.
“Preferably a hot toddy, as I said before.”