This would be an ideal place to have an accident, Van
Veeteren thought.
When he reached the bottom, he found himself next to the graveyard-St. Pieter’s Church, if he remembered rightly the graveyard that looked out over the sea. It must have been leveled and terraced at some point in the past when they started to use it, he thought, and he spent a little time wonder ing what it was really like down there in the loose, artificial earth among all the caskets and cavities. He noticed the outline of The See Warf on the other side of the graves, and decided to take the most direct route.
He threaded his way through the graveyard, zigzagging along the raked gravel paths. As he passed the gravestones, he read a year here, a name there; but it was not until he’d passed through them all and was about to open the gate and leave the cemetery from the other side that he noticed him: Chief
Inspector Bausen’s burly figure, head bowed, standing by one of the memorial stones.
What had he said? Two years ago?
He couldn’t be sure if the chief of police was actually pray ing. He found that hard to believe; but in any case, there was something solemn and spiritual about his expression-serene, even-and for a brief moment he felt a pang of envy. He decided on the spur of the moment not to announce his pres ence. To leave the chief inspector in peace by his grave.
How on earth can I envy a man who is mourning the death of his wife? he thought as he passed through the gate. Some times I don’t even understand myself.
Back in his hotel room he lay down on his bed with his feet on the footboard. Lay there and stared up at the ceiling with noth ing more in mind than smoking and giving free rein to his thoughts.
He was back in the habit: smoking, as usual, when work was getting on top of him. When an investigation was not flowing along the channels he’d dug out, or wished he had.
When everything came up against a brick wall, when the breakthrough never came.
Nevertheless, that’s not really how it felt.
He thought about Bausen’s two-week rule. If it was right, they had five days left. He’d spent a week in Kaalbringen by this time, and when he tried to sum up his input into the inves tigation so far, he got no further than the uncomfortably round number of zero.
Zero, zilch.
I can’t stand hanging around here another five days, he thought. I’m going home on Sunday! Hiller will just have to send somebody else-Rooth or deBries or any other bastard he feels like. Nobody gains by my hanging around here any longer!
Living out of a suitcase in a hotel. Drinking the chief of police’s wine, and being beaten at chess! The renowned Chief
Inspector Van Veeteren!
The only thing that could change matters, he told himself, was the possibility Bausen had floated a few days back.
If he struck again. The Axman.
Not much chance of that, according to the experts they’d called in. If he strikes again, we’ll get him!
But there again… At the same time, he had this remark able feeling that all they needed to do was wait. To hang in there. That this remarkable case would be solved, or solve itself, in some way that thumbed a nose at all the rules, and that neither he nor anybody else would be able to stop or influence…
After thinking these rambling thoughts and smoking four (or was it five?) cigarettes, Van Veeteren went to stretch out in the bathtub. He spent an hour pondering how to develop a Russian or Nimzo-Indian opening. Much more tangible, of course, but he didn’t reach any conclusions on this either.
15
When Beatrice Linckx had parked and locked her car in Leisner
Alle, the clock in the Bunges church tower struck eleven p.m.
She’d been on the road since four in the afternoon, having skipped the final evaluation session of the conference, and now there were only three things she was longing for.
A glass of red wine, a hot bath, and Maurice.
She glanced up at their apartment on the third floor, saw that the light was on in the kitchen, and concluded that he was waiting up for her. It was true that she hadn’t been able to get through to him when she’d tried to phone on the way home, but he knew she was due back tonight. No doubt he’d opened a bottle of something, and maybe he’d have some toasted sandwiches up his sleeve as well. Onion rings, mushrooms, fresh basil and cheese… She took her bags out of the trunk and crossed the street, stiff after the long journey but looking forward to what lay ahead… keen to get into the apartment.
To come home.
What Beatrice Linckx hadn’t the slightest inkling of was that the kitchen light had been on for more than twenty-four hours and that although Maurice was in fact up there, he was by no means in the state she’d expected. Nor were there any toasted sandwiches, and nobody had opened a bottle of wine to breathe-and she wouldn’t be able to snuggle down into that hot bath for many hours yet. When she eventually did so, it would be in a neighbor’s bathtub, and in a state that she would never have been able to foresee.
The door was unlocked. She pressed down the handle and went in.
Afterward, a lot of people wondered about her behavior. She did as well. Given the circumstances, pretty well anything might be regarded as normal; but even so, you had to ask questions.
She switched on the light in the hall. Stared at Maurice for a few seconds, then picked up her bag again and backed out through the door. Closed it and went back downstairs. Hesi tated for a moment when she emerged onto the sidewalk, then crossed the road and sat in her car again.
Sat there hugging the steering wheel and trying to heave the heavy stone of forgetfulness over the opening to her con sciousness. Trying to rewind time, just a few hours… back to when she was happy and unaware… the hours before, the unsullied normality… the road, the cars, the oncoming head lights, the Waldstein Sonata over her loudspeakers, the rain on the windshield, the mint pastilles in the bag on the empty seat beside her… looking forward to coming home.
She hadn’t seen anything. Still hadn’t gone up to the apart ment. She sat in the car and rested for a while before going up to see Maurice… to the sandwiches and the wine; her warm red dressing gown; the sofa and the plaid throws; Heyman’s
String Quintet; candles in the designer candlestick… sitting here waiting…
…
Nearly two hours later she wound down the window. The evening air and a veil of drizzle crept in and brought her back to reality. For the second time, she picked up her bags and crossed the street. Didn’t look up at the apartment now. Knew that all she could expect to find in store for her was Maurice, and at ten minutes past one she had calmed down sufficiently to phone the police and inform them that the Axman had dis patched another victim.
II
16
“It’s the bishop that’s in the wrong place,” said Bausen.
“I can see that,” said Van Veeteren.
“F6 would have been better. As it is now, you’ll never man age to get it out. Why didn’t you use the Nimzo-Indian defense, as I suggested?”
“I’ve never mastered it properly,” muttered Van Veeteren.
“There’s more oomph in the Russian-”
“Oomph, yes,” said Bausen. “So much oomph it whips up a damn gale and blows big holes through your own lines. Do you give up?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m not dead yet.” He checked his watch. “Good Lord! It’s nearly a quarter past one!”