Woman with Birthmark (4 page)

Needless to say it was impossible to go back to sleep. He gave up at a quarter to nine and went to lie down in the bath instead. Lay there in the half-light and thought back to the previous evening, which he'd spent at the Mephisto restaurant with Renate and Erich.

The former wife and the lost son. (Who had still not returned and didn't seem to have any intention of doing so.) It had been one of Renate's recurrent attempts to rehabilitate her guilty conscience and the family that had never existed, and the result was just as unsuccessful as one might have expected. The conversation had been like walking on thin ice over dark waters. Erich had left them halfway through dessert, giving as an excuse an important meeting with a lady. Then they had sat there, ex-husband and ex-wife, over a cheese board of doubtful quality, going through agonies as they tried to avoid hurting each other any more than necessary. He had seen her into a taxi shortly after midnight and walked all the way home in the pious hope that the biting wind would whip his brain free from all the murky thoughts lurking inside it.

That had failed completely. When he got home he had slumped into an armchair and listened to Monteverdi for an hour, drunk three beers, and not gone to bed until nearly half past one.

A wasted evening, in other words. But typical, that was for sure. Very typical. Mind you, it was January. What else could he have expected?

He got out of the bath. Did a couple of tentative back exercises in front of the bedroom mirror. Dressed, made breakfast.

Sat down at the kitchen table with the morning paper spread out in front of him. Not a word about the murder. Naturally enough. It must have happened as the presses were rolling…. Or whatever the presses did nowadays. What was the name of the victim? Malik?

What had Reinhart said? Leufwens Allé? He had a good mind to phone the inspector and ask a few questions, but pricks of conscience from his better self, or whatever it might have been, got the upper hand, and he refrained. He would find out all he needed to know soon enough. No need to hurry. Better to make the most of the hours remaining before the whole thing got under way, perhaps. There hadn't been a murder since the beginning of December, despite all the holidays, and if it really was as Reinhart said, an awkward-looking case, no doubt they would have their hands full for some time to come. Reinhart generally knew what he was talking about. More so than most of them.

He poured himself another cup of coffee, and started studying the weeks chess problem. Mate in three moves, which would presumably involve a few complications.

·  ·  ·

“All right,” said Reinhart, putting down his pipe. “The facts of the case. At six minutes past one this morning, an ambulance driver, Felix Hald, reported that there was a dead body at Leufwens Allé 14. They'd gone there because the woman of the house, Ilse Malik, had phoned for an ambulance. She was extremely confused, and had failed to contact the police even though her husband was as dead as a statue…. Four bullet wounds, two in his chest, two below the belt.”

“Below the belt?” wondered Inspector Rooth, his mouth full of sandwich.

“Below the belt,” said Reinhart. “Through his willy, if you prefer. She'd come home from the theater, it seems, at about midnight or shortly before, and found him lying in the hall, just inside the door. The weapon seems to be a Berenger-75; all four bullets have been recovered. It seems reasonable to suspect that a silencer was used, since nobody heard anything. The victim is fifty-two years old, one Ryszard Malik. Part owner of a firm selling equipment for industrial kitchens and restaurants, or something of the sort. Not in our records, unknown to us, no shady dealing as far as we are aware. Nothing at all. Hmm, is that it, Heinemann, more or less?”

Inspector Heinemann took off his glasses and started rubbing them on his tie.

“Nobody noticed a thing,” he said. “We've spoken to the neighbors, but the house is pretty well protected. Hedges, big yards, that sort of thing. It looks as if somebody simply walked up to the door, rang the bell, and shot him when he opened up. There's no sign of a struggle or anything. Malik was alone at home, solving a crossword and sipping a glass of whiskey while his wife was at the theater. And then, it seems the murderer just
closed the door and strolled off. Quite straightforward, if you want to look at it from that point of view.”

“Sound method,” said Rooth.

“That's for sure,” said Van Veeteren. “What does his wife have to say?”

Heinemann sighed. Nodded toward Jung, who gave every sign of finding it difficult to stay awake.

“Not a lot,” Jung said. “It's almost impossible to get through to her. One of the ambulance men gave her an injection, and that was probably just as well. She woke up briefly this morning. Went on about Ibsen—I gather that's a writer. She'd been to the theater, we managed to get that confirmed by a woman she'd been with … a Bernadette Kooning. In any case, she can't seem to grasp that her husband is dead.”

“You don't seem to be quite with it either,” said Van Veeteren. “How long have you been awake?”

Jung counted on his fingers.

“A few days, I suppose.”

“Go home and go to bed,” said Reinhart.

Jung stood up.

“Is it okay if I take a taxi? I can't tell the difference between right and left.”

“Of course,” said Reinhart. “Take two if you need them. Or ask one of the duty officers to drive you.”

“Two?” said Jung as he staggered to the door. “No, one should do.”

Nobody spoke for a while. Heinemann tried to smooth down the creases in his tie. Reinhart contemplated his pipe. Van Veeteren inserted a toothpick between his lower front teeth and gazed up at the ceiling.

“Hmm,” he said eventually. “Quite a story, I must say. Has Hiller been informed?”

“He's away by the seaside,” said Reinhart.

“In January?”

“I don't think he intends to go swimming. I've left a message for him in any case. There'll be a press conference at five o'clock; I think it would be best if you take it.”

“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I'll need only thirty seconds.”

He looked around.

“Not much point in allocating much in the way of resources yet,” he decided. “When do they say his wife is likely to come around? Where is she, incidentally?”

“The New Rumford Hospital,” said Heinemann. “She should be able to talk this afternoon. Moreno's there, waiting.”

“Good,” said Van Veeteren. “What about family and friends?”

“A son at university in Munich,” said Reinhart. “He's on his way here. That's about all. Malik has no brothers or sisters, and his parents are dead. Ilse Malik has a sister. She's also waiting at the Rumford.”

“Waiting for what, you might ask?” said Rooth.

“Very true,” said Van Veeteren. “May I ask another question, gentlemen?”

“Please do,” said Reinhart.

“Why?” said Van Veeteren, taking out the toothpick.

“I've also been thinking about that,” said Reinhart. “I'll get back to you when I've finished.”

“We can always hope that somebody will turn himself in,” said Rooth.

“Hope springs eternal,” said Reinhart.

Van Veeteren yawned. It was sixteen minutes past three on Saturday, January 20. The first run-through of the Ryszard Malik case was over.

Münster parked outside the New Rumford Hospital and jogged through the rain to the entrance. A woman in reception dragged herself away from her crochet work and sent him up to the fourth floor, Ward 42; after explaining why he was there and producing his ID, he was escorted to a small, dirt-yellow waiting room with plastic furniture and eye-catching travel posters on the walls. It was evidently the intention to give people the opportunity of dreaming that they were somewhere else. Not a bad idea, Münster thought.

There were two women sitting in the room. The younger one, and by a large margin the more attractive of the two, with a mop of chestnut-brown hair and a book in her lap, was Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno. She welcomed him with a nod and an encouraging smile. The other one, a thin and slightly hunchbacked woman in her fifties, wearing glasses that concealed half her face, was fumbling nervously inside her black purse. He deduced that she must be Marlene Winther, the sister of the woman who had just been widowed. He went up to her and introduced himself.

“Münster, Detective Inspector.”

She shook his hand without standing up.

“I realize that this must be difficult for you. Please understand that we are obliged to intrude upon your grief and ask some questions.”

“The lady has already explained.”

She glanced in the direction of Moreno. Münster nodded.

“Has she come around yet?”

Moreno cleared her throat and put down her book. “She's conscious, but the doctor wants a bit of time with her first. Perhaps we should … ?”

Münster nodded again: they both went out into the corridor, leaving Mrs. Winther on her own.

“In deep shock, it seems,” Moreno explained when they had found a discreet corner. “They're even worried about her mental state. She's had trouble with her nerves before, and all this hasn't helped, of course. She's been undergoing treatment for various problems.”

“Have you interviewed her sister?”

Moreno nodded.

“Yes, of course. She doesn't seem all that strong either. We're going to have to tiptoe through the tulips.”

“Hostile?”

“No, not really. Just a touch of the big-sister syndrome. She's used to looking after little sister, it seems. And evidently she's allowed to.”

“But you haven't spoken to her yet? Mrs. Malik, I mean.”

“No. Jung and Heinemann had a go this morning, but they didn't seem to get anywhere.”

Münster thought for a moment.

“Perhaps she doesn't have all that much to tell?”

“No, presumably not. Would you like me to take her on? We'll be allowed in shortly in any case.”

Münster was only too pleased to agree.

“No doubt it would be best for her to talk to a woman. I'll stay in the wings for the time being.”

·  ·  ·

Forty-five minutes later they left the hospital together. Sat down in Münster's car, where Moreno took out her notebook and started going through the meager results of her meeting with Ilse Malik. Münster had spoken to Dr. Hübner—an old, white-haired doctor who seemed to have seen more or less everything—and understood that it would probably be several days before the patient could be allowed to undergo more vigorous questioning. Assuming that would be necessary, that is.

Hübner had called it a state of deep shock. Very strong medicines to begin with, then a gradual reduction. Unable to accept what had happened. Encapsulation.

Not surprising in the circumstances, Münster thought.

“What did she actually say?” he asked.

“Not a lot,” said Moreno with a sigh. “A happy marriage, she claimed. Malik stayed at home yesterday evening while she went to see
A Doll's House
at the Little Theater. Left home about half past six, drank a glass of wine with that friend of hers afterward. Took a taxi home. Then she starts rambling. Her husband had been shot and lay in the hall, she says. She tried to help him but could see that it was serious, so she called an ambulance. She must have delayed that for getting on an hour, if I understand the situation rightly. Fell asleep and managed to injure herself too. She thinks her husband is in this same hospital and wonders why she's not allowed to see him…. It's a bit hard to know how to handle her: the nurse tried to indicate what had happened, but she didn't want to know. Started speaking about something else instead.”

“What?”

“Anything and everything. The play—a fantastic production, it seems. Her son. He hasn't time to come because of his studies,
she says. He's training to be a banking lawyer, or something of the sort.”

“He's supposed to be arriving about an hour from now,” said Münster. “Poor bastard. I suppose the doc had better take a look at him as well.”

Moreno nodded.

“He'll be staying with his aunt for the time being. We can talk to him tomorrow.”

Münster thought for a moment.

“Did you get any indications of a threat, or enemies, or that kind of thing?”

“No. I tried to discuss such matters, but I didn't get anywhere. I asked her sister, but she had no suspicions at all. Doesn't seem to be hiding anything either. Well, what do we do next, then?”

Münster shrugged.

“I suppose we'd better discuss it on Monday with the others. It's a damned horrific business, no matter which way you look at it. Can I drive you anywhere?”

“Home, please,” said Ewa Moreno. “I've been hanging around here for seven hours now. It's time to spend a bit of time thinking about something else.”

“Not a bad idea,” Münster agreed, and started the engine.

Mauritz Wolff opted to be interviewed at home, an apartment in the canal district with views over Langgraacht and Megsje Bois and deserving the description “gigantic.” The rooms were teeming with children of all ages, and Reinhart assumed he must have married late in life—several times, perhaps—as he must surely be well into his fifties. A large and somewhat red-faced man, in any
case, with a natural smile that found it difficult not to illuminate his face, even in a situation like this one.

“You're very welcome,” he said. “What an awful catastrophe. I'm really shocked, I have to say. I can't take it in.”

He shooed away a little girl clinging on to his trouser leg. Reinhart looked around. Wondered if a woman ought to put in an appearance from somewhere or other before long.

“Not a bad apartment you have here,” he said. “Is there anywhere we can talk in peace and quiet?”

“Follow me,” said Wolff, clearing a way through a corridor to a room that evidently served as a library and study. He closed the door and locked it. Invited Reinhart to sit down on one of two armchairs by a low smoking table, and sat down heavily in the other one.

“Too awful,” he said again. “Have you any idea who might have done it?”

Reinhart shook his head.

“Have you?”

“Not the remotest.”

“Did you know him well?”