Kummer.
‘Let’s concentrate on that time,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you have many customers?’
Kummer displayed his teeth. They looked strong and healthy, and presumably were expressing an ironic grin.
‘How many?’ asked Jung.
‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘At most. Can I get you anything?’
Jung shook his head. Rooth laid out the photographs on the counter.
‘What about this person?’ he asked. ‘Was he there? Don’t answer until you’re sure.’
The barman studied the pictures for ten seconds, pulling at his earring.
‘I believe so,’ he said.
‘You believe so?’ echoed Rooth, ‘Are you religious?’
‘I like it,’ said Kummer. ‘Yes, he was here. He sat eating at one of the tables through there. I didn’t pay much attention to him.’
‘At what time?” asked Jung.
‘Between five and six, or thereabouts . . . Yes, he left at about a quarter past six, just before Helene arrived.’
‘Helene?’ said Jung.
‘One of the girls in the kitchen.’
‘Have you got something going with her, then?’ Rooth wondered.
‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’ said Kummer, starting to look annoyed.
‘You never know,’ said Rooth. ‘Life is a tangle of remarkable connections.’
Jung coughed and changed the subject.
‘Was he alone, or was there anybody else with him?’ he asked.
‘He was on his own,’ said Kummer without hesitation.
‘All the time?’ Rooth asked.
‘All the time.’
‘How many diners did you have altogether? Between five and six o’clock, that is.’
Kummer thought for a moment.
‘Not many,’ he said. ‘Four or five, perhaps.’
‘It doesn’t seem to be high season just now, does it?’ said Rooth.
‘Would you like to play golf in weather like this?’ Kummer wondered.
‘Golf?’ said Rooth. ‘Isn’t that a sort of egg-rolling on a lawn?’
Kummer made no reply, but the tattoo on his forearm twitched.
‘He didn’t come over here to sit in the bar, then?’ said Jung, trying to get the interview back on course. ‘For a drink or whatever?’
Kummer shook his head.
‘How many were there in the bar?’
‘Two or three, perhaps . . . I don’t recall for certain. One or two customers popped in and only stayed for a couple of minutes, I think. As usual.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘When he left – this lone diner, that is – you didn’t notice if anybody followed him, did you? Very soon afterwards, I mean?’
‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘How the hell would I be able to remember that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jung. ‘But the fact is that he was killed out there in the car park only a few minutes after leaving here, so it would help us a lot if you could try to remember.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ Kummer assured them.
‘Excellent,’ said Rooth. ‘We don’t want to demand the impossible of you. Is there anything at all that evening that you recall? Something that was different, somehow or other? Or remarkable?’
Kummer pondered again.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘No, everything was as usual. It was pretty quiet.’
‘Had he ever been here before, this person?’ asked Jung, tapping his pen on the photographs.
‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘Not while I’ve been working here, at any rate.’
‘You seem to have a good memory for faces.’
‘I usually remember people I’ve met.’
‘How long have you been working here?’
‘Three months,’ said Kummer.
Rooth noticed a bowl of peanuts a bit further along the bar counter. He slid off his chair, and went to take a handful. The bartender observed him with a sceptical frown. Jung cleared his throat.
‘That car,’ he said. ‘The Peugeot out there in the car park – that’s been there all the time since Tuesday, has it?’
‘They say so,’ said Kummer. ‘I never gave it a thought until today.’
‘You’re better at faces than at cars, is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Kummer.
‘What was the weather like last Tuesday evening?’
Kummer
‘Let’s concentrate on that time,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you have many customers?’
Kummer displayed his teeth. They looked strong and healthy, and presumably were expressing an ironic grin.
‘How many?’ asked Jung.
‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘At most. Can I get you anything?’
Jung shook his head. Rooth laid out the photographs on the counter.
‘What about this person?’ he asked. ‘Was he there? Don’t answer until you’re sure.’
The barman studied the pictures for ten seconds, pulling at his earring.
‘I believe so,’ he said.
‘You believe so?’ echoed Rooth, ‘Are you religious?’
‘I like it,’ said Kummer. ‘Yes, he was here. He sat eating at one of the tables through there. I didn’t pay much attention to him.’
‘At what time?” asked Jung.
‘Between five and six, or thereabouts . . . Yes, he left at about a quarter past six, just before Helene arrived.’
‘Helene?’ said Jung.
‘One of the girls in the kitchen.’
‘Have you got something going with her, then?’ Rooth wondered.
‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’ said Kummer, starting to look annoyed.
‘You never know,’ said Rooth. ‘Life is a tangle of remarkable connections.’
Jung coughed and changed the subject.
‘Was he alone, or was there anybody else with him?’ he asked.
‘He was on his own,’ said Kummer without hesitation.
‘All the time?’ Rooth asked.
‘All the time.’
‘How many diners did you have altogether? Between five and six o’clock, that is.’
Kummer thought for a moment.
‘Not many,’ he said. ‘Four or five, perhaps.’
‘It doesn’t seem to be high season just now, does it?’ said Rooth.
‘Would you like to play golf in weather like this?’ Kummer wondered.
‘Golf?’ said Rooth. ‘Isn’t that a sort of egg-rolling on a lawn?’
Kummer made no reply, but the tattoo on his forearm twitched.
‘He didn’t come over here to sit in the bar, then?’ said Jung, trying to get the interview back on course. ‘For a drink or whatever?’
Kummer shook his head.
‘How many were there in the bar?’
‘Two or three, perhaps . . . I don’t recall for certain. One or two customers popped in and only stayed for a couple of minutes, I think. As usual.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘When he left – this lone diner, that is – you didn’t notice if anybody followed him, did you? Very soon afterwards, I mean?’
‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘How the hell would I be able to remember that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jung. ‘But the fact is that he was killed out there in the car park only a few minutes after leaving here, so it would help us a lot if you could try to remember.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ Kummer assured them.
‘Excellent,’ said Rooth. ‘We don’t want to demand the impossible of you. Is there anything at all that evening that you recall? Something that was different, somehow or other? Or remarkable?’
Kummer pondered again.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘No, everything was as usual. It was pretty quiet.’
‘Had he ever been here before, this person?’ asked Jung, tapping his pen on the photographs.
‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘Not while I’ve been working here, at any rate.’
‘You seem to have a good memory for faces.’
‘I usually remember people I’ve met.’
‘How long have you been working here?’
‘Three months,’ said Kummer.
Rooth noticed a bowl of peanuts a bit further along the bar counter. He slid off his chair, and went to take a handful. The bartender observed him with a sceptical frown. Jung cleared his throat.
‘That car,’ he said. ‘The Peugeot out there in the car park – that’s been there all the time since Tuesday, has it?’
‘They say so,’ said Kummer. ‘I never gave it a thought until today.’
‘You’re better at faces than at cars, is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Kummer.
‘What was the weather like last Tuesday evening?’
Kummer
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