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her we wouldn't survive for more than six months….” He bit his lip and drew at his cigarette. “But everything has changed now, of course. Hell.”
    “So Malik didn't have anything going with her, then?”
    “Malik and Rachel? No, you can bet your life that he didn't.”
    “Really?” said Reinhart. “Okay, I'll take you at your word, then. What about you yourself? Did you have any reason to want him out of the way?”
    Wolff's jaw dropped.
    “That was the most fucking—”
    “There, there, don't get overexcited. You must realize that I have to ask that question. Malik has been murdered, and the fact is that most victims are killed by somebody they know. And you are the person who knew him best, I thought we'd agreed on that already?”
    “He was my business partner, for Christ's sake. One of my best friends …”
    “I know. But if you had a motive even so, it's better for you to tell us what it is yourself rather than leaving us to find out about it later.”
    Wolff sat in silence for a while, thinking about that one.
    “No,” he said eventually. “Why the hell should I want to kill Malik? His share in the firm goes to Ilse and Jacob, and all that will do is to make a mess of everything. You must understand that his death is a shock for me as well, Inspector. I know I sometimes sound a bit brusque, but I'm grieving over his death. I'm missing him as a close friend.”
    Reinhart nodded.
    “I understand,” he said. “I think we'll leave it at that for today, but you'll have to count on us turning up again before long. We are very eager to catch whoever did this.”
    Wolff stood up and flung out his arms.
    “Of course. If there's anything I can do to help … I'm at your disposal at any time.”
    “Good,” said Reinhart. “If anything occurs to you, let us know. Go back to the kids now. How many have you got, incidentally?”
    “Six,” said Wolff. “Three from before and three new ones.”
    “Go forth and multiply, and replenish the earth,” said Rein-hart. “Isn't it a bit of a strain? Er, looking after them all, I mean.”
    Wolff smiled and shook his head.
    “Not at all. The tipping point is four. After that, it makes no difference if you have seven or seventeen.”
    Reinhart nodded, and resolved to bear that in mind.

8
    In their eagerness to sell a few extra copies to casual readers with nothing better to do over the weekend, the Sunday papers made a meal of the Ryszard Malik murder. Bold-print headlines on billboards and front pages, pictures of the victim (while still alive, smiling) and his house, and a double-page spread in both
Neuwe Blatt
and
Telegraaf.
Detailed and noncommittal, but needless to say they were pitching it right—what the hell did people have to keep them occupied on a damp and windy day in January apart from sitting indoors and lapping up the story of somebody who had suffered even more than they were doing?
    Van Veeteren had a subscription to both papers and had no need to stick his nose outside the door in order to buy one. Instead he stayed in all day, reading selected chapters of Rimley's
Famous Chess Games
and listening to Bach. He had paid a brief visit to Leufwens Allé on Saturday evening and established that there was nothing useful for him to do there. The technicians and crime-scene boys had run a fine-tooth comb over both house and garden, and for him to imagine he would be able to find something they'd missed would be to overestimate his abilities. Although it had happened before.
    And in any case, it was not even certain that he would need tobother about it. Hiller would no doubt decide when he emerged from the sea on Monday morning; perhaps he would judge it best for Reinhart and Münster to continue pulling the strings. That would be good, he had to admit. A blessing devoutly to be wished, he thought—if he'd been able to choose a month in which to hibernate or to spend in a deep freeze, he would have gone for January without hesitation.
    If he could