He stood beside his car, briefcase in hand, both arms dangling. “Oh, shit,” he said. Nothing happened for the next few days. The following week passed without any incident too. Scholten began to feel calmer. If they had recorded his voice on tape they’d have turned up at the works some time or other. After all, he had given the name of the firm. They’d have come and played everyone the tape and asked: “Do you know this voice?” Perhaps they might yet turn up? For they should at least have come to question Wallmann. This was a murder case when all was said and done. Perhaps they’d summoned Wallmann to the police station? Or perhaps they had gone to his apartment. In the evening. Two of them. They’d stood outside the front door, and when he opened it they’d shown their ID and said: “CID. May we speak to you for a moment, Herr Wallmann?” They had gone into the living room with him and stood there in their raincoats, looking around them. It gave Scholten a fright to think that they might have played Wallmann their tape.
