“Is it a madman?”

“A person is presumably not totally sane if he goes out and kills three people.”

“Was there any sign of a struggle at Innings's place? Had he tried to defend himself or anything like that?”

“No.”

“What theories do you have? Surely you have more than just this to go on?”

“Do you have a suspect?” the redhead managed to interject.

Van Veeteren shook his head.

“At this stage we don't have a suspect.”

“Is it a man or a woman?”

“Could be either.”

“What's all this about music being played over the telephone?”

“There are indications that suggest the murderer keeps calling his victims for some time before shooting them. He calls them and plays a particular tune over the phone to them.”

“What tune?”

“We don't know.”

“Why? Why does he ring?”

“We don't know.”

“What do you think?”

“We're working on various different possibilities.”

“Had Innings received one of these phone calls?”

“We haven't clarified that as yet.”

“If he had, surely he'd have contacted the police?”

“You would think so.”

“But he hadn't?”

“No.”

There was a pause. Van Veeteren took a sip of soda water.

“How many police officers are working on this case at the moment?” asked Würgner from Neuwe Blatt.

“All available officers.”

“How many is that?”

Van Veeteren did the calculation.

“About thirty Of various ranks.”

“When do you think you'll be able to close the case?”

Van Veeteren shrugged.

“It's not possible to say.”

“Has it got something to do with the armed forces? The link seems to suggest that.”

“No, I would hardly think so,” said Van Veeteren after a moment's thought.

An elderly and unusually patient editor of a crime-magazine program on one of the television channels had been waving his pen for a while, and now managed to get his oar in.

“What exactly do you want help with? Pictures and stuff?”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “We'd like you to publish photographs and names of all the men in the group, and to write about the telephone calls. Ask the general public to pass on to us any possible tips they may have.”

“Why didn't you release the pictures and so on earlier? You must have known about it after the second murder, surely?”

“It wasn't definite,” said Van Veeteren with a sigh. “It was only an indication.”

“But now it's definite?”

“Yes.”

A gigantic man with a long, gray beard-Van Veeteren knew him to be Vejmanen on the Telegraaf-stood up at the back of the room and bellowed in a voice reminiscent of thunder: “Okay. The interviews with Innings's relatives and friends! What results have they produced?”

“We are still conducting them,” said Van Veeteren. “You'll get the details tomorrow.”

“How kind of you,” thundered Vejmanen. “And when do you think we'll have the next victim?”

Van Veeteren blew his nose.

“Our intention is to pick up the killer before he strikes again,” he explained.

“Excellent,” said Vejmanen. “So shall we say that you are in no particular hurry? This business is going to be newsworthy for four or five days at least… Possibly a whole week.”

He sat down, and appreciative laughter could be heard here and there in the audience.

“If I understand it rightly,” said a woman whose clothes and makeup suggested that she was attached to some television program, “you will be providing some kind of protection to all the remaining members of this group. But at the same time, one of them might be the murderer. Won't that be a pretty intricate task?”

“Not really,” said Van Veeteren. “I can promise you that we shall cease to protect the murderer from himself the moment we know who he is.”

“Have you made a profile of the killer?” shouted somebody from the back.

“I can't say we have.”

“Will you be making one?”

“I always make a profile of the perpetrator,” said Van Veeteren, “but I don't normally send it out into the ether.”

“Why not?” asked somebody.

The chief inspector shrugged.

“I don't really know,” he said. “I suppose I hold the old-fashioned view that one ought to stick to the facts when it comes to the media. Theories are best suited to the inside of my head. At least, my theories are. Any more questions?”

“How long is it since you failed to solve a case?”

“About eight years.”

“The G-file?”

“Yes. You seem to know about it… As you can all hear, the level of questioning has sunk. I think we'd better leave it at that.”

“What the hell?” exclaimed the red-haired reporter.

“As I said,” said Van Veeteren, rising to his feet.

“For Christ's sake, this is incredible!” said Reinhart when he, Münster, and Van Veeteren gathered in the chief inspector's office ten minutes later. “The murderer rings the doorbell, is let in, sits down on the sofa, and drinks a cup of tea. Then takes out a gun and kills him. Incredible!”

“And then simply goes away,” Münster added.

“Conclusion?” demanded Van Veeteren.

“He knew him,” said Münster.

“Or her,” said Reinhart.

“You mean the bullet in the balls suggests a her?”

“Yes,” said Reinhart. “I do.”

“But it's hardly any less incredible if it's a woman,” said Münster.

There was a knock on the door and Heinemann came in.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he perched cautiously on the window seat.

“These two are standing here saying it's incredible all the time,” muttered the chief inspector. “I'm just sitting and thinking.”

“I see,” said Heinemann.

“What's everybody else doing?” asked Reinhart.

“Rooth and deBries have gone off to interview the neighbors in a bit more detail,” said Heinemann. “ Moreno and Jung were going to take his workplace, I think you said.”

“That's right,” said Van Veeteren. “There doesn't seem to be much point in looking for a murderer among his relatives and friends in this case, but we have to hear what they have to say. Somebody might have noticed something. You can take this little lot, Münster…”

He handed a list to Münster, who read it as he walked slowly backward through the door.

“Heinemann,” said the chief inspector, “I suggest you continue searching for links… Now you've got an extra one to work on. Let's hope there's a lower common denominator than the whole group.”

Heinemann nodded.

“I think there will be,” he said. “I'm thinking of asking Hiller for a bit of help in getting me permission to look at their bank details.”

“Bank details?” said Reinhart. “What the hell for?”

“There's no harm in having a look,” said Heinemann. “If these three have been up to something, the odds are it won't withstand all that much daylight. And such things usually leave traces in bank accounts. Is there anything else you want me to do, Chief Inspector?”

“No,” said Van Veeteren. “You might as well keep on doing what you've been doing.”

Heinemann nodded. Put his hands in his trouser pockets and left Van Veeteren and Reinhart on their own.

“He's not so thick,” said Reinhart. “It's mainly a question of tempo.”

Van Veeteren took out a toothpick and broke it in half.

“Reinhart,” he said after a while. “Will you be so kind as to explain something for me?”

“Shoot,” said Reinhart.

“If it's as Heinemann says and these three have had some kind of criminal past together, and that they know very well… er, knew very well… who the perpetrator is, why the hell did Innings let him in and serve him tea before allowing himself to be shot?”

Reinhart thought for a while, digging away with a matchstick at the bowl of his pipe.

“Well,” he said eventually. “He-or she, I mean-must have been in disguise, I assume. Or else…”

“Well?”

“Or else they know who it is, but don't know what the person looks like. There's a difference. And it was a long time ago, of course.”