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you, she’d have had plenty of time to get rid of
the knife – half an hour, at least.’
    ‘Did anybody see her while she was taking that walk?’ Heinemann wondered.
    Münster shook his head.
    ‘Nobody has reported having done so yet, in any case. How’s the door-to-door going?’
    Krause stretched.
    ‘We’ll have finished by this evening,’ he said. ‘But everything she says is unverified so far. And it’s likely to stay that way – the streets were pretty
deserted, and there’s not much reason to stand gaping out of the window at that time either. But she ought to have passed Dusar’s cafe, where there were a few customers. We’ll
check there this evening. But it was raining, as I said . . .’
    Münster turned over a page.
    ‘The relatives,’ he said. ‘Three children. Between forty and fifty or thereabouts. Two of them are travelling here today and tomorrow – I’ve arranged to meet them.
The elder daughter is in a psychiatric home somewhere, and I don’t think we have any reason to disturb her . . . No, I don’t suppose any of us thinks it’s a family affair, do
we?’
    ‘Does anybody think anything at all?’ muttered Moreno, gazing down into her empty coffee mug.
    ‘I do,’ said Rooth. ‘My theory is that Leverkuhn was murdered. Shall we move on to the old codgers?’
    Moreno and Jung reported on their visits to Wauters and Palinski, and the failed attempts to contact Bonger. Meanwhile Münster contemplated Moreno’s knees and thought about Synn.
Rooth ate two more Danish pastries and Heinemann polished his thumbnails with his tie. Münster wondered vaguely if there really was a mood of despondency and a lack of active interest hanging
over the whole group, or if it was just he who was affected. It was hard to say, and he made no effort to answer his own question.
    ‘So he’s disappeared, has he?’ said Rooth when Moreno and Jung had finished. ‘Bonger, I mean.’
    Jung shrugged.
    ‘In any case, he hasn’t been home since last Saturday night.’
    Krause cleared his throat to show signs of enthusiasm.
    ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Four old codgers, and two of them have gone. There must be a connection, surely. If they’ve all managed to hang on until they are
past seventy, it’s surely pretty unlikely that one of them would disappear naturally the same night as another of them is murdered!’
    ‘“Disappear naturally”?’ said Jung. ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘What’s it to do with their age?’ Heinemann asked, frowning. ‘I’ve always been under the impression that your chances of dying are greater, the older you get.
Isn’t that the case? Statistically, I mean . . .’
    He looked round the table. Nobody seemed inclined to answer. Münster avoided his gaze and looked out of the window instead. Noted that it had started raining again. How old is Heinemann? he
asked himself.
    ‘Anyway,’ said Rooth, ‘it’s possible of course that there’s a connection here. Do the other oldies know whether Bonger returned home at all on Saturday?’
    Jung and Moreno looked at each other.
    ‘No,’ said Jung. ‘Not as far as they’ve told us, in any case. Shall we give ’em a grilling?’
    ‘Let’s wait for a bit with that,’ said Münster. ‘Tomorrow morning . . . If Bonger hasn’t turned up by then, presumably there’s something funny going on.
He isn’t normally away from his boat for more than a few hours at a time, isn’t that what you said?’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Jung.
    Silence again. Rooth scraped up a few crumbs from the empty plate where the pastries had been, and Heinemann returned to cleaning his glasses. Krause looked at the clock.
    ‘Anything else?’ he wondered. ‘What do we do now? Speculate?’
    Nobody seemed especially enthusiastic about that either, but eventually Rooth said:
    ‘A madman, I’ll bet two cocktail sausages on it. An unplanned murder. The only motive we’ll ever find will be a junkie as high as a kite – or