Woman with Birthmark (28 page)

“The link?” wondered the chief inspector.

Melgarves cleared his throat.

“I'm coming to that. We kept going until rather late—two, half past two, I'd say; quite a few were pretty drunk. Some passed out. To be honest, I wasn't completely sober myself, but it was one of those evenings, you might say. And it was allowed—we didn't have any duties until the following afternoon, and … well, only two more days before demob, and all that….”

“I understand,” said Van Veeteren with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Perhaps you'd like to come to the point, Mr. Melgarves?”

“Well, afterward,” said Melgarves, “that's when I saw them. Those of us who'd stayed on to the very end staggered out of Arno's. We were in groups, and kicking up a bit of a row, I'm sorry to say. Making our way back to Löhr—and that's when I happened to see them. I'd gone into an alley to, er, relieve myself, and when I'd finished I ran into them. They were in a doorway, and they had this girl with them—no more than seventeen or eighteen, I'd say. And they were giving her a rough time.”

“Giving her a rough time? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, trying to talk her into it, I suppose.”

“Talk her into what?”

“Oh come on, you know.”

“I suppose so. And?”

“Anyway, they were standing around her. They were pretty
soused, and I don't suppose she was all that interested, or however you might put it. In any case, they were going on at her, and laughing, and wouldn't let her go.”

“Did she want to go?”

Melgarves hesitated.

“I don't know. I think so, but I don't really remember. I've thought about it, of course, but I stayed there only a few seconds, and then I ran to catch up with the others. Not that they would have been what you might call desirable company.”

Van Veeteren thought it over.

“And she wasn't a prostitute?” he asked.

“Could be, but maybe not,” said Melgarves.

“How come you remember all this after thirty years?”

“I can understand why you ask me that. I suppose it's because of what happened the next day.”

“The next day? What happened then?”

“Well, it was as if something had happened. Innings was really the only one I was acquainted with, just a bit, and he didn't seem to be himself for a couple of days afterward. He just wasn't himself, somehow…. He seemed to be evasive. I recall asking him what had happened to the girl, but he didn't answer.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don't know,” said Melgarves. “I mean, we were demobbed the following day, and we had other things to think about.”

“Of course you had,” said Van Veeteren. “When exactly was this party can you remember that?”

“It must have been May twenty-ninth,” said Melgarves. “We were demobbed at the end of the month.”

“May 29, 1965,” said the chief inspector, and suddenly felt his temples pounding as he prepared to ask his next question.

And anticipated the answer. He cleared his throat.

“So, Malik, Maasleitner, and Innings,” he said. “Was there anybody else?”

“Yes,” said Melgarves. “There were four of them. That Biedersen was with them as well.”

“Biedersen?”

“Yes. He and Maasleitner were probably the ones behind it all. Biedersen rented a room in town as well.”

“A room in town?”

“Yes. For the last few months we were allowed permanent night leave, as they called it. In other words, we didn't need to be in our billets at night. Biedersen had a student room. He threw a few parties there, I gather, but I didn't go to any of them.”

The line started crackling something terrible, and the chief inspector was forced to bellow out his final questions in order to overcome the noise.

“These three, plus Werner Biedersen. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“With a young woman?”

“Yes.”

“Did anybody else see this?”

“Could be. I don't know.”

“Have you spoken to anybody else about it? Then or now?”

“No,” said Melgarves. “Not as far as I recall, at least.”

Van Veeteren thought for a few more seconds.

“Many thanks,” he said eventually. “Thank you for some extremely useful information, Mr. Melgarves. I'll get back to you.”

He hung up.

Now, he thought. We're almost there.

·  ·  ·

“What the hell do you mean?” he roared ten minutes later. “Do we still not know where he is?”

Münster shook his head.

“Hell and damnation!” bellowed the chief inspector. “What about his wife?”

“Not at home,” Münster explained. “DeBries keeps on phoning all the time.”

“Where do they live?”

“Saaren.”

“Saaren?” said Van Veeteren. “Up north … it all fits in. How far is it to there? A hundred and fifty kilometers? Two hundred?”

“Something like that,” said Münster.

Van Veeteren took out four toothpicks. Broke them in two and threw the bits on the floor. Reinhart appeared in the doorway.

“Have we got him?” he asked.

“Got him?” roared Van Veeteren. “Have we hell! He's been off the map for several weeks, and his missus is out shopping!”

“But it
is
Biedersen?” said Reinhart.

“Biedersen,” said Münster. “Who's next, that is. Yes.”

“Have you got a cigarette?” asked Van Veeteren.

Reinhart shook his head.

“Afraid not. Just my old briar. What do we do now, then?”

The chief inspector clenched his hands and closed his eyes for two seconds.

“Okay,” he said, opening his eyes again. “This is what we do. Reinhart and I drive up to Saaren. The rest of you keep on chasing after his wife from here. If you find her, tell her to stay at
home until we come, or she'll be jailed for life. Then we shall have to see what happens next.”

Reinhart nodded.

“Ask her if she knows where he is,” he added. “And keep us informed. We'll try to find her as well, of course.”

Münster made a note.

“So, we're off now,” said Van Veeteren, gesturing toward Reinhart. “Go down to the pool and collect a car. I'll be at the entrance five minutes from now. I just need to collect a few things first.”

“Are you sure that it's so damned urgent?” asked Reinhart when Van Veeteren had settled into the passenger seat.

“No,” said Van Veeteren, lighting a cigarette. “But when you've been in a straitjacket for seven weeks, I'll be damned if it isn't time to stretch a bit.”

He woke up with a start and fumbled for his pistol. Took hold of it and looked out the window. Noted that everything looked the same as before—except that the sun was shining.

He realized that it must be the sun that had warmed up the loft. He was lying just underneath the ceiling, but it wasn't at all the same all-pervading chill he'd experienced so far. On the contrary it was nice and warm—and it was a few minutes to ten.

Ten! It dawned on him that he had slept for over nine hours on end. He had snuggled down in bed shortly after half past twelve the previous night, and he didn't recall having lain awake for very long. No sleepless periods during the night, either.

So he'd been lying here for nine hours. And what had been the point? He'd have been much more of a helpless victim than a guard dog, that was for sure. Would he have even woken up if she had come creeping up the stairs?

He rolled over onto his side and opened the window wide. The sunshine was very bright out there. Small birds were fluttering around in the shrubbery outside the kitchen door. The sky was blue, dotted here and there with tufts of scudding cloud.

Spring? he thought. What the hell am I doing here?

He recalled the previous evening. He'd stayed at the inn until
eleven o'clock, and then thrown caution to the wind on the way back home. He'd simply stood up and left. Taken the main street—the chapel, Heine's, Van Klauster's—and then the narrow lane home to his cottage.

He'd had his pistol in his hand all the time, to be sure—with the safety catch off. But still …

He'd even entertained the thought of using the real bed, but something had held him back.

It was a week now. Eight days, to be precise, and as he brewed some coffee and buttered some bread in the kitchen, he decided that this would have to do. Today would have to be the last day. He would have to face up to the facts and acknowledge that he was wasting his time. It wouldn't bear fruit. He would have fuck-all to show for it, so that was that.

He might just as well have left right away, before lunch; but Korhonen had promised to show him some pictures of his new Thai girlfriend, and so he'd said he would be there tonight as well.

But after that, he'd draw the line. The realization that it had been a mistake to come here had been growing inside him for some time now—the realization that it was pointless, and that these weren't the circumstances in which she intended to confront him.

His telephone call to his wife four days ago—and her mention of the woman from Copenhagen who had been trying to contact him—had naturally been an indication and a confirmation. But not that she intended turning up here. Merely that she knew where he was.

It must have been her—he'd realized that right away: he didn't have any female business contacts in Copenhagen. Nor any male ones, come to that. But this delay … these days that passed
by without anything happening. The only way he could interpret it was that she had declined his invitation. Refused to meet him on his terms.

The cowardly bitch, he thought. You murdering whore, I'll get the better of you, no matter what!

Nevertheless, he didn't relax his safety procedures this final day. Despite his recognition of the fact that his calculations had failed, he spent his accustomed hours out in the forest. Ate his meals as usual, did a bit of packing after dark, and was aware of the fact that he mustn't be reckless.

On his guard, as usual. His gun was always within reach. And he kept himself hidden.

Only one more night. Just one.

He didn't bother to think about how he would go about things in the future. He didn't have the strength, after all those efforts that had led nowhere.

He would leave here tomorrow.

He would make some new decisions tomorrow.

He listened to the eight o'clock news, then sneaked out into the darkness. Paused as usual outside the front door, pistol in hand, eyes skinned and ears cocked; then he set off for the village and the inn. The air was still warm, and it seemed to him that the spring he'd woken up to that morning had decided to stay on. At least for a few more days.

“Shouldn't we contact the police in Saaren?” said Reinhart when they'd been driving for forty kilometers and the chief inspector hadn't said a word.

“Have you forgotten who's chief of police there?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Oh my God! Yes, of course. Mergens. No, it would be best to keep him out of this.”

Van Veeteren nodded and lit his third cigarette within twenty minutes.

“What the hell would we say to him, anyway?” he said after a while. “Ask him to come down like a ton of bricks on Mrs. Biedersen, and lock her up until we get there?”

Reinhart shrugged.

“He'd like that,” he said. “No, you're right. We'll deal with this ourselves.”

“Can't you go a bit faster?” Van Veeteren wondered.

It was a quarter past eight before deBries managed to get through to Dagmar Biedersen. She had just gotten back from a shopping spree and a last-minute visit to the hairdresser, and she sounded tired. When contact was made with Van Veeteren and Reinhart, it transpired that they were only about ten minutes away from Saaren, and so it was decided that it wasn't necessary to involve other police districts at this stage.

“Good timing,” said Reinhart. “We'll go straight to her place. Tell her we'd like a couple of beers.”

“But what exactly are you implying?” wondered Mrs. Biedersen, placing two protective hands over her new hairdo.

“Can't we sit down somewhere and discuss the whole business quietly and calmly?” Van Veeteren suggested.

Reinhart led the way into the living room and sat down on a red plush sofa. The chief inspector invited Mrs. Biedersen to sit down in one of the armchairs, while he remained standing.

“We have reason to believe that your husband is in danger,” he began.

“In danger?”

“Yes. It's connected with those earlier deaths. Can you tell us where he is at the moment?”

“What? No … well, perhaps, but surely it can't be …”

“I'm afraid it can,” said Reinhart. “Where is he?”

Without warning, Dagmar Biedersen burst into tears. Something had given way inside her, and her meager chest was convulsed by sobbing. Tears came flooding forth.

Oh, hell! Van Veeteren thought.

“My dear Mrs. Biedersen,” he said, “all we want to know is where he is, so that we can sort everything out.”

She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I'm being silly.”

You certainly are, Van Veeteren thought. But answer the question, for Christ's sake.

“He's probably … up at the cottage, I assume. That's where he called me from a few days ago, at least.”

“The cottage?” wondered Reinhart.

“Yes, we have a holiday cottage, or whatever you'd like to call it—it's where he grew up, in fact. We go there sometimes. He often spends time there on his own, as well….”

“Where?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Oh, excuse me. In Wahrhejm, of course.”

“Wahrhejm? And where is Wahrhejm?”

“Excuse me,” she said again. “It's between Ulming and Oostwerdingen. Just a little village. It's about a hundred kilometers from here.”

Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

“Are you sure he's there?”

“No, as I said…. But I think so.”

“Is there a telephone in the cottage?”

“No, I'm afraid not. He usually phones from the inn. He likes to be undisturbed when he's up there.”

Van Veeteren sighed.

“Just our damned luck,” he said. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a couple of minutes, Mrs. Biedersen? The inspector and I need to exchange a few words.”

“Of course,” she said, and vanished into the kitchen.

“Now what?” asked Reinhart when she was out of earshot.