“And?”

“Not much there; I'm wondering whether we ought to go out on a limb, although that would involve a bit of a risk, of course. We could concentrate on a few possible candidates and leave the rest to their fate. That might give results.”

Hiller thought about that.

“Are there any? Ones who are more likely than the others, that is?”

“Could be,” said Van Veeteren. “I'm looking into that now.”

The chief of police stood up and went over to his plants again. Swayed back and forth with his back to the chief inspector, using his thumbs and index fingers to remove specks of dust from some leaves.

“Do that, then,” he said, turning around. “Use that blasted intuition of yours and make something happen!”

Van Veeteren heaved himself up from the armchair.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“For now,” said the chief of police, gritting his teeth.

“What did he have to say?” asked Reinhart.

“He's nervous,” said the chief inspector, pouring some coffee into a plastic mug. Raised it to his mouth, then paused.

“When was this brewed?” he asked.

Reinhart shrugged.

“February, I should think. This year, in any case.”

There was a knock on the door and Münster came in.

“What did he have to say?”

“He wondered why we hadn't arrested her yet.”

“You don't say,” said Münster.

Van Veeteren leaned back, tasted the coffee, and pulled a face.

“January,” he said. “Typical January coffee. Münster, how many have we failed to get in touch with yet? Of the as-yet-unmurdered, that is.”

“Just a moment,” said Münster, and left the room. Returned a minute later with a piece of paper in his hand.

“Three,” he said.

“Why?” asked the chief inspector.

“They're away,” said Münster. “Two of them on business, one on holiday, visiting his daughter in Argentina.”

“But surely we can get in touch with her?”

“We've sent her a message, but they haven't replied yet. We haven't been pressing all that hard, to be fair…”

Van Veeteren produced the well-thumbed photograph.

“Which of them is it?”

“His name's Delherbes. He lives here in Maardam. It was deBries who talked to him last time.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“And the other two?”

“Biedersen and Moussner,” said Münster. “Moussner is in Southeast Asia somewhere. Thailand and Singapore and so on. He'll be back home before long. Sunday, I think. Biedersen is probably a bit closer to home.”

“Probably?” said Reinhart.

“His wife wasn't very sure. He often goes off on business trips, maintaining contacts now and then, it seems. He runs an import company. England or Scandinavia, she thought.”

“ Scandinavia?” said Reinhart. “What the hell does anybody import from Scandinavia? Amber and wolf skins?”

“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “Has anybody seen Heinemann today?”

“I spent three minutes with him in the canteen this morning,” said Münster. “He seemed pretty worn out.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Could be the grandchildren,” he said. “How many tips have we left to go through?”

“A few hundred, I'd say,” said Reinhart.

The chief inspector forced the remainder of the coffee down, with obvious reluctance.

“All right,” he said. “We'd better make sure we've finished plowing through that shit by Friday. Something had better happen soon.”

“That would be helpful,” said Reinhart. “As long as it's not another one.”

Dagmar Biedersen switched off the vacuum cleaner and listened.

Yes, it was the telephone again. She sighed, went to the hall, and answered.

“Mrs. Biedersen?”

“Yes, that's me.”

“My name is Pauline Hansen. I'm a business acquaintance of your husband's, but I don't think we've met?”

“No… no, I don't think so. My husband's not at home at the moment.”

“No, I know that. I'm calling from Copenhagen. I've tried to get him at the office, but they say he's away on business.”

“That's right,” said Dagmar Biedersen, rubbing a mark off the mirror. “I'm not sure when he's coming home.”

“You don't know where he is?”

“No.”

“That's a pity. I have a piece of business I'd like to discuss with him. I'm sure he'd be interested. It's a very advantageous deal, with rather a lot of money involved; but if I can't get hold of him, well…”

“Well what?” wondered Dagmar Biedersen.

“Well, I suppose I'll have to turn to somebody else. You've no idea where I might be able to contact him?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“If you should hear from him in the next few days, please tell him I've called. I'm certain he'd be interested, as I said…”

“Just a moment,” said Dagmar Biedersen.

“Yes?”

“He phoned the other day and said he'd probably be spending a few days at the cottage as well.”

“The cottage?”

“Yes. We have a little holiday place up in Wahrhejm. It's his childhood home, in fact, although we've done it up a bit, of course. You might be able to catch him there, if you are lucky.”

“Is there a telephone?”

“No, but you can phone the village inn and leave a message for him. But I can't swear that he'll be there at the moment. It was just a thought.”

“Wahrhejm, did you say?”

“Yes, between Ulming and Oostwerdingen. Just a little village. The number is 161621.”

“Thank you very much. I'll give it a try-but even so, if you hear from him, I'd be grateful if you mentioned that I've called.”

“Of course,” said Dagmar Biedersen.

Verbal diarrhea, she thought as she replaced the receiver; when she started the vacuum cleaner again, she'd already forgotten the woman's name.

But the call was from Copenhagen, she did remember that.

35

Dusk was beginning to set in as he drove into Wahrhejm. He turned right at the village's only crossroads, passed the inn, where they had already lit the red lanterns in the windows-the same lanterns, he thought, that had been hanging there ever since he was a child.

He continued past the chapel, Heine's house, and the pond, whose still water looked blacker than ever in the failing light. Passed Van Klauster's house, Kotke's dilapidated old mansion, and then turned left into the little road between the post boxes and the tall pine trees.

He drove in through the opening in the stone wall and parked at the back, as usual. Hid the car from the gaze of the street-an expression his mother used to use that he had never been able to shake off. But today, of course, it was appropriate. The kitchen door was at the back as well, but he didn't unload his food supplies yet. He got out of the car and examined the house first. Outside and inside. The kitchen and the three rooms. The loft. The outbuilding. The cellar.

No sign. She was not here, and hadn't been here. Not yet. He applied the safety catch on his pistol and put it into his jacket pocket.

But she would come. He started unloading the provisions. Switched on the electricity. Started the pump. Allowed the taps to run for a while and flushed the lavatory. Nobody had set foot in the place since October, when he had invited a business acquaintance to spend the weekend there, but everything seemed to be in order. Nothing had given up the ghost during the winter. The refrigerator was humming away. The radiators soon felt warm. The television and radio were working.

For a second or two the pleasure he felt at returning home succeeded in ousting the reason for his visit from his mind. Most of the furniture-as well as the pictures and the tapestries, the hundreds of other little things-were still there and in the same state as when he had been a young boy and the moment of arrival, the first sight of the place again, always brought with it a feeling of leaping back in time. Vertigo-inspiring, instantaneous. And it happened again now. But then, needless to say, the circumstances caught up with him.