And it was winking at him this very moment.

The signal. That red warning light.

Naturally, there were plenty of other reasons for using a tape recorder in a telephone booth; he was the first to admit that. It was simply that he didn't want to believe them, had no desire to do so. He wanted this to be the breakthrough, that was the bottom line.

“So she's in there?” he said, indicating with his head.

She nodded.

“Maria Adler?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if she's there at the moment?”

Katrine Kroeller shook her head. Her ponytail waved back and forth.

“No. I haven't seen her today. But she's very quiet, so it's possible she's in.”

Van Veeteren stood up and tried to work things out. If he were to follow the police rule book, the correct procedure in this situation would naturally be to phone for reinforcements. There ought to be several officers involved. The woman in that room could very well be the person who had shot dead, in cold blood, three of her fellow human beings during the last month. She had a gun, and presumably ammunition, and she didn't normally miss.

He didn't even have his police weapon with him. As usual, it ought to be said.

So of course he ought to phone. It wouldn't take long for a few more officers to get here.

He looked around.

“May I borrow this?” he said, picking up an oblong-shaped wooden statuette standing on a bookshelf. Presumably African. Easy to handle. Three-quarters of a kilo, or thereabouts.

“Why?”

He didn't answer. Stood up and went out into the hall. Katrine Kroeller followed him hesitantly.

“The next door here?”

She nodded.

“Go back to your room.”

She reluctantly did as she was told.

With his left hand he slowly depressed the door handle. His right hand was clutching the statuette. He noticed that he was still sweating a little after the sauna.

The door opened. He burst in.

It took him less than two seconds to register that the room was empty.

More than empty.

Abandoned. The tenant who had been living here had left and had no intention of returning.

She had moved somewhere else.

“Shit!” he exclaimed.

Stood motionless for a few more seconds, looking at the barren room.

No personal belongings. No clothes. No dishes drying in the kitchenette alcove. The bed made in such a way that you could see there were no sheets. Just a pillow, a blanket, and a quilt.

“Shit!” he muttered again, and went back out into the hall.

Miss Kroeller peeped out through her door.

“She's done a runner,” said Van Veeteren. “Go and fetch… what's the name of your landlady?”

“Mrs. Klausner.”

“Yes, that's the one. Tell her I want to speak to her in your room immediately. When did you last see Miss Adler, by the way?”

Katrine Kroeller thought for a moment.

“Er, yesterday, I think. Yes, yesterday afternoon.”

“Here?”

“Yes, on the staircase. We just happened to pass.”

Van Veeteren pondered that.

“Okay, fetch Mrs. Klausner. Is it possible for me to use this telephone?”

She opened the door of the booth and keyed in her personal code.

“It's all yours,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren, and dialed the number to the police station.

Two minutes later, he was talking to Reinhart.

“I think we've found her,” Van Veeteren said. “But she's done a runner.”

“Oh, shit!” said Reinhart. “Where?”

“Deijkstraa. Parkvej 31. Get yourself here with some of the forensic guys. Fingerprints, the lot. Münster as well. I'll be expecting you twenty seconds from now.”

“We'll be there in ten,” said Reinhart, and hung up.

29

“What time is it?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Half past five,” said Reinhart.

“All right. Let's have a summary, Münster. And those of you who've been lounging around at home, sit up and listen carefully.”

For the last half hour the investigation team had been all present and accounted for-apart from Jung and Moreno, who had succeeded in remaining incommunicado all afternoon. It was still Saturday, February 17, and they had achieved a breakthrough.

Or a possible breakthrough, at least.

Münster leafed through his notepad.

“This woman,” he began, “calling herself Maria Adler, moved into Mrs. Klausner's house-into one of the four rooms she has to let-on Sunday, January fourteenth. A month ago, in other words. She said she had enrolled for a three-month economics course at the Elizabeth Institute. There is in fact such a course, which started on January fifteenth, but it lasts for only six weeks, and they've never heard of Maria Adler. When she moved in she paid the rent for half the occupation in advance, she never mixed with any of the other tenants, and she seems to have vacated her room once and for all yesterday afternoon, or possibly yesterday evening. The reason why we know about her is that Katrine Kroeller-one of the other tenants-had seen her with a tape recorder pressed up against the receiver in a phone booth, and she let us know about it after having read in the newspapers about that telephone music… Well, that's about it, more or less.”

“Is that all we have to go on?” asked deBries after a pause. “It doesn't sound all that convincing…”

“That's all we have so far,” said Reinhart. “But she's the one, I can feel it in my bones.”

“So far we've found four different Maria Adlers nationwide,” said Münster, “but she's not any of them. I expect we'll find another one or two, but I've no doubt we can assume that she has been using a false name.”

“Didn't this landlady check up on what kind of people she let rooms to?” asked Rooth.

“Mrs. Klausner assumes the best in people,” Reinhart explained. “She doesn't know how old she was, nor where she came from-nothing… She assumed the best because her prospective tenant paid half the rent in advance.”

“Our technicians have gone over the room with a fine-tooth comb,” said Münster. “So we can take it that we have her fingerprints, at least. And if she's on our database, we can identify her.”

“Are you saying she simply cleared off?” asked Heinemann, holding up his glasses against the ceiling light to check that his polishing had been effective.

“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “That's what's so damned frustrating. If only that girl had phoned us yesterday instead, we'd have had her by now.”

“Typical,” said Rooth. “What does she look like?”

Reinhart sighed.

“That bloody artist is in my office with Mrs. Klausner, the girl who rang us, and another of the tenants. He's been sketching away for over an hour now, but he says he needs a bit more time…”

“A photofit picture?” said deBries. “Don't we have an actual photo?”

“No,” said Münster. “But it's not really what you would call a photofit picture. They've seen her every day, more or less, for over a month. It will be just as accurate as a photograph.”

“And it will be in every damn tabloid tomorrow morning,” Reinhart growled.

“Hmm,” said Heinemann. “But what if it isn't her after all? It could just be somebody who's run away from her husband. Or something of the sort. As far as I understand it, there's nothing definite…”

Van Veeteren blew his nose, long and loud.

“Damned cold,” he said. “Yes, you're right, of course. But we'll take the risk. I also have the distinct impression she's the one.”

“If she's innocent, no doubt we'll be hearing from her,” Reinhart said.

“But the opposite also applies,” said deBries. “If we hear nothing from anybody, we can assume that she's the one.”

“We can also assume that she'll change her appearance a bit,” said Münster.

“I'm sure you're right,” said Van Veeteren.

Nobody spoke for a while.

“I wonder where she's gone to,” said Rooth.

“And why,” said Reinhart. “Dammit all, there are so many important questions. Why did she do a runner just now?”