Håkan Nesser - Woman with Birthmark

Despite a rather troublesome cold, Van Veeteren himself went to play badminton with Münster. This was not mentioned on the list of duties on the document placed before the chief of police.

By the time Hiller's full steam ahead was throttled back on Friday and the team was reduced, due to an armed robbery resulting in a fatality in the suburb of Borowice, nothing much had been discovered. Under the supervision of Rooth and Reinhart-and later Münster as well-some seventy interviews had taken place, and the only outcome was that the image of Malik as a somewhat wooden but also reliable person used to taking responsibility had been fully established. Eighty kilos of decency with two left brains, as Reinhart preferred to express it.

And precisely in line with Dr. Hübner's forecast, Ilse Malik had begun to float up toward the surface of the real world out at the New Rumford, even if it was a somewhat precarious journey. In any case, on Wednesday morning she had finally accepted as fact the murder of her husband. Her memories of that Friday evening consequently became a little more consistent in outline, and she was also able to tell them relatively coherently what she had been doing during the day of the murder. It is true that she occasionally relapsed into attacks of hysterical sobbing, but what more could one expect? Her son, Jacob, was present by her side more or less all the time, and if what Moreno had suggested was true-that he had cut himself loose from his mother's apron strings somewhat precipitately-he now seemed to be making up for his youthful rebellion. Of course, he had little choice but to make the most of the hand fate had dealt him.

On Thursday morning something new crept into Ilse Malik's memory. To be sure, the son maintained immediately-in conversation with Heinemann and Moreno, who had also taken up residence at the bedside, with at least one of them permanently present-that it was a typical example of his mother's paranoia. He had heard about similar things before and recommended strongly that the officers shouldn't pay too much attention to it.

However, what Ilse Malik claimed was that somebody had clearly had designs on her husband's life in the week before that fatal Friday. To begin with, they had received strange telephone calls, on two different occasions: on Tuesday and Thursday, if she remembered rightly. Someone had phoned without saying a word-she had only heard music through the receiver, despite the strong words she had used, especially the second time. Ilse Malik had no idea what the music was and what it was supposed to mean, but she was pretty sure that it had been the same tune both times.

Whether or not her husband had received similar calls she had no idea. He certainly hadn't said anything about it.

The other evidence of a plot to take Ryszard Malik's life was that a white Mercedes had attempted to kill him by crashing into his Renault as he was on his way home from work. For want of anything else to follow up, this information was also checked; but in view of the relatively slight damage done to Malik's car, both Heinemann and Moreno decided that the suspicions had no foundation in fact. The owner of the Mercedes in question was a sixty-two-year-old professor of limnology from Geneva, and when they contacted the Swiss police they found no reason to suspect that he might have had murderous intentions when he skidded into Malik's rear end.

As for the rest of Mrs. Malik's revelations, they were mainly a distinctly humdrum description of a humdrum life and marriage, and in view of the changed circumstances with regard to staffing, Van Veeteren decided on Friday to cancel the hospital watch. By this time both Heinemann and Moreno were so bored by the job they had been given that they both volunteered to join the bank-robbery team, which was being led by Reinhart, who was also released from the Malik case-for the time being, at least. Jung and Rooth were also transferred to the newly established team, despite strong objections, especially from the latter, to the prospect of having to work over the weekend.

Which left Van Veeteren and Münster.

Also left was the necessity of attempting to achieve something vaguely reminiscent of a result.

“Have you got any ideas?” ventured Münster as they sat over an early Friday evening beer at Adenaar's.

“None at all,” muttered Van Veeteren, glaring at the rain pattering against the windowpane. “I don't normally have any ideas in this accursed month of the year. We'll have to wait and see.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Münster. “Funny, though. Reinhart thinks the killer is a woman.”

“It's very possible,” sighed the chief inspector. “It's always hard to find a woman. Personally, I've been trying to find one all my life.”

Coming from Van Veeteren and on an occasion such as this, that was almost to be regarded as a heroic attempt at humor. Münster was obliged to cough away a smile.

“At least we can have the weekend off,” he said. “What a relief that we didn't have to go after the bank robber.”

“Maybe. It's a relief for him, too, not to be pestered by us.”

“I expect they'll get him all the same,” said Münster, draining his glass. “There were witnesses, after all. Anyway, I'd better be heading for home. Synn will have left for work by now, and the babysitter gets paid by the hour.”

“Oh dear,” said Van Veeteren. “There's always a cloud on the horizon.”

On Monday it became clear that Münster's prediction had been correct. The bank robber-an unemployed former traffic warden-had been arrested by Rooth and Heinemann early on Sunday morning, following a tip from a woman who had been extremely well dined in one of the best restaurants in town on Saturday evening. The confession came after less than an hour, thanks to some unusually effective interrogation by Reinhart, who was evidently keen to get home as quickly as possible as something important was awaiting him there.

There had been no developments in the Malik case, apart from the fact that Jacob Malik had returned to his studies in Munich. His mother had been on a short visit to her sister's, where she would also be staying until the funeral, which had been fixed for February 3. Some twenty tips had been received from the general public, but none of them was considered to be of any significance for the investigation. When the general run-through and reports took place in the chief of police's leafy office, it was decided to reduce the level of activity to routine, with Van Veeteren in charge. On Saturday there had been a robbery at a jeweler's in the city center-this time, luckily, nobody had been injured; a racist gang had run amok through the immigrant district beyond Zwille and caused a certain amount of damage; and in the early hours of Monday morning an unhappy farmer out at Korrim had shot dead his wife and twelve cows. Obviously, all these incidents required careful investigation.

By now Ryszard Malik had been dead for nearly ten days, and just about as much was known about who had killed him as on the day he died.

Absolutely nothing, zilch.

And January was still limping along.

The feeling of satisfaction was greater than she had expected.

More profound and genuine than she could ever have imagined. For the first time in her adult life she had discovered meaning and equilibrium-or so she imagined. It was hard to put her finger on exactly what it was, but she could feel it in her body. Feel it in her skin and in her relaxed muscles; a sort of intoxication that spread among her nerve fibers like gently frothing bubbles, and kept her at a constantly elevated level of consciousness, totally calm and yet with a feeling of being on a high. As high as the sky. An orgasm, she thought in a state of exhilaration, an orgasm going on for an absurdly long period of time. Only very slowly and gently did it ebb away, subsiding lazily into expectation and anticipation of the next occasion. And the one after that.