The Return (7 page)

13

“Welcome to the gang,” said Rooth.

DeBries flopped down onto the chair and lit a cigarette. The smoke immediately started to irritate Rooth’s eyes, but he decided to put a brave face on it.

“I would be grateful if my good friend the inspector would be so kind as to put me in the picture,” said deBries. “Slowly and clearly, if you don’t mind. I was sitting wide awake in a car all night, keeping an eye on a house.”

“Did anything come of it?” Rooth wondered.

“I should say so,” said deBries. “The house is still there. How long have you been growing that thing, by the way?”

“What thing?”

“That thing you have on your face…It reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it. Oh yes, that’s it! Pat Boone!”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“My guinea pig, of course. That I had when I was a boy. He caught some virus or other and his fur fell out. He looked a bit like that just before he died.”

Rooth sighed.

“Very funny,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Forty, feel like eighty. Why?”

Rooth scratched his armpits thoughtfully.

“I’m just wondering if you remember the Beatrice murder…. Or if you were too little and gormless even then.”

DeBries shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “Maybe we should get started. No, I don’t remember the Beatrice murder.”

“I remember it only too darned well,” said Rooth. “I was ten or eleven. Nineteen sixty-two it was. Read about it in the papers every single day for months while it was going on. Well, a month at least. We used to talk about it at school, in the lessons and during the breaks. Oh yes, I’ll be damned if it isn’t one of the clearest memories I have of my childhood.”

“I was only eight,” said deBries. “There’s a big difference between eight and ten…. I didn’t live here then either. But I read about it afterward, of course.”

“Mm,” muttered Rooth, blowing back a cloud of smoke. “There was something about the whole mood. I remember my father going on about that Leopold Verhaven at our kitchen table, when we were having dinner. It wasn’t exactly usual for him to talk about such things, so we knew that it must be something very special. Everybody was interested in that murder. Every man jack. Believe you me!”

“I’ve gathered,” said deBries. “A bit of a witch hunt, wasn’t it?”

“Not just a bit,” said Rooth.

DeBries got up and stubbed out his cigarette in the washbasin.

“Start at the beginning,” he said.

“The athletics business, you mean? You know he was a leading sprinter in the fifties?”

“Yes,” said deBries. “But start with the murders.”

Rooth went back a few pages in the notepad on the desk in front of him.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll start on April sixteenth, 1962. That’s the day when Leopold Verhaven tells the police that his fiancée has disappeared. Beatrice Holden. In fact she’s been missing for nearly ten days by that time. They’ve been living together for a year and a half, or thereabouts…living together in that house in Kaustin. Without getting married, I should make clear, perhaps.”

“Go on,” said deBries.

“About a week later she’s found murdered in the forest a few miles from there. The police put a lot of resources into it, of course, and before long the suspicion is that Verhaven himself might have something to do with it. There are plenty of pointers in that direction, and at the end of the month he’s arrested and charged with murder. The trial gets under way.”

“His name was in the papers right from the start, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, indeed. They’d named him in connection with the disappearance of the girl—he was a bit of a celebrity after all—and now they saw no reason to hold back. Unless I’m much mistaken it’s the first time in our country that a man who was only a suspect has been named in print. Maybe that’s what blows it up to such proportions. I think the papers published every word uttered in court…. All those reporters—from all parts of the country—they were staying at Konger’s Palatz, the whole crowd, and they would hold court every night…. The defense counsel was there as well, incidentally. Quenterran, he was called, an odd name. I suppose you could say it was the first mass media murder. It must have been hellish for any thinking person, but I didn’t understand that at the time. I was only eleven after all.”

“Hmm,” said deBries. “And he was found guilty.”

“Yes. Although he denied it. June twentieth it was. I remember it was the week before the holidays began, and we heard it on the wireless at school.”

“Incredible,” said deBries. “How long did he get?”

“Twelve years,” said Rooth.

DeBries nodded.

“Got out in 1974. And when did it start all over again?”

“Nineteen eighty-one. He’d gone back home and reopened his chicken farm.”

“Chicken farm?”

“Yes. Or egg farm, or what the devil you want to call it. They hadn’t broken him, not in the least. He’d started his feathery farm before the Beatrice affair happened. He was a bit of a pioneer, I think, with artificial lighting in the henhouse, so that they thought it was day when it was night and all that sort of thing. That shortened the day by two hours and made them lay more quickly, or something of the sort….”

“Who’d have thought it?” said deBries. “Clever devil.”

“Oh yes,” said Rooth. “Used to sell his eggs in Linzhuisen and here in Maardam as well. The Covered Market mainly, if I remember rightly. He got back on his feet again; he always did.”

“Strong?” said deBries.

“Yes,” said Rooth, pausing to think for a moment. “That was just it. Superhumanly strong, in a way.”

He paused again and deBries lit another cigarette.

“What about the Marlene murder?” he asked, blowing a thin wisp of smoke over the desk. Rooth coughed.

“Goddamn chimney,” he said. “Well, they found another woman’s body in the same bit of forest. Almost the very same place, in fact. And a few months later he was inside again. That was twenty years after the first occasion.”

“Did he confess this time?”

“Confess? Did he hell! Didn’t give an inch. He’d had it off with the girl a few times, that was all, he claimed. There was another show trial, but we’ll take that another time. He’s a one-off, in any case…. Was a one-off, I should say.”

“Meaning what?”

“Nobody else in this country has ever been found guilty of first degree twice, despite denying it. Totally unique.”

DeBries pondered.

“Psychiatric report?” he asked.

“Both times,” said Rooth. “Fit as a fiddle, they reckoned. No doubt about it.”

“Did he rape them as well?”

Rooth shrugged.

“I don’t know. No traces of sperm at all events. But they were both naked when found. Strangled, by the way, both times. Same method, more or less.”

“Hmm,” said deBries, clasping his hands behind his head. “And now he’s bought it as well. Something fishy there, I can’t help thinking. Where’s Münster, to jump from one thing to another?”

Rooth sighed.

“At the hospital,” he said. “Surely you don’t think our detective chief inspector can resist a goody like this.”

“A goody?” said deBries. “For fuck’s sake.”

14

Münster removed the paper from around the yellow roses and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. The nurse was waiting for him with a guarded smile, and as she opened the door for him, she whispered, “Good luck.”

I’ll no doubt need it, Münster thought as he entered the room. The bed immediately to the left was empty. Lying in the bed to the right, next to the window, was Van Veeteren, and the first thing to come into Münster’s head was an old, not very funny story about why the inhabitants of the city of Neubadenberg were so incorrigibly stupid.

Because they do things the wrong way round in their maternity wards.

They throw away the babies and raise the afterbirth.

Van Veeteren an afterbirth? Perhaps it wasn’t quite as bad as that, but as he tentatively approached the bed it was clear to him that he wouldn’t be called upon to play badminton in the immediate future.

“Hmm,” he said hesitantly, standing by the foot of the bed.

Van Veeteren opened his eyes, one at a time. A few seconds passed. Then he also opened his mouth.

“Shit.”

“How are you?” Münster asked.

“Pull me up,” snarled Van Veeteren.

Münster put the flowers on the bedcover and managed to raise the patient into a half-sitting position, more or less—with the aid of a few pillows and the chief inspector’s wheezing instructions. The color of his face reminded Münster of strawberries that have been marinating in spirits overnight, and there was nothing to suggest that that wasn’t how Van Veeteren felt as well. He repeated his welcoming speech.

“Shit.”

Münster picked up the roses again.

“These are from all of us,” he said. “The others send greetings.”

He found a vase and filled it with water from the washbasin in the corner. Van Veeteren watched proceedings suspiciously.

“Huh,” he said. “Give me some as well.”

Münster poured him a glass from the jug on the bedside table, and after a second one, Van Veeteren appeared to be capable of conversation at least.

“I must have dozed off,” he said.

“You get extremely tired after an operation,” said Münster. “It’s normal.”

“You don’t say.”

“Reinhart sends his special regards and says he’d like you to remember that pain drives out evil.”

“Thank you. Well?”

Raring to go again already? Münster thought and sat down on the visitors’ chair. He opened his briefcase. Took out the envelope and propped it up against the vase of flowers.

“I’ll put the photocopies here. They’re only from the newspapers. It will take a bit of time to dig out the records of the trial, but I’ll pop in with them tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll look through them after you’ve gone.”

“Don’t you think you ought to have a good rest first, when…?”

“Hold your tongue,” snapped Van Veeteren. “Don’t talk such a lot of crap. I’m feeling better by the second. And there’s never been anything wrong with my head, for Christ’s sake. Tell me what you’ve all been doing!”

Münster sighed and launched into an account of the visit to Kaustin and the search of Verhaven’s house.

“The forensic team hasn’t finished yet, of course, but everything points to him being our man. He only seems to have been at home for one day. In August last year. There was a newspaper, some food marked with a use-by date and a few other things. It appears to have been the twenty-fourth, the same day as he was released. A few witnesses saw him arriving—in the village, that is. Maybe he stayed the night; some things suggest that. He went to bed in any case. The clothes he was given on leaving prison are still there.”

“Hmm?” said Van Veeteren. “Hang on a moment…. No, carry on; it’s OK!”

“They haven’t found anything startling. Nothing to suggest that he died there. No bloodstains, no weapon, no sign of violence. But over eight months have passed since then, of course.”

“Time doesn’t heal all wounds,” said Van Veeteren, rubbing his hand gingerly over his stomach.

“No,” said Münster. “That’s possible. We shall see. It’s possible that he was murdered there the same day. Or night. The butchery might have been done there or somewhere else. It could have been anywhere.”

“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren again. Münster leaned back against the wall and waited.

“Pull me up!” said Van Veeteren after a while, and Münster repeated the procedure with the pillows. Van Veeteren pulled a face as he worked himself into a slightly better position.

“It hurts,” he said, nodding toward his stomach.

“What did you expect?” Münster asked.

Van Veeteren muttered something and took another drink of water.

“Heidelbluum,” he said eventually.

“Eh?” said Münster.

“He was the judge,” said Van Veeteren. “In both trials. He must be eighty now, but you’ll have to go and see him.”

Münster made a note.

“I have the impression that he’s good,” Van Veeteren added. “A pity Mort’s dead.”

Detective Chief Inspector Mort was Van Veeteren’s predecessor, and Münster gathered that he must have been involved in the second of the cases at least. Probably in both. What was clear was that Van Veeteren did not play a major role in either; Rooth had already checked that.

“Then there’s the motive, of course.”

“Motive?”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“I’m tired,” he said. “Give me your views on the motive, please.”

Münster thought for a few moments. Leaned his head back against the wall and contemplated the meaningless pattern of squares formed on the ceiling by the lamps.

“Well, I think there are several possibilities,” he said.

“Such as?” Van Veeteren asked.

“I suppose an inside job is the first obvious one. Something to do with prison, that is. Some sort of settling of accounts.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Right,” he said. “You’d better look into what he got up to while he was locked up. Where was he, by the way?”

“Ulmentahl,” said Münster. “Rooth’s on his way there now.”

“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “Next? Another motive, that is!”

Münster cleared his throat. Pondered again.

“Well, if it isn’t anything to do with what happened in prison, it could have something to do with what happened in the past.”

“It could indeed, certainly,” said Van Veeteren, and it seemed to Münster that the pale gray color vanished briefly from his face.

“How?” said Van Veeteren. “For hell’s sake, Inspector, don’t try and tell me you haven’t given a thought to this! It’s over a day since you received the damned tip-off.”

“Only half a day since we were sure,” said Münster apologetically.

Van Veeteren snorted.

“Motive!” he said again. “Come on!”

“Somebody who didn’t think the prison sentence was long enough,” said Münster.

“Possibly,” said Van Veeteren.

“Somebody who hated him. One of those women’s friends who had been waiting for revenge, perhaps. It’s a bit hard to get inside a prison and kill a man, after all.”

“Very hard,” said Van Veeteren. “Unless you get another prisoner to take on a contract, that is. There could well be the odd one who wouldn’t be too hard to persuade. Have you any other suggestions?”

Münster paused for a moment.

“It’s not exactly a suggestion,” he said.

“Out with it even so,” said Van Veeteren.

“There’s no evidence for it.”

“I want to hear it nevertheless.”

His facial color had intensified again. Münster cleared his throat.

“All right,” he said. “There’s a slight possibility that he was innocent.”

“Who?”

“Verhaven, of course.”

“Really?”

“Of one of the murders at least, and it could have something to do with that…somehow or other.”

Van Veeteren said nothing.

“But it’s pure speculation, naturally….”

The door opened a few inches and a tired nurse stuck her head round it.

“Could I remind you that visiting time is over. Dr. Ratenau will be doing his rounds in a couple of minutes.”

Van Veeteren gave her a dirty look, and she withdrew her head and closed the door.

“Speculation, ah yes. Don’t you think I can allow myself a bit of speculation while I am residing here in the dwelling of the condemned?”

“Of course,” said Münster, getting to his feet. “Goes without saying.”

“And if,” Van Veeteren continued, “if it turns out that this poor bastard has spent twenty-four years in prison for something he hasn’t done, then…”

“Then?”

“Then damn me if this isn’t the biggest legal scandal to hit this country in a hundred years. No, the biggest ever!”

“There is no evidence to support it,” said Münster, as he headed for the door.

“Calpurnia,” said Van Veeteren.

“Excuse me?” said Münster.

“Caesar’s wife,” explained Van Veeteren. “Suspicion is enough. And there is suspicion in here,” he added, tapping his forehead with his index finger.

“I’m with you,” said Münster. “Good-bye for now, then. I’ll call in tomorrow afternoon, as I said.”

“I’ll phone this evening or tomorrow morning and tell you what I need,” said Van Veeteren to round things off. “Tell Hiller that I’m in charge of this from here on in.”

“Will do,” said Münster as he slunk through the door.

Ah well, he thought as he waited for the lift. He doesn’t seem to have changed fundamentally.