"Anyone following him?" Grijpstra asked.
"No. I told him to forget it. It's impossible to follow a motorcycle. Van Meteren would know within two minutes. We waste enough time. I told the detective to take his children to the beach."
"What's wrong with wasting time?" Grijpstra asked.
De Gier didn't answer. He was watching another nondescript man with a small dog on a leash.
"For God's sake," Grijpstra snapped, "pass that woman in that silly little car. I have been looking at her for the last ten minutes."
De Gier passed the small car.
"In a bad mood?" de Gier asked.
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "there's the mental home."
The mental home consisted of a number of buildings and its roads were signposted.
Grijpstra read the signs.
"New Chief Building," he read. "Old Chief Building. Now where?"
"New," de Gier said, but the building proved to be devoid of human life and its doors were locked. They found a kitchen with a young man in it, cutting vegetables. The young man knew nothing. They wandered about and eventually found a young girl. The girl told them to come back in the afternoon, during visiting hours. De Gier showed his police card. The girl wasn't impressed. They still had to come back during visiting hours. De Gier insisted and used his charm and finally an elderly nurse arrived and took them to the director, a psychiatrist. They were shown into a stuffy little office and put on straight-backed chairs. The psychiatrist watched her visitors nervously, shifting a vase filled with dying flowers to have a better view and managing to drop and break it.
Grijpstra explained the purpose of their visit.
"Foo," de Gier thought, "she looks like the chief inspector." She did, but her hair was shorter and her glasses dangled from a silver chain. Her hands were square, with short nails, and her dress seemed to be made of jute. The psychiatrist wasn't helpful.
"The lady has only just arrived," she said, "and we have her in observation. I haven't seen any reports on her yet."
"Would you mind calling the nurse in charge?" Grijpstra asked. "Perhaps Mrs. Verboom has said something. There has been a murder, you know. Mrs. Verboom may be connected with the murder. Murder is a crime that has to be solved."
Grijpstra didn't sound very pleasant; he was staring hard at the psychiatrist.
"Very well," she said.
The nurse came.
Had the patient said anything?
The patient had said a lot. She had screamed and howled and made a mess of her room.
"Why?" de Gier asked.
"We took her bag and her jewelery and locked her into a room. The windows of the room don't open."
"Is she that dangerous?" Grijpstra asked.
"Mrs. Verboom is under observation," the nurse said. "It's standard procedure."
"I see," Grijpstra said and looked at de Gier.
De Gier smiled. "We are never allowed to lock up a person unless we have reasons to suspect criminal behavior."
"This isn't a police station," the psychiatrist said. "This is a mental home."
"I see," said De Gier.
"Did she mention the name 'Piet'?" he asked the nurse.
"She did," the nurse said. "Piet is her son. She blamed him for her stay here. She called him names. And she threw her breakfast at the wall and made a mess. I had to call a colleague and we gave her an injection. She slept, but right now she is awake."
"Can I take her for a walk in the park?" de Gier asked the psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist hesitated. "Do you think you can handle her?"
"My colleague is very good with women," Grijpstra said.
The psychiatrist's face cracked and showed some long yellow teeth.
"If I can't I'll bring her back at once," de Gier said, "but I would like to ask her a few simple questions that won't do any harm."
"All right," the psychiatrist said.
"Do you think Mrs. Verboom could have killed a man?" Grijpstra asked the nurse.
Ther nurse looked at the psychiatrist.
"Why not?" the psychiatrist said. "If she can throw her breakfast at the wall and fight with the staff she must be a violent person."
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "but here she is in a nuthouse…"
He looked at the psychiatrist. "I beg your pardon."
"It's all right," the psychiatrist said and showed her teeth again. "Go on, please."
"I mean to say," Grijpstra continued, "that here she may think that she can do anything she likes. She has nothing to lose. But when she was still living in Amsterdam her situation was different. She was restricted by more or less normal surroundings."
"Mad people have no brakes," the psychiatrist said. "They may fear other people but they will do anything if they get the chance. They wouldn't hesitate to kill, not if they are very aggressive as this patient obviously is. I am not saying that she is a killer, but she could easily be one. As you said, she has nothing to lose."
"She might lose her freedom," de Gier said.
"Did she have any freedom in Amsterdam?" the psychiatrist asked.
"No," de Gier said, "perhaps you are right. Her son kept her in her room, I am told. She never left the house."
"You see?" the psychiatrist said.
De Gier got up. "I'll take her for a walk now if I may," he said.
"Hello, Miesje," de Gier said.
The old lady turned sharply and looked at him with her small black glinting eyes.
"Who are you?" she shrieked.
"Jan van Meteren's friend, don't you remember?"
The expression on Mrs. Verboom's face changed. "Ah yes," she said softly. "I remember now. Parking police, aren't you? You made a lot of noise that evening. What are you here for?
"I've come to take you for a walk in the park, Miesje," de Gier said and put on his best smile. "The weather is very nice. Are you coming?"
"There was a gale last night," Mrs. Verboom said grumpily. "The windows rattled. I couldn't sleep. It'll probably be a mess outside."
"Not at all. I'll show you. You come with me," he offered his arm.
"You see," Mrs. Verboom said a little while later, "it is a mess. Branches on the ground everywhere. Quite a devastation."
She seemed to like the sound of the word for she kept on repeating it.
"That's enough, now," de Gier said pleasantly. "It's lovely out here, much nicer than inside in your room. Look, there's a thrush on the branch over there. Isn't he singing nicely?"
She wouldn't look and he held her head and twisted it.
"Look!"
"I am looking," Mrs. Verboom said. "I don't like thrushes. Noisy birds. Piet used to have pigeons all around the house. Kuruku, kuruku all day long. They drove me out of my mind. I threw things at them but Piet told me I shouldn't."
"But Piet looked after you very well, didn't he?" de Gier asked.
"The little rotter," Mrs. Verboom said, "he always was. He was a bore during his schooldays and he was a little stinker before he went to school. Like his father but his father left. Left me with Piet. I wanted to go on the stage, but I couldn't, had to look after Piet. I often told him to leave and live with his father, but he wouldn't."
De Gier said nothing, walking next to her and holding her by the arm.
"Did you come to fetch me?" Mrs. Verboom asked. "I don't like it here. We eat in a nasty big room and there's an old woman at my table who lets everything go. She even vomits, right into her plate. Then I can't eat anymore."
"Bah," de Gier thought.
"Did you come to fetch me?"
"No," de Gier said. "Piet died and now you can't go home anymore, the house is empty."