by Håkan Nesser
Münster thought for a moment.
“Did you get any indications of a threat, or enemies, or that kind of thing?”
“No. I tried to discuss such matters, but I didn't get anywhere. I asked her sister, but she had no suspicions at all. Doesn't seem to be hiding anything either. Well, what do we do next, then?”
Münster shrugged.
“I suppose we'd better discuss it on Monday with the others. It's a damned horrific business, no matter which way you look at it. Can I drive you anywhere?”
“Home, please,” said Ewa Moreno. “I've been hanging around here for seven hours now. It's time to spend a bit of time thinking about something else.”
“Not a bad idea,” Münster agreed, and started the engine.
Mauritz Wolff opted to be interviewed at home, an apartment in the canal district with views over Langgraacht and Megsje Bois and deserving the description “gigantic.” The rooms were teeming with children of all ages, and Reinhart assumed he must have married late in life—several times, perhaps—as he must surely be well into his fifties. A large and somewhat red-faced man, in any case, with a natural smile that found it difficult not to illuminate his face, even in a situation like this one.
“You're very welcome,” he said. “What an awful catastrophe. I'm really shocked, I have to say. I can't take it in.”
He shooed away a little girl clinging on to his trouser leg. Reinhart looked around. Wondered if a woman ought to put in an appearance from somewhere or other before long.
“Not a bad apartment you have here,” he said. “Is there anywhere we can talk in peace and quiet?”
“Follow me,” said Wolff, clearing a way through a corridor to a room that evidently served as a library and study. He closed the door and locked it. Invited Reinhart to sit down on one of two armchairs by a low smoking table, and sat down heavily in the other one.
“Too awful,” he said again. “Have you any idea who might have done it?”
Reinhart shook his head.
“Have you?”
“Not the remotest.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Inside out,” said Wolff, holding out a pack of cigarettes. Reinhart took one. “Would you like anything to drink, by the way?”
“No thank you. Go on.”
“Well, what can I say? We've worked together for sixteen years. Ever since we started the firm. And we knew each other before that.”
“Did you mix privately as well?”
“Do you mean families and so on?”
“Yes.”
“Well, not really. Not since I met Mette, my new wife, at least. It must be absolutely awful for Ilse. How is she? I've tried to call her …”
“Shocked,” said Reinhart. “She's still in the hospital.”
“I understand,” said Wolff, and tried to look diplomatic. Rein-hart waited.
“She can be a bit nervy,” Wolff explained.
“I've heard it said, yes,” said Reinhart. “How's the firm going?”
“So-so. We're keeping going. A good niche, even if it went better in the eighties. But what the hell didn't?”
He started laughing, then checked himself.
“Can it have something to do with work?” Reinhart asked. “The firm, I mean?”
The question was badly formulated, and Wolff didn't understand it.
“Can the murder of Malik have some connection with your business?” Reinhart spelled it out.
Wolff shook his head uncomprehendingly.
“With us? No, how could that be?”
“What do you think it could be, then? Did he have a mistress? Any dodgy business deals? You knew him better than anybody else.”
Wolff scratched the back of his head.
“No,” he said after a while. “Neither of those things. If Malik had been seeing other women I'd have known about it. And I can't imagine him being involved in anything illegal.”
“So he's a model of virtue, then,” Reinhart established. “How long have you known him, did you say?”
Wolff tried to work it out.
“We met for the first time about twenty-five years ago … that was through work as well. We were both with Gündler and Wein, and eventually we pulled out and started up on our own. There were three of us to start with, but one left after six months.”
“What was his name?”
“Merrinck. Jan Merrinck.”
Reinhart made a note.
“Can you remember if anything unusual has happened recently? If Malik behaved oddly in some way or other?”
Wolff thought it over.
“No. No, there hasn't been anything as far as I can recall. I'm sorry, but there doesn't seem to be all that much I can help you with.”
Reinhart changed tack.
“What was his marriage like?”
“Malik's?”
“Yes.”
Wolff shrugged.
“Not all that good. But he hung in there. My first was worse, I reckon. Malik was strong. A confident and reliable man. A bit dry, perhaps. My God, I can't understand who could have done this, Inspector. It must be a madman, don't you think? Some lunatic? Have you got a suspect?”
Reinhart ignored the question.
“What time did he leave the office yesterday?”
“A quarter to five,” answered Wolff without hesitation. “A bit earlier than usual as he had to collect his car from a repair shop. I stayed there on my own until half past five.”
“And he didn't behave unusually in any way?”
“No. I've said that already.”
“This Rachel deWiijs, who works for you. What have you to say about her?”
“Rachel? A treasure. Pure gold, through and through. Without her we wouldn't survive for more than six months….” He bit his lip and drew at his cigarette. “But everything has changed now, of course. Hell.”
“So Malik didn't have anything going with her, then?”
“Malik and Rachel? No, you can bet your life that he didn't.”
“Really?” said Reinhart. “Okay, I'll take you at your word, then. What about you yourself? Did you have any reason to want him out of the way?”
Wolff's jaw dropped.
“That was the most fucking—”
“There, there, don't get overexcited. You must realize that I have to ask that question. Malik has been murdered, and the fact is that most victims are killed by somebody they know. And you are the person who knew him best, I thought we'd agreed on that already?”
“He was my business partner, for Christ's sake. One of my best friends …”
“I know. But if you had a motive even so, it's better for you to tell us what it is yourself rather than leaving us to find out about it later.”
Wolff sat in silence for a while, thinking about that one.
“No,” he said eventually. “Why the hell should I want to kill Malik? His share in the firm goes to Ilse and Jacob, and all that will do is to make a mess of everything. You must understand that his death is a shock for me as well, Inspector. I know I sometimes sound a bit brusque, but I'm grieving over his death. I'm missing him as a close friend.”
Reinhart nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “I think we'll leave it at that for today, but you'll have to count on us turning up again before long. We are very eager to catch whoever did this.”
Wolff stood up and flung out his arms.
“Of course. If there's anything I can do to help … I'm at your disposal at any time.”
“Good,” said Reinhart. “If anything occurs to you, let us know. Go back to the kids now. How many have you got, incidentally?”
“Six,” said Wolff. “Three from before and three new ones.”
“Go forth and multiply, and replenish the earth,” said Rein-hart. “Isn't it a bit of a strain? Er, looking after them all, I mean.”
Wolff smiled and shook his head.
“Not at all. The tipping point is four. After that, it makes no diff
erence if you have seven or seventeen.”
Reinhart nodded, and resolved to bear that in mind.
8
In their eagerness to sell a few extra copies to casual readers with nothing better to do over the weekend, the Sunday papers made a meal of the Ryszard Malik murder. Bold-print headlines on billboards and front pages, pictures of the victim (while still alive, smiling) and his house, and a double-page spread in both Neuwe Blatt and Telegraaf. Detailed and noncommittal, but needless to say they were pitching it right—what the hell did people have to keep them occupied on a damp and windy day in January apart from sitting indoors and lapping up the story of somebody who had suffered even more than they were doing?
Van Veeteren had a subscription to both papers and had no need to stick his nose outside the door in order to buy one. Instead he stayed in all day, reading selected chapters of Rimley's Famous Chess Games and listening to Bach. He had paid a brief visit to Leufwens Allé on Saturday evening and established that there was nothing useful for him to do there. The technicians and crime-scene boys had run a fine-tooth comb over both house and garden, and for him to imagine he would be able to find something they'd missed would be to overestimate his abilities. Although it had happened before.
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.”
Reinhart checked the time.
“It's only eleven,” he said. “But I'm all for it. This case stinks like a shit heap.”
On the way home from the police station that gloomy Monday, Reinhart stopped off at the Merckx shopping center out at Bossingen. It was really against his principles to buy anything in such a temple of commerce, but he decided to turn a blind eye to the crassness of it all today. He simply didn't feel up to running around from one little shop to the next in the center of town, after rooting about in the unsavory details of Ryszard Malik's background.
Half an hour later he had acquired a lobster, two bottles of wine, and eleven roses. Plus a few other goodies. That would have to do. He left the inferno and a quarter of an hour later went through the front door of his apartment in Zuyderstraat. Put away his purchases in their appointed places, then made a phone call.
“Hi. I've got a lobster, some wine, and some roses. You can have them all if you get yourself here within the next hour.”
“But it's Monday today,” said the woman at the other end.
