“Yes please,” said Biedersen. “Have you got the photos of your Thai girlfriend?”

“I'll come and show you them in just a minute or two,” said Korhonen. “I just have to serve the ladies first.”

“Okay,” said Biedersen. Took both his glasses and sat down at the empty table in the corner between the bar counter and the kitchen door.

Hell and damnation, he thought. This is an opportunity for camouflage if ever I saw one. I'd better play it safe tonight.

And he felt in his jacket pocket.

41

“What the hell's going on?” wondered Ackermann.

“I don't know,” said Päude, starting the car. “In the middle of the match as well.”

“The match?” said Ackermann. “Fuck the match. I was just about to start pulling her panties down when he phoned. That delicious little Nancy Fischer, you know.”

Päude sighed and switched on the radio to hear the end of the soccer report, instead of having to listen to an account of his colleague's love life-he was treated to enough of that on a regular basis.

“Halfway in, you might say,” said Ackermann.

“What do you think of this Biedersen character?” asked Päude in an attempt to change the subject.

“Cunning,” said Ackermann. “Do you reckon we should just arrest him for vagrancy and wait for further orders? You don't think he's dangerous, do you?”

“Munckel said he wasn't.”

“Munckel can't tell the difference between a hand grenade and a beetroot.”

“Okay, we'd better be a bit careful then. How far is it to Wahrhejm?”

“Eighteen kilometers. We'll be there in ten minutes. Shall we put the siren on, or the light at least?”

“Good God, no! Discretion, Munckel said. But I don't suppose you know what the word means?”

“Of course I do,” said Ackermann. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Another one?” said Korhonen.

“Yes, of course,” said Biedersen. “Must just go and take a leak first. But that's a good-looking piece of skirt you've got there. A hell of a good-looking piece of skirt.”

“Easy to maintain as well,” said Korhonen, smirking.

Biedersen stood up and noticed that he was a bit tipsy. Perhaps it'll be as well to cut out the whiskey and stick to good old beer, he thought as he worked his way past a contingent of women sitting at two long tables and disturbing the peace. Laughing and singing. Apart from himself there were only two male customers in the whole of the bar. The old school janitor who was sitting at his usual table with a newspaper and a carafe of red wine. And an unaccompanied man in a dark suit who had arrived a quarter of an hour ago.

All the rest were women, and he held on to the gun in his jacket pocket as he passed them, with his back to the wall.

Women's Day, he thought as he stood and allowed the beer to take the natural way out. What a bloody silly idea!

The door opened and the man in the dark suit came in. He nodded at Biedersen.

“At least we can get a bit of peace in here,” said Biedersen, gesturing with his head at all the commotion outside. “I've nothing against women, but…”

He broke off and reached for his jacket pocket, but before he had a chance to grab his pistol he heard the same plopping sound twice, and knew it was too late. A dark red flood washed over his eyes, and the last thing he felt, the very last thing of all, was a terrible pain below the belt.

Päude pulled up outside the inn.

“Go in and ask the way,” he said. “I'll wait here.”

“Okay,” said Ackermann with a sigh. “His name's Biedersen, right?”

“Yes,” said Päude. “Werner Biedersen. They're bound to know where he lives.”

Ackermann got out of the car and Päude lit a cigarette. It's a relief to be rid of him for a few minutes, he thought.

But Ackermann was back after ninety seconds.

“Stroke of luck,” he said. “I bumped into a guy on his way out who knew where he lives. Keep going straight ahead, a hundred and fifty meters or so.”

“All right,” said Päude.

“Then turn left,” added Ackermann.

Päude followed the instructions and came to a low stone wall with an opening in it.

“Looks dark in there,” said Ackermann.

“But there's a house there in any case. Take the flashlight and have a look. I'll wait here. I have the window open so you only need to shout if you need me.”

“Wouldn't it be better if you went?” wondered Ackermann.

“No,” said Päude. “Get going.”

“Okay,” said Ackermann.

I'm seven years older, after all, thought Päude as Ackermann got out of the car. With a wife and children, and all that.

The radio suddenly crackled into life.

“Hello. Päude here!”

“Munckel! Where the hell are you?”

“In Wahrhejm, of course. We've just gotten to his house. Ackermann's gone in and…”

“Get him out again! Biedersen's been shot dead in the john at the inn. Get your asses there and cordon the place off!”

“Oh, shit!” said Päude.

“Make sure that not a soul leaves the premises! I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Roger,” said Päude.

More crackling, then Munckel vanished. Päude shook his head.

Oh, shit, he thought again. Then he got out of the car and shouted for Ackermann.

42

It can't be true, I'm dreaming! was the thought that Van Veeteren had sat wrestling with for the last twenty-five minutes. Ever since he heard the report on the radio.

This kind of thing simply doesn't happen. It must be a hoax, or a misunderstanding.

“I swear to God I thought I was dreaming!” said Reinhart as he pulled up. “But we're there now. It looks as if what they said was right.”

Two police cars were already in place. Nose to nose diagonally across the road, with their blue lights flashing. Presumably to inform everybody in the village who had the good fortune to miss the news broadcast, Van Veeteren thought as they hurried into the inn. A uniformed officer was guarding the door, and several others were inside the premises, where the mood of fear and anxiety seemed to be tangible. The customers-almost exclusively women, he was surprised to see-had been herded together behind two tables, and their whispers and low-voiced discussions reached Van Veeteren's ears in the form of an unar-ticulated but long-suffering lament. A fleeting image of cattle about to be slaughtered flashed before his eyes. Or prisoners in concentration camps on their way to the showers. He shuddered, and tried to shake off any such thoughts.

Stop it! he commanded his own thoughts. It's bad enough without you making it any worse.

A man with thinning hair about the same age as Van Veeteren came up to him.

“Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?”

He nodded and introduced Reinhart.

“Munckel. Well, this is a cartload of shit if ever I saw one. He's in there. We haven't touched anything.”

Van Veeteren and Reinhart went to the men's room, where one of the constables was stationed.

“Ackermann,” said Munckel, “let these gentlemen in.”

Van Veeteren peered inside. Studied the lifeless corpse for a few seconds before turning to Reinhart.

“Ah well,” he said. “Exactly the same as usual. We might as well leave him lying there until the forensic team gets here. We can't do anything for him.”

“The silly bugger,” muttered Reinhart.

“When did it happen?” asked the chief inspector.

Munckel looked at the clock.

“Shortly after nine,” he said. “We were alerted at a quarter past-it was Mr. Korhonen who phoned. He's the bartender.”

A dark-haired man in his fifties stepped forward and introduced himself.

“It happened less than an hour ago,” said Van Veeteren. “How many people have left the premises since then?”

“I don't really know,” said Korhonen hesitantly.

“Who found him?”

“I did,” said an elderly man with a loud voice and a checked shirt. “I just went to the john for a pee, and there he was. Shot in the balls as well. A cartload of shit…”