Munster's Case

by Håkan Nesser

  She looked at the floor. Aha, Münster thought. So that’s how it is. That’s where the problem lies.

  The most shameful thing in life, he’d read somewhere, was not having any friends. Being on your own. You can be as stupid as they come, a racist, a sadist, you can be obese and stink like a skunk, or be a practicing pedophile—but you have to have friends.

  “We didn’t socialize much,” she said without looking up. “He had his friends, I had mine.”

  “No mutual friends?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about relatives?”

  “Our children,” she said again.

  “You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, not anymore.”

  “Whom did your husband use to meet, apart from the gentlemen at Freddy’s?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “No one else, I think. Maybe Herr Engel now and then.”

  “Ruben Engel? In the same building?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about you?” Münster persisted. “You used to meet Fröken von Post a few times a month. Who else?”

  “No one else,” said Marie-Louise.

  “Are you sure?” said Münster. “No former colleagues? You were working at that department store until a couple of years ago, isn’t that right?”

  “Fröken Svendsen,” she said. “Regine Svendsen. We sometimes went out together, but she moved to Karpatz a few years ago. She found a new man, an old school friend who had also ended up on his own.”

  “Do you have her telephone number?”

  “No.”

  Münster made a note and turned over a page.

  “Tell me about your coming home last Saturday night.”

  “I’ve already done that several times.”

  “This will be the last time,” Münster promised.

  “Why?”

  “You never know. Things sometimes come back to you that you overlooked shortly after the event. Especially if you were in shock.”

  She looked at him. Somewhat annoyed.

  “I haven’t overlooked anything.”

  “You came home at a few minutes past two, is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Fru Leverkuhn.

  “And the entrance door was open?”

  “Yes.”

  “The door to your apartment was unlocked, right?”

  “I’ve already said so.”

  “Did you see anybody? In the street or on the staircase, or in the apartment?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “So you went inside and discovered that something was wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did you know that something was wrong?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “There was a smell,” she said.

  “Of what?” Münster asked.

  “Blood.”

  Münster pretended to be making notes while waiting for her to say more. But she didn’t. He tried to recall the smell of blood, and established that it was distinctly possible that she could have detected it. If his memory served him right, he had read somewhere among all the information about her that, like her daughter, she had worked for a few years as a butcher. She presumably knew what she was talking about.

  “You went into the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “And switched the light on?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you react when you saw what had happened?”

  She paused. Sat in silence again for a few seconds, then sat up straight and cleared her throat.

  “I stood there and felt like throwing up,” she said. “It sort of came in waves, but then it stopped. So I went back out to report it.”

  “You set off for Entwick Plejn?”

  “Yes, I’ve told you already.”

  “Were there any other people about?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t remember. I don’t think so. It was raining.”

  “Did you go all the way to the police station?”

  She thought that over again.

  “No. There were no lights in the windows, I could see that from the other side of the square.”

  “And so you turned back?”

  “Yes.”

  “And went the same way back home?”

  “Yes.”

  Münster paused.

  “Shall I tell you something odd, Fru Leverkuhn?” he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  “You say you walked nearly one and a half miles through the town, and so far not a single witness has come forward to say they saw you. What do you say to that? I mean, the streets were not completely deserted.”

  No reply. Münster waited for half a minute.

  “You’re not lying are you, Fru Leverkuhn?”

  She looked up and stared at him with mild contempt.

  “Why on earth should I be telling lies?”

  To save your own skin, Münster thought; but that was a dodgy thought, and he kept it to himself.

  “Had he fallen out with any of those old friends?” he asked instead.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “With Herr Bonger, for instance?”

  “I don’t even know which is which.”

  “Have they never visited your apartment?”

  “Never.”

  “But you knew that they had won some money, I take it?”

  He had been leading up to that question for some time, but it was difficult to draw any conclusions from her reaction.

  “Money?” was all she said.

  “Twenty thousand,” said Münster.

  “Each?” she asked.

  “Altogether,” said Münster. “Five thousand each. But that’s still quite a lot.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “He never mentioned that,” she said.

  Münster nodded.

  “And you still haven’t noticed anything missing from the apartment? Aside from the knife, that is.”

  “No.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No.… Mind you, I haven’t seen any trace of the five thousand guilders.”

  “They haven’t collected the money yet,” said Münster.

  “That would explain it,” said Fru Leverkuhn.

  Münster sighed. He could feel weariness creeping up on him, and suddenly—in an instant—the pointlessness of it all took possession of him. He suddenly felt that he could see right through this old woman’s vacant face, like looking through a pane of glass; and what he saw was a cul-de-sac, with himself standing there, staring at a brick wall. From less than two feet away. With his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped in despair. In some strange way he was able to look at his own back and the brick wall at the same time. Filthy bricks covered in faded graffiti, and a smell of eternal, acid rain. It was not a pleasant picture of the situation. Not pleasant at all. I’d better retrace my steps, he thought, and blinked a few times in order to come into contact with reality again.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t have any more questions for the moment, but I’d still like you to keep thinking, Fru Leverkuhn. Even the tiniest insignificant detail might help us get on the right track.”

  “I want you to leave me in peace.”

  “We want to find your husband’s murderer, Fru Leverkuhn. And we shall find him.”

  For a moment he thought she looked deeply doubtful, and it was probably this look—together with the increasing feeling of graveliness behind his eyes—that made him raise his voice.

  “We intend to find the murderer, Fru Leverkuhn, you can be absolutely certain of that!”

  She looked at him in surprise. Then rose to her feet.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Not right now,” said Münster.

  The rest of Wednesday passed by in more or less the same to
ne. Bonger’s boat was as deserted as ever, testimony from people who had been out and about on Saturday night was conspicuous by its absence, and the only response from the so-called underworld came from an anonymous source, urging the police to stop rummaging around in the wrong pile of dirty laundry.

  Tell us which pile of dirty laundry is the right one, then! Münster thought aggressively.

  He purposely avoided contacting Inspector Moreno, and while he was struggling with an unusually unpalatable lunchtime pasta in the cafeteria, Krause informed him that Moreno had called earlier that morning and reported sick. At first Münster was relieved to hear that, but then he was filled with uncertainty that he dare not analyze too closely. The dream he had experienced the previous night was still hovering in the back of his mind—like an X-rated film he had watched by mistake—and he knew that it wasn’t there purely by chance.

  He spent the whole afternoon in his office, reading through all the reports and minutes connected with the case that had accumulated, without becoming much the wiser.

  The case of Waldemar Leverkuhn?

  That’s the way it is, was how he summed it up in resignation as he left the police station at half past four. For reasons unknown, a perpetrator (a man? a woman?) had killed a harmless retiree—in the most bestial fashion imaginable. Four days had passed since the murder, and they were still nowhere near a solution.

  Another elderly man had disappeared that same night, and the police knew just as much about that as well.

  Nothing.

  Yet again—he had lost count of how many times it had happened these last few days—some wise words from Van Veeteren came into his head.

  Police work is like life, the chief inspector had announced over a Friday beer at Adenaar’s a few years ago. Ninety-five percent of it is wasted.

  Wasn’t it about time they got around to that last five percent? Intendent Münster asked himself as he worked his way up through the labyrinth that formed the exit from the underground garage at the police station. Shouldn’t the breakthrough be due any time now?

  Or was it the case, it struck him as he emerged into Baderstraat, that those gloomy words of wisdom from Van Veeteren were a sort of nudge, encouraging him to call in at Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop?

  To pay a visit to the chief inspector?

  It was a bold thought, of course—probably the only one that had struck him all day—and he decided to leave it in the back of his mind for the moment and see how it grew.

  Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and began to long for Synn and the children.

  II

  17

  “What did you say your name was?” asked Krause, furrowing his brow.

  He jotted down the name and telephone number. Chewed at his pencil. There was something about this.…

  “Address?”

  He wrote that down as well and stared at it.

  Surely it was …?

  No doubt about it. He asked, and had his suspicions confirmed. Could hear how excited his voice was becoming, and tried to cough it away. Said thank you for the call and promised that somebody would be there within half an hour. Replaced the receiver.

  My God! he thought. What the hell can this mean?

  He dialed Münster’s number. Busy.

  Moreno. No reply.

  Van Eck? Surely it can’t be a coincidence, he thought as he rose to his feet.

  Münster beckoned him to come in as he continued talking on the telephone. Judging by the expression on his face, it must be Hiller at the other end of the line. Krause nodded to Moreno, who was sitting on one of the visitor chairs, leafing through a sheath of papers.

  Rather listlessly, it seemed. She looked tired, Krause noted, and leaned back against the bookcase. Everyone was tired.

  Münster managed to get rid of the chief of police and looked up.

  “Well? What’s the problem?”

  “Umm,” said Krause. “I just had a strange telephone call.”

  “Really?” said Münster.

  “Really?” said Moreno.

  “Arnold Van Eck. The caretaker in Kolderweg. He says his wife has disappeared.”

  “What?” said Moreno.

  “What the hell?” said Münster.

  Krause cleared his throat.

  “That’s what he claimed,” he said. “Went up in smoke yesterday, it seems. I promised we’d be there pronto. Should I? … Or maybe …?”

  “No,” said Münster. “Moreno and I will follow it up. That’s …”

  He failed to establish what it was. Collected his briefcase, scarf, and overcoat and hurried out the door. Moreno followed him, but paused for a moment in the doorway.

  “Are you sure this isn’t something Rooth has invented?” she said, looking searchingly at Krause. “He doesn’t seem to be all that reliable at the moment.”

  Krause shrugged.

  “Are you suggesting Rooth has kidnapped her, or something? You’d better go there and take a look and find out. If I remember correctly she’s as big as a house.… It can’t be all that easy to hide her away.”

  “Okay,” said Moreno. “Stay here and we’ll keep you informed.”

  “I don’t make a habit of disappearing,” said Krause.

  Arnold Van Eck looked as if he’d sold the cream but lost the money. He must have been standing by the window, waiting for them, because he received them in the entrance hall, where they also met Fru Leverkuhn, who was carrying bags and suitcases full of her husband’s clothes to a waiting taxi.

  “They’re going to the charity shop,” she said. “I thought you lot would have been able to leave me alone for a day at least.”

  “It’s not … It’s …,” stammered Van Eck, shifting his feet nervously.

  “It’s not you we want to talk to today,” Münster explained. “Herr Van Eck, perhaps we ought to go into your apartment.”

  The little caretaker nodded and led the way. His tiny frame looked more wretched than ever—it looked as if it could fall to pieces at any moment, so compelling were his tears and his despair. Münster wondered if he had slept a single wink that night.

  “What happened?” he asked when they had sat down around the diminutive kitchen table covered by a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, with a yellow artificial flower in a vase in the middle.

  Van Eck flung out his arms in a gesture intended to express his impotence.

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?” said Moreno.

  “Your wife?” asked Münster.

  “Alas, yes,” said Van Eck. “That’s the way it is.”

  Alas, yes? Münster thought. He’s insane. But then again he knew there were people who would never have been given the role of themselves if it had been a question of a film or a play rather than life itself. Arnold Van Eck was definitely one of them.

  “Tell us about it,” said Moreno.

  Van Eck sniffed a few times and slid his thick spectacles farther up his shiny nose.

  “It was yesterday,” he said. “Yesterday evening … She disappeared sometime during the afternoon. Or evening.”

  He fell silent.

  “How can you be sure that she hasn’t just gone to visit somebody?” Moreno asked.

  “I just know,” said Van Eck. “It was Wednesday yesterday, and we always watch Gangsters’ Wives on Wednesday. It’s a television series.”

  “Yes, we know,” said Moreno.

  Gangsters? wondered Münster.

  “She massages my legs as well,” continued Van Eck. “Always on a Wednesday. It helps to prevent vascular spasms.”

  He demonstrated rather awkwardly how his wife would grasp and rub his thighs and calves. Münster couldn’t believe his eyes, but he saw that Moreno was making notes without turning a hair, so he assumed for the time being at least that there was nothing to worry about. This was presumably how people behaved with each other in the autumn of their lives.

  But how could Ewa Moreno know that?

  “When did you
see her last?” he asked.

  “Five past five,” said Van Eck without hesitation. “She went out to do some shopping, but she hadn’t come back when I left to attend my course.”

  “What course is that?” Moreno asked.

  “Porcelain painting. Six o’clock at Riitmeeterska, so it takes only a few minutes to get there. I left at about ten to.”

  “Porcelain painting?” said Münster.

  “It’s more interesting than you might think,” Van Eck assured him, sitting up a bit straighter. “I’m only an amateur, I’ve been going for only four terms; but then the main idea isn’t to produce masterpieces. Mind you, one day, perhaps.…”

  For a brief second the caretaker’s face lit up. Münster cleared his throat.

  “What time did you get home?”

  “Five past eight, as usual. Else wasn’t home, and she hadn’t returned by the time Gangsters’ Wives started either. It begins at half past nine, and that was when I became really worried.”

  Moreno continued writing everything down. Münster recalled his dream from the other night and pinched himself discreetly on the arm to make sure that he really was sitting here in this yellow-and-pink-painted kitchen.

  He didn’t wake up, and he assumed that he hadn’t been asleep.

  “Where do you think she’s gone?” asked Moreno.

  Van Eck’s cheek muscles twitched a couple of times, and once again he looked as if he were about to burst out crying.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. “It’s beyond belief. She would never simply go away without saying where she was going.… She knows I’m not all that strong.”

  He folded his handkerchief meticulously, and blinked several times behind his thick lenses. Love despite everything? Münster thought. There are so many kinds .…

  “A good friend, perhaps?” he said.

  Van Eck made no reply. Put away his handkerchief.

  “A good friend or relative who’s suddenly fallen ill?” Moreno suggested.

  Van Eck shook his head.

  “She doesn’t have many friends. She would have phoned—she’s been missing for half a day now.”

  “And no message?” Moreno wondered.

  “No.”