A gun.

If he was forced to use it, he'd have to tell her the same story he told the police, of course-she would naturally be upset, but his precaution would have been proved to be justified, so why the hell should there be any reason to think otherwise?

But for the time being he decided to keep its existence a secret. That would be the easiest way.

And hope he would never have to use it.

Rely on Biedersen to do his duty.

“I must pay you,” he said. “I don't think I've got as much as eight hundred on me, though…”

“All in good time,” said Biedersen. “If we can take care of this lunatic, we'll settle what we owe as well.”

Innings nodded, and they sat quietly for a while.

“There's one thing I've been thinking about, and that bothers me a bit,” said Biedersen, when they had been served with coffee and each lit a cigarette. “She's behaved in exactly the same way twice now. Surely she can't be so bloody stupid as to do so again?”

No, Innings thought as he left the restaurant five minutes after Biedersen. That's right. Surely she can't be as stupid as that.

The persistent cold-in combination with the occasional beer and too many hot toddies during recent days-meant that it didn't turn out to be much of a match. Perhaps also an accumulated and unsatisfied need for more sleep played a role as well.

In any case, during the third set Münster toyed with the idea of changing hands and playing with his left for a few games; things were not normally as bad as that. However, he knew that if he did so it could be interpreted as an insult, and so he refrained.

Be that as it may, the final scores were 15-5, 15-5, 15-3, and afterward the chief inspector looked as if he needed to be placed on a respirator as quickly as possible.

“I must buy a new racket,” he croaked. “There's no spring left in this old mallet.”

Münster had nothing to say about that, and they made their way slowly to the changing rooms.

After a shower, a change of clothes, and a walk up the stairs to the reception area of the badminton hall, Van Veeteren suddenly felt that he was incapable of staggering as far as his car unless they paused for a beer in the café.

Münster had no choice, of course. He looked at his watch and sighed. Then he rang the babysitter, announced his delayed arrival time, and slumped down opposite the chief inspector.

“Hell and damnation,” announced Van Veeteren when his face had resumed its normal color with the aid of a copious swig of beer. “This case annoys me. It's like a pimple on the bum, if you'll pardon the expression. It just stays where it is, and nothing happens…”

“Or it grows bigger and bigger,” said Münster.

“Until it bursts, yes. And when do you think that will be?”

Münster shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “Haven't Rooth and deBries discovered anything new?”

“Not a dickie bird,” said Van Veeteren. “The military types seem to be a bit worried about the college's reputation, but they don't appear to be holding back any information.”

“And nobody has reported any phone calls with musical accompaniment?”

Van Veeteren shook his head.

“A few have asked for police protection, that's all.”

“Really?”

“I said we'd keep an eye on them.”

“You did?” said Münster. “Shall we, in fact?”

Van Veeteren grunted.

“Needless to say, we keep an eye on all citizens. It's part of a police officer's duty, if you recall.”

Münster took a swig of beer.

“The only thing that's actually happening in this confounded case,” Van Veeteren continued, lighting a cigarette, “is that Heinemann is sitting in some closet searching for a link.”

“What sort of link?”

“Between Malik and Maasleitner, of course. It seems that he's feeling a bit guilty because the Staff College connection was so unproductive. Ah well, we'll see.”

“I expect we shall,” said Münster. “He's good at stumbling over things and finding gold. What do you think?”

Van Veeteren inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke through his nostrils. Like a dragon, Münster thought.

“I don't know what I think. But I think it's damned inconsiderate of a murderer to take such a long time. Something has to happen soon, that's obvious.”

“Is it?” Münster wondered.

“Can't you feel it?” asked Van Veeteren, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Surely you don't imagine it's all over after these two? Malik and Maasleitner? The vaguer the link between the two of them, the more likely it is that they must be a part of a broader context-you don't need to complete the whole jigsaw puzzle in order to discover if it comprises a hundred or a thousand pieces.”

Münster thought that one over.

“What is it, then? The broader context, that is.”

“A good question, Inspector. There's two guilders for you if you can answer it.”

Münster finished his beer and started buttoning up his jacket.

“I really must be going now,” he said. “I promised the babysitter I'd be home in half an hour.”

“All right,” sighed the chief inspector. “All right, I'm coming.”

“What shall we do?” Münster asked as he turned into Klagenburg. “Apart from waiting, I mean.”

“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “I suppose we'll have to have another chat with the group comparatively close to Maasleitner. Given the absence of anything else so far.”

“More questions, then?”

“More questions,” said the chief inspector. “A hell of a lot more questions, and no sign of a good answer.”

“Well, we mustn't lose heart,” said Münster, bringing the car to a halt.

“Ouch,” said Van Veeteren as he started to get out of the car. “I'll be damned if I haven't pulled a muscle.”

“Where?” asked Münster.

“In my body,” said Van Veeteren.

It gradually dawned on him that he'd seen her for the first time at the soccer match on Sunday. Even if he didn't realize it until later.

He'd gone to the match with Rolv, as usual, and she'd been sitting diagonally behind them, a couple of rows back-a woman with large, brown-tinted glasses and a colorful shawl that hid most of her hair. But it was dark, he remembered that distinctly: a few tufts had stuck out. Thirty years of age, or thereabouts. A bit haggard, but he didn't see much of her face.

Later on, when he made an effort to think back and try to understand how he could recall her, he remembered turning around three or four times during the match. There had been a trouble-maker back there shouting and yelling and insulting the referee, making people laugh part of the time, but urging him to shut up as well. Biedersen had never really established who it was; but it must have been then, when he kept turning around and was distracted from the game itself, that he saw her.

He didn't know at the time. Even so, he had registered and committed to memory what she looked like.

She was wearing a light-colored overcoat, just like when she turned up the next time.

Apart from that, almost everything else was different. No glasses, no colorful shawl, her dark hair in a bun, and it was astonishing that he could know nevertheless that it must be her. That was the moment he reacted. The new image was superimposed over the old one, and the penny dropped.

Monday lunchtime. As usual, he was at Mix, with Henessy and Vargas. She came in and stood for ages at the desk, looking around-trying to give the impression that she was looking for an empty seat, presumably, but she wasn't. She was looking for him, and when she'd found him-which must have been at least a minute after he'd seen her-she continued to stand there.

Just stood there. Smiled to herself, it seemed, but continued looking around the premises. Pausing to look more closely at him now and then, for a second or two; thinking back, he found it hard to recall how long this had gone on. It could hardly have been more than a few minutes, but somehow or other that short period felt longer, and afterward, it seemed to him longer than the whole lunch. He hadn't the slightest recollection of what he'd been talking to Henessy and Vargas about.