hair, about forty, probably a feminist. She’d sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Quite a long way away from him. With a newspaper, he seemed to recall. That was all.
‘If there had been a second bar, she would no doubt have sat there instead,’ said Rooth when herr Pilzen had waddled out on his unsteady legs. ‘You fat slob.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘People get like that when they’ve too much money and no lofty interests. You’d become like that as well. If you had any money, that is.’
‘Go and fetch the next one,’ said Rooth.
The next one turned out to be a couple. Herr and fru Schwarz, who didn’t live in Dikken but had been visiting somebody they knew out there to discuss business. Exactly what was irrelevant. On the way back they had stopped off at the Commedia for a meal, a little luxury they granted themselves occasionally. Going out for a meal. Not just to Trattoria Commedia, but to restaurants in general. Especially now, when they had more or less retired. Yes indeed. Just once or twice a week.
They were both around sixty-five, and recognized Erich Van Veeteren immediately when Jung produced the photographs. He had been eating – a simple pasta dish, if fru Schwartz remembered rightly – at a table a few metres away from their own. They had ordered fish. Turbot, to be precise. Yes, the young man had been on his own. He had paid and left the restaurant at more or less the same time as they were being served their dessert. Shortly after six.
Were there any other guests while they were eating?
Just a young couple sitting further back in the restaurant section. They arrived shortly before six and probably ordered that same cheap pasta dish. Both of them. They were still there when herr and fru Schwartz had finished. Half past six or thereabouts.
Had they noticed anything else of interest?
No – such as?
Had they noticed any customers sitting in the bar?
No, they couldn’t see the bar from their table.
Was there anybody there when they passed through on the way out?
Maybe, they weren’t sure. Oh yes, a little man in a dark suit, that’s right. A bit dark-skinned, in fact. An Arab, perhaps. Or an Indian or something like that.
Rooth ground his teeth. Jung thanked them, and promised – in response to fru Schwartz’s pressing request – that they would make sure they had the murderer under lock and key in a trice.
Because it was terrible. In Dikken of all places. Did they recall that whore who was crucified there a few years ago?
Yes, they did – but thank you very much, they must now talk to the next representative of that great detective, the general public.
Her name was Lisen Berke. She was in her forties, and had been in the bar at the Trattoria Commedia between a quarter to six and half past, approximately. She declined to explain why she had gone there – she had the right to go for a drink wherever she liked if she felt like it, for God’s sake.
‘Of course you do,’ said Jung.
‘Or two,’ said Rooth. ‘Come to that.’
‘Do you recognize this person?’ Jung asked, showing her the photographs.
She studied them for three seconds then shook her head for four.
‘He was sitting at one of the tables in the restaurant, between—’
‘Is he the one who’s been killed?’ she interrupted.
‘Yes,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No. I was sitting reading my paper.’
‘I see,’ said Rooth.
‘You see?’ said Berke, eyeing Rooth over the top of her octagonal spectacles.
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘Were there any other customers in the bar?’
She dragged her eyes away from Rooth, and thought that one over.
‘Two, I think . . . Yes, first of all there was a fat managerial type hanging around, but he didn’t stay long. Then a very different type appeared. Long hair and beard. Dark glasses as well, I seem to remember . . . Looked like some kind of rock star. Macho, out and out. Depraved.’
‘Did you speak to him?’ Jung asked.
Lisen Berke snorted
‘If there had been a second bar, she would no doubt have sat there instead,’ said Rooth when herr Pilzen had waddled out on his unsteady legs. ‘You fat slob.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘People get like that when they’ve too much money and no lofty interests. You’d become like that as well. If you had any money, that is.’
‘Go and fetch the next one,’ said Rooth.
The next one turned out to be a couple. Herr and fru Schwarz, who didn’t live in Dikken but had been visiting somebody they knew out there to discuss business. Exactly what was irrelevant. On the way back they had stopped off at the Commedia for a meal, a little luxury they granted themselves occasionally. Going out for a meal. Not just to Trattoria Commedia, but to restaurants in general. Especially now, when they had more or less retired. Yes indeed. Just once or twice a week.
They were both around sixty-five, and recognized Erich Van Veeteren immediately when Jung produced the photographs. He had been eating – a simple pasta dish, if fru Schwartz remembered rightly – at a table a few metres away from their own. They had ordered fish. Turbot, to be precise. Yes, the young man had been on his own. He had paid and left the restaurant at more or less the same time as they were being served their dessert. Shortly after six.
Were there any other guests while they were eating?
Just a young couple sitting further back in the restaurant section. They arrived shortly before six and probably ordered that same cheap pasta dish. Both of them. They were still there when herr and fru Schwartz had finished. Half past six or thereabouts.
Had they noticed anything else of interest?
No – such as?
Had they noticed any customers sitting in the bar?
No, they couldn’t see the bar from their table.
Was there anybody there when they passed through on the way out?
Maybe, they weren’t sure. Oh yes, a little man in a dark suit, that’s right. A bit dark-skinned, in fact. An Arab, perhaps. Or an Indian or something like that.
Rooth ground his teeth. Jung thanked them, and promised – in response to fru Schwartz’s pressing request – that they would make sure they had the murderer under lock and key in a trice.
Because it was terrible. In Dikken of all places. Did they recall that whore who was crucified there a few years ago?
Yes, they did – but thank you very much, they must now talk to the next representative of that great detective, the general public.
Her name was Lisen Berke. She was in her forties, and had been in the bar at the Trattoria Commedia between a quarter to six and half past, approximately. She declined to explain why she had gone there – she had the right to go for a drink wherever she liked if she felt like it, for God’s sake.
‘Of course you do,’ said Jung.
‘Or two,’ said Rooth. ‘Come to that.’
‘Do you recognize this person?’ Jung asked, showing her the photographs.
She studied them for three seconds then shook her head for four.
‘He was sitting at one of the tables in the restaurant, between—’
‘Is he the one who’s been killed?’ she interrupted.
‘Yes,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No. I was sitting reading my paper.’
‘I see,’ said Rooth.
‘You see?’ said Berke, eyeing Rooth over the top of her octagonal spectacles.
‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘Were there any other customers in the bar?’
She dragged her eyes away from Rooth, and thought that one over.
‘Two, I think . . . Yes, first of all there was a fat managerial type hanging around, but he didn’t stay long. Then a very different type appeared. Long hair and beard. Dark glasses as well, I seem to remember . . . Looked like some kind of rock star. Macho, out and out. Depraved.’
‘Did you speak to him?’ Jung asked.
Lisen Berke snorted
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