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seems. And evidently she's allowed to.”
    “But you haven't spoken to her yet? Mrs. Malik, I mean.”
    “No. Jung and Heinemann had a go this morning, but they didn't seem to get anywhere.”
    Münster thought for a moment.
    “Perhaps she doesn't have all that much to tell?”
    “No, presumably not. Would you like me to take her on? We'll be allowed in shortly in any case.”
    Münster was only too pleased to agree.
    “No doubt it would be best for her to talk to a woman. I'll stay in the wings for the time being.”
    ·  ·  ·
    Forty-five minutes later they left the hospital together. Sat down in Münster's car, where Moreno took out her notebook and started going through the meager results of her meeting with Ilse Malik. Münster had spoken to Dr. Hübner—an old, white-haired doctor who seemed to have seen more or less everything—and understood that it would probably be several days before the patient could be allowed to undergo more vigorous questioning. Assuming that would be necessary, that is.
    Hübner had called it a state of deep shock. Very strong medicines to begin with, then a gradual reduction. Unable to accept what had happened. Encapsulation.
    Not surprising in the circumstances, Münster thought.
    “What did she actually say?” he asked.
    “Not a lot,” said Moreno with a sigh. “A happy marriage, she claimed. Malik stayed at home yesterday evening while she went to see
A Doll's House
at the Little Theater. Left home about half past six, drank a glass of wine with that friend of hers afterward. Took a taxi home. Then she starts rambling. Her husband had been shot and lay in the hall, she says. She tried to help him but could see that it was serious, so she called an ambulance. She must have delayed that for getting on an hour, if I understand the situation rightly. Fell asleep and managed to injure herself too. She thinks her husband is in this same hospital and wonders why she's not allowed to see him…. It's a bit hard to know how to handle her: the nurse tried to indicate what had happened, but she didn't want to know. Started speaking about something else instead.”
    “What?”
    “Anything and everything. The play—a fantastic production, it seems. Her son. He hasn't time to come because of his studies,she says. He's training to be a banking lawyer, or something of the sort.”
    “He's supposed to be arriving about an hour from now,” said Münster. “Poor bastard. I suppose the doc had better take a look at him as well.”
    Moreno nodded.
    “He'll be staying with his aunt for the time being. We can talk to him tomorrow.”
    Münster thought for a moment.
    “Did you get any indications of a threat, or enemies, or that kind of thing?”
    “No. I tried to discuss such matters, but I didn't get anywhere. I asked her sister, but she had no suspicions at all. Doesn't seem to be hiding anything either. Well, what do we do next, then?”
    Münster shrugged.
    “I suppose we'd better discuss it on Monday with the others. It's a damned horrific business, no matter which way you look at it. Can I drive you anywhere?”
    “Home, please,” said Ewa Moreno. “I've been hanging around here for seven hours now. It's time to spend a bit of time thinking about something else.”
    “Not a bad idea,” Münster agreed, and started the engine.
    Mauritz Wolff opted to be interviewed at home, an apartment in the canal district with views over Langgraacht and Megsje Bois and deserving the description “gigantic.” The rooms were teeming with children of all ages, and Reinhart assumed he must have married late in life—several times, perhaps—as he must surely be well into his fifties. A large and somewhat red-faced man, in anycase, with a natural smile that found it difficult not to illuminate his face, even in a situation like this one.
    “You're very welcome,” he said. “What an awful catastrophe. I'm really shocked, I have to say. I can't take it in.”
    He shooed away a little girl