own.’
Münster took a deep breath.
‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer. Have you rung to check that he’s at home?’
Reinhart shook his head.
‘No. But he’s at home all right, I can feel it. This isn’t something we can avoid.’
‘No,’ said Münster. ‘We can’t. Nor can he.’
There was a shortage of parking places around Klagenburg. After circling the block a few times Reinhart finally found a space on the corner of Morgenstraat and Ruyder Allé, but they had to walk a couple of hundred metres through the rain before they were able to ring the bell on the door of number four.
At first there was no reaction from inside; but after a second more insistent ring, they could hear somebody coming down the stairs. Before the door opened, Münster noted that despite the wet conditions his mouth was absolutely dry, and he began to wonder if he would be in a fit state to force even a single word past his lips. The door opened slightly.
‘Good morning,’ said Reinhart. ‘May we come in?’
Van Veeteren was dressed in something dark blue and red that presumably was – or had been – a dressing gown, and something brown that was certainly a pair of slippers. He didn’t look as if he had just woken up, and was carrying a newspaper folded up under his arm.
‘Reinhart?’ he exclaimed in surprise, and opened the door wide. ‘And Münster? What the hell?’
‘Yes,’ Münster managed to utter, ‘you can say that again.’
‘Come in,’ said Van Veeteren, gesturing with the newspaper. ‘All this bloody rain is a pain. What’s the matter?’
‘Let’s sit down first,’ said Reinhart.
They all walked up the stairs, the visitors were ushered into the cosy-looking living room and flopped down into armchairs. Van Veeteren remained standing. Münster bit his lip and plucked up courage.
‘It’s your son,’ he said. ‘Erich. I’m sorry, but Reinhart says he’s been murdered.’
Looking back, he was convinced that he’d closed his eyes as he said that.
8
When Jung and Rooth parked outside the Trattoria Commedia at about two o’clock on Sunday afternoon it had stopped raining for the moment. Two forensic officers were still working on the abandoned Peugeot, supervised by Inspector le Houde: the car had been cordoned off by red-and-white police tape, as had the spot where the body was found some ten metres away. Plus a narrow corridor between the two. Rooth paused and scratched his head.
‘What do they think they’ll find in the car?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘He’d had it on loan for a few months from that jailbird mate of his – maybe he’s involved as well in some way?’
‘It can’t have been Elmer Kodowsky who bashed his head in,’ said Rooth. ‘He hasn’t been out on parole for eight weeks – it would be hard to get a better alibi than that.’
‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Jung. ‘Shall we go in and attack the barman then, or do you intend standing here and searching for nits a bit longer?’
‘I’ve finished now,’ said Rooth. ‘God, but I don’t like this bloody business. I don’t like it when crimes affect one of us. Somebody like VV should have the right to immunity, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I know,’ said Jung. ‘Don’t go on about it. Let’s go in and do our job, then we can go for a coffee somewhere.’
‘All right,’ said Rooth. ‘I’m with you there.’
The barman’s name was Alois Kummer, and he looked anything but happy.
He was young, suntanned and athletic-looking, so Jung didn’t really understand why. They sat down opposite him in the bar, which was deserted – as long as no customers turned up they might just as well sit here and talk. Both Jung and Rooth agreed on that, and apparently herr Kummer as well, as he made no objection.
‘So you were on duty last Tuesday evening, is that right?’ Jung began.
‘Only until nine o’clock,’ said
Münster took a deep breath.
‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer. Have you rung to check that he’s at home?’
Reinhart shook his head.
‘No. But he’s at home all right, I can feel it. This isn’t something we can avoid.’
‘No,’ said Münster. ‘We can’t. Nor can he.’
There was a shortage of parking places around Klagenburg. After circling the block a few times Reinhart finally found a space on the corner of Morgenstraat and Ruyder Allé, but they had to walk a couple of hundred metres through the rain before they were able to ring the bell on the door of number four.
At first there was no reaction from inside; but after a second more insistent ring, they could hear somebody coming down the stairs. Before the door opened, Münster noted that despite the wet conditions his mouth was absolutely dry, and he began to wonder if he would be in a fit state to force even a single word past his lips. The door opened slightly.
‘Good morning,’ said Reinhart. ‘May we come in?’
Van Veeteren was dressed in something dark blue and red that presumably was – or had been – a dressing gown, and something brown that was certainly a pair of slippers. He didn’t look as if he had just woken up, and was carrying a newspaper folded up under his arm.
‘Reinhart?’ he exclaimed in surprise, and opened the door wide. ‘And Münster? What the hell?’
‘Yes,’ Münster managed to utter, ‘you can say that again.’
‘Come in,’ said Van Veeteren, gesturing with the newspaper. ‘All this bloody rain is a pain. What’s the matter?’
‘Let’s sit down first,’ said Reinhart.
They all walked up the stairs, the visitors were ushered into the cosy-looking living room and flopped down into armchairs. Van Veeteren remained standing. Münster bit his lip and plucked up courage.
‘It’s your son,’ he said. ‘Erich. I’m sorry, but Reinhart says he’s been murdered.’
Looking back, he was convinced that he’d closed his eyes as he said that.
8
When Jung and Rooth parked outside the Trattoria Commedia at about two o’clock on Sunday afternoon it had stopped raining for the moment. Two forensic officers were still working on the abandoned Peugeot, supervised by Inspector le Houde: the car had been cordoned off by red-and-white police tape, as had the spot where the body was found some ten metres away. Plus a narrow corridor between the two. Rooth paused and scratched his head.
‘What do they think they’ll find in the car?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘He’d had it on loan for a few months from that jailbird mate of his – maybe he’s involved as well in some way?’
‘It can’t have been Elmer Kodowsky who bashed his head in,’ said Rooth. ‘He hasn’t been out on parole for eight weeks – it would be hard to get a better alibi than that.’
‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Jung. ‘Shall we go in and attack the barman then, or do you intend standing here and searching for nits a bit longer?’
‘I’ve finished now,’ said Rooth. ‘God, but I don’t like this bloody business. I don’t like it when crimes affect one of us. Somebody like VV should have the right to immunity, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I know,’ said Jung. ‘Don’t go on about it. Let’s go in and do our job, then we can go for a coffee somewhere.’
‘All right,’ said Rooth. ‘I’m with you there.’
The barman’s name was Alois Kummer, and he looked anything but happy.
He was young, suntanned and athletic-looking, so Jung didn’t really understand why. They sat down opposite him in the bar, which was deserted – as long as no customers turned up they might just as well sit here and talk. Both Jung and Rooth agreed on that, and apparently herr Kummer as well, as he made no objection.
‘So you were on duty last Tuesday evening, is that right?’ Jung began.
‘Only until nine o’clock,’ said
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