Well, the commissaris thought, so much for negative thinking. There was always something he could still do. He would do it a little later.
A little honesty, the commissaris thought, might be in order. He didn't care two hoots for Guldemeester's comfort. He wanted to spend some pleasurable time at the river now.
A fisherman on a folding chair, flanked by a lanky blue heron, waiting for any small catch the man might not care to take home, nodded a greeting. The commissaris raised a hand. The graceful bird, perched on one leg, had turned sideways to make sure that there wasn't any threat to its peace of mind, and disdainfully directed its plumed head back to contemplate the river's clear water.
The commissaris, not wanting to disturb the two friends, strolled the other way until he found a small pier jutting into the river. He sat on its low flat railing and admired the clouds, fluffy and white, floating lazily above the wide landscape. He grinned. The fisherman, sitting next to an expensive and what looked like a brand-new motorcycle, of a Japanese brand, of course (bless Japanese diligence, the commissaris thought), was probably unemployed too, making use of some imagined disability (a mysterious back complaint, perhaps) so that he could spend his time on what he really cared to do. Who wants to be the slave of a smelly machine in a foul workshop, to manufacture luxuries for others? If conditions can't be changed, their possibilities can be used. Maybe, the commissaris mused, he should accept the pleasant prospect of early retirement and move to some tax-exempt island in a tropical sea, with a climate sympathetic to his rheumatic complaint, and hang out on the beach thinking sly old man's thoughts.
Suck them if you can't join them. Who said that? Halba said that. Halba was always saying things like that, in private, during brief encounters in a corridor or an elevator, never at a meeting where methods of improving the city's welfare were solemnly discussed.
The commissaris admired the river's rippling surface until sharp pangs of conscience prodded him into activity again. He ordered his unwilling legs to carry his restless mind back to the car.
He drove on slowly, trying to read numbers on fences that shielded small cottages, each surrounded by its acre of garden. He turned the wheel when he recognized Guldemeester's late-model Mercedes, parked with its front bumper pushed into a row of cedars that might have been clipped into decorative shapes once, but hadn't been bothered with for a good while. The Citroen nosed along the narrow drive leading to the house, past wavy weeds rising from flowerbeds where individual tulips and daffodils still struggled bravely. A stone gnome pushed a toy wooden wheelbarrow along, from which sprouted more weeds. The gnome, grinning inanely, didn't seem to mind.
The commissaris rang the doorbell, then knocked and shouted. Guldemeester appeared at the side of the house, holding a beer can in a dangling hand. His shoes weren't laced. Bloodshot eyes gleamed above his unshaven cheeks. "Morning."
"How are you doing, Adjutant?"
"Just taking the day off," Guldemeester said, trying to push up his slipping eyeglasses but pressing his nose instead. "I had a hard night."
"Got a minute?" the commissaris asked. "Can we sit down somewhere?"
"In the back." Guldemeester turned and walked unsteadily ahead. Behind the house, a hammock had been strung between two thin poplars rising from clusters of dying rhododendrons. Empty cans were strewn about in the tall grass. The remains of two bicycles leaned against the house.
"A beer?" Guldemeester asked.
The commissaris looked around for somewhere to sit. "No, thank you."
"I'll get a chair from the house," Guldemeester said. The commissaris followed his host into the kitchen, where a stack of dirty plates, most of them still holding remnants of food, tottered in the sink. Guldemeester dropped his can on the floor and yanked a fresh one from a carton. "Sure you don't want a beer?"
"Yes," the commissaris said. "Why don't you go back to your hammock? I'll find a chair."
He walked into a room where furniture had fallen over, newspapers and empty cigarette packs littered the floor, and the TV set was partly covered by dirty clothes. Guldemeester came in too. "Why didn't you phone? I could have tidied up."
"Your line was busy."
"Right," Guldemeester said. He stepped aside as the commissaris carried out a chair.
Back in the garden, Guldemeester raised a leg and aimed it at the hammock. His heel caught in the hammock's ropes and he toppled over backward into a bush. "Are you all right now?" the commissaris asked, untangling the adjutant's leg. "Maybe you'd better sit on the ground. Here, lean against the tree."
Guldemeester groped about for his spectacles in the grass. He poked them at his face. "Drunk, you know."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "I do get the impression that you're a bit under the weather."
Guldemeester sat up. "You ever get drunk?"
"Not so much these days," the commissaris said. "Your wife isn't with you?"
"Celine is a whore!" Guldemeester yelled. He dropped his voice after he had smiled forgivingly. "That's okay. It's her vocation. Other women become nuns. More money in prostitution." He pointed at the house. "Helped with the payment. Freelansh work, but she's professional now. Livesh with her shishter in Amshterdam."
"I see," the commissaris said.
Guldemeester shook his head. "It didn't work out."
"No?"
The adjutant's head kept shaking. "No. She'll get her money back. I'm selling the place. Don't want the money. Maybe she needs it. Yesh?" He flailed both arms about and the beer can shot off into the bushes, trailing foam.
The commissaris retrieved the can. Guldemeester peered into its little hole. "Empty." The can fell and rolled down his leg.
"You'll be leaving this pleasant place, then?" the commissaris asked.
"Leaving the country," Guldemeester said, slumping against the poplar's trunk. "Haven't told you yet. Damn the job. Never liked it."
The commissaris nodded helpfully. "I understand."
"Going to Spain. Better out there. Nice job." The adjutant smiled craftily. "You came about the dead banker, eh?"
"Yes, Adjutant."
Guldemeester wagged a finger. "Naughty, naughty. The case ish closed."
He swept his hand edgewise through the air, cutting the top off all possible explanations.
"You didn't have too much to do with the case?" the commissaris asked.
"No." Guldemeester closed one eye. His head dropped and he raised it with some trouble, trying to focus the other eye on his visitor's face. "I'm sorry, but I'd razzer not discush the matter."
"Is that what the chief inspector told you to say?"
Guldemeester nodded solemnly. "Yesh." His head dropped on his chest. "I'd razzer not discush the chief inshpector eizzer."
"Did Halba get you the job?"
Guldemeester's eyes crossed.
"Did Halba get you that nice job in Spain?"
"I'd razzer not discush…"
"You should be in bed." The commissaris stepped foward. "On your feet, friend. I'll help you into the house."
"Not in the bed." Guldemeester said in a suddenly clear voice. "I sleep on the couch downstairs. The bed reminds me of Celine." He attempted to push aside dead leaves dangling in front of his face.
"Give me your hands, Adjutant." Guldemeester wasn't heavy, and the commissaris dragged him up without too much trouble.
"See that shed?" Guldemeester asked as he staggered to the house. "Built it myshelf. For the goatsh. My little friendsh. I'd let them out when I came home and they'd gambol about."
"I've got a turtle," the commissaris said.
"Good." Guldemeester patted the commissaris's arm. "Good."