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  All the people who had suffered. Just in order to …

  His duty. His duty for God's sake, was to kill her. Challenge her on her own terms, then outwit her and obliterate her from the surface of the earth once and for all.

  Eliminate this accursed bitch.

  The anger inside him grew into hatred. Powerful, incandescent hatred coupled with the feeling of having a mission to accomplish, a duty to perform—he was filled with the strength he needed to carry it out.

  Courage. Strength. Determination.

  And the method?

  Was there more than one?

  Two drams. Let it circulate in the mouth, as if it were cognac. The same question over and over again. One evening after the other. More whiskey? The method? Was there more than one?

  No. Only one.

  Lower his guard. Leave himself open.

  Give her the chance to strike first.

  Then parry and kill her.

  That was the way.

  Yes, the Pawlewski Hotel had seen better guests.

  How and where?

  Where? That was the most important thing. Where the hell could he find a corner into which he could entice her without giving her too much of an advantage? He still didn't know what she really looked like—naturally, he had studied the pictures of her printed in the newspapers, but the only sure thing was that she was never going to approach him with an expression like the remarkably peaceful one she had there.

  Another woman this time. No matter what she looked like. Unexpected and completely unknown. But where? Where the hell would he be able to set the trap?

  And how?

  It took a whole night to sketch out the plan, and when he eventually fell asleep in the gray light of dawn, he didn't believe it would still hold water in the cold light of day.

  But it did. On Tuesday, he had lunch in the restaurant for the first time, and when he checked through the plan with the aid of two cups of extra-strong black coffee, he found the occasional crack, but nothing that couldn't be papered over, and nothing wide enough for him to fall through.

  It was watertight.

  · · ·

  Biedersen left the Pawlewski Hotel at about two in the afternoon on Wednesday, February 28. His gaze met that of Mr. Pawlewski behind the reception desk for only a fraction of a second, but that was enough for him to be sure that those remarkably all-seeing yet nothing-seeing eyes would never recall a certain Jürg Kummerle who had spent twelve nights in Room 313.

  In view of this, for the twelve days and nights that had never existed, he gave Mr. Pawlewski an extra hundred-guilder note.

  If she had found him during this dreadful period, she would have won—he knew that. But she hadn't, and now he was ready again.

  34

  “The first of March today,” announced the chief of police, snapping off a withered leaf from a hibiscus. “Take a seat. As I said, I'd like to hear some kind of summary, at the very least. This case is gobbling up a lot of resources.”

  Van Veeteren muttered and flopped down into the shiny leather armchair.

  “Well?”

  “What do you want to know? If I had anything significant to tell you, I'd have done so without your needing to ask me.”

  “Is that something I can rely on?”

  The chief inspector made no reply.

  “We've been guarding and protecting twenty people for two weeks now. Would you like me to tell you how much that costs?”

  “No thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “You can call them off if you like.”

  “Call them off!” exclaimed Hiller, sitting down at his desk. “Can you imagine the headlines if we cancel the protection and she then clobbers another one? We're in a big enough mess as it is.”

  “The headlines won't be any better if we leave things as they are and she picks one off even so.”

  Hiller snorted and started rotating his gold watch around his wrist.

  “What do you mean by that? Are you suggesting that the guards are of no significance? They could be the very thing that's holding her back.”

  “I don't think so,” said Van Veeteren.

  “What do you think, then? For Christ's sake tell me what you do think!”

  The chief inspector took out a toothpick and examined it critically before inserting it into his lower row of teeth. Turned his head and tried to peer out the window through the dense expanse of greenery.

  “I think it's raining. For instance.”

  Hiller opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

  “It's not possible to say,” Van Veeteren continued, after a pause for effect. “Either she's finished, or she's intending to kill more. Whatever, just at the moment she's lying low. Perhaps she's waiting for us to lower our guard … and for the next victim to do the same. Clever. That's what I'd do.”

  Hiller made a noise that the chief inspector was inclined to associate with a horny but unhappy seal.

  “But what are you doing?” he managed to say eventually. “For God's sake tell me what you are doing about it!”

  Van Veeteren shrugged.

  “We're working through tips from the general public,” he said. “Quite a few are still coming in, despite the fact that the newspapers have lost interest.”

  Hiller breathed deeply and tried to look optimistic.

  “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 p
robably 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.

  The circumstances?

  He switched off the lights. He felt at home in the darkness inside the house, and he knew that no matter what happened, he would not need a flashlight in order to find his way around. Neither indoors nor out of doors. He knew every nook and cranny. Every door and creaking stair. Every path, every bush, and every root. Every stone. Everything was in its place, had always been there, and that gave him a feeling of confidence and security—something he might have hoped for during the planning stage, but had hardly dared count on.

  Anyway, the outbuilding.

  He unhasped the door. Dragged the mattress up the stairs as best he could. Placed it carefully by the window. Not much headroom up there. He had to crawl, crouch down. He went back to collect pillows and blankets. It was colder in the outbuilding, there was no source of heat at all, and it was clear that he would have to wrap himself up well.

  He adjusted the mattress to an optimal position under the sloping roof. Lay down, and checked it was all as he'd foreseen.

  Perfect, more or less. He could look out through the slightly rippled, old-fashioned glass pane and see the gable end of the house, with both the front door and the kitchen door in his field of view. The distance was no more than six or eight meters.

  He opened the window slightly. Took out the gun and stuck it out through the opening, moved it back and forth, testing. Took aim.

  Would he hit her at this distance?

  He thought so. Perhaps not accurately enough to kill her outright, but he would probably have time for three or four shots.

  That should be sufficient. He was not a bad marksman, even though it had been several years since he'd been out with the hunting club up here.

  He returned to the house. Ferried over a few more blankets and some of the provisions. The idea was that he would spend his time lying here. Spend as much time as possible in the correct position in the outbuilding loft.

  He would be lying here when she came.

  He would ambush her and give her the coup de grâce.

  He would finish off the mad bitch once and for all through this open window.

  Pure luck, he would tell the police afterward. It could just as easily have been she who got me instead…. Good thing I was on my guard.

  Self-defense. Of course it was self-defense, for God's sake—he didn't even need to lie.

  But he would not reveal the real reason. The
root of the evil. The reason he knew he was next on the list.

  He had done all he could. Went back to the house and listened.

  It's strange how quiet it is, he thought, and remembered that this was what he always felt here. The silence that came rolling in from the forest and obliterated every slight sound. Wiped out everything with its enormous, silent soughing.

  The armies of silence, he thought. The Day of Judgment …

  He checked his watch and decided to pay a visit to the inn. A short walk there and back, along the familiar road.

  Just for a beer. And, maybe, the answer to a question.

  Any strangers around lately?

  Any new faces?

  When he got back, the darkness lay thick over the house and its environs. The buildings and the scraggy fruit trees could just about be made out against the background of the forest—rather better here and there against the somewhat lighter sky over the treetops. He had drunk two beers and a whiskey. Spoken to Lippmann and Korhonen, who had charge of the bar nowadays. Not a lot of customers, of course: a normal weekday at the beginning of March. And not many strangers, not recently, either. The occasional one who had passed through and called in, but nobody who had been there more than once. Women? No, no, not as far as they could remember. Neither Lippmann nor Korhonen. Why was he asking? Oh, business reasons. Nudge, nudge. Did he really think they would swallow that? Pull the other one. Tee hee. And cheers! Good to see you back here in the village.

  Homecoming.

  He tiptoed over the wet grass. It hadn't rained at all this evening, but damp mists had drifted in from the coast and settled down over the open countryside bordering the forests like an unseen presence. He kept stopping and listening, but all he could hear was the same impenetrable silence as before. Nothing else. He withdrew behind the outbuilding in order to rid his body of the remnants of the beer. Carefully opened the door, which usually squeaked a bit but didn't on this occasion. He would oil it tomorrow, just in case.

  Crouched down in order to negotiate the cramped staircase again, and crawled over to his bed. Fiddled around with the blankets. Wriggled in and snuggled down. Turned over on his side and peered out. The house was dark and inert down below. Not a sound. Not a movement. He slid the pistol under his pillow, and placed his hand over it. He would have to sleep lightly, of course—but then, he usually did.