There was nothing there about the second murder in Waldingen, not yet; but needless to say, it wouldn’t be long before he was confronted by the headlines. It wasn’t all that hard to work out the likely wording. Nor was it difficult to imagine the tension to which the investigation team was subjected.
Nor the hunger of the hordes of reporters who were at this very moment flocking to the Sorbinowo forests in order to sink their teeth into the fresh corpse of another little girl.
Well, no – not all that fresh. It would be a couple of weeks old by now.
That hardly made the situation any better.
He shuddered in disgust, and drained the bottle of mineral water.
Then he lit a cigarette and tried instead to concentrate on what lay in store for him in Stamberg. Enough of all those thoughts about running away.
His discussions with Inspector Puttemans took about an hour, and all the time he sat watching the progress of raindrops trickling slowly down the uneven surface of the windowpanes. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something about those thin, irregular trickles that appealed to him, and that he was unwilling to lose contact with. He didn’t want to miss the moment when one of all those raindrops suddenly felt that enough was enough, and decided to trickle upwards instead. Yes, something of the sort was no doubt what fascinated him. Something to do with rebellion and spiritual affinity.
Or possibly with the first stages of Alzheimer’s, he was suddenly horrified to think.
When the discussion was over they shook hands. Puttemans went home to his family and the roast duck that awaited him, as it did every Sunday. Van Veeteren had declined in friendly but firm fashion the offer to partake of the meal – instead he stayed at the police station for a while and telephoned several of the people whose names his colleague had presented him with. He arranged to meet them the following day, and when he hung up after the last of the calls, he saw that it was still raining.
And that the drops were still trickling downwards.
He remained at the station for another twenty minutes, reading through the notes he’d made on the conversation with Puttemans. He smoked another cigarette, whereupon it stopped raining. He left the police station and wandered aimlessly around the centre of town for a few minutes. Changed his mind and left a couple of bars without actually entering them, on the grounds that they looked as uninspiring as his motive for entering them in the first place. But shortly after five o’clock he found a hotel that corresponded more or less to the calibre he’d been looking for.
Glossman’s, it was called. Off the beaten track. Small. At least fifty years old.
A modest-looking dining room with white tablecloths, and television in every room.
The latter was something he’d just have to put up with. He checked in and explained that he intended to stay for two nights. Possibly one or even two more. He picked up a couple of beers in reception, then indulged in a lengthy and refreshing bath in their company while thinking thoughts more or less martial in nature.
In view of its age and significance, the town of Stamberg contained a number of churches dating from various centuries and built in different styles (including the so-called Moorish basilica at the heart of the old town, with its altar by Despre or one of his disciples). But when Van Veeteren eventually found his way to the sanctuary of the Pure Life, he realized that a different kind of spirituality held sway here.
Completely different. Obviously late-sixties architecture – in so far as there was any such thing as architecture at that time. Dirt-grey concrete with occasional infusions of cheap red brick. Disproportionate windows apparently distributed at random. A sports hall or a secondary school closed down for the summer were the first thoughts to enter the chief inspector’s mind. The impression of neglect and melancholy was striking: the overgrown flower beds and the dandelions in the gaps between the paving stones were a clear indication of activity that had been suspended. Not to say abandoned. It was summer, and the arable land of the soul was lying fallow.
Godforsaken! he decided, and kicked an empty beer can into the overgrown lilac hedge. And it was off the beaten track as well. In something that resembled an industrial park – with characterless, oblong factory buildings and deserted streets with no pavements. Not exactly your church in the heart of the village. Having completed a tour of the outside of the building, he was aware that there were also external forces conspiring to keep the faithful at bay.
‘Murdering bastards’ was sprayed in shaky fifty-centimetre-high letters over the entrance doors at the gable end. A bit further along, the graffiti urged readers to ‘Kill the swine’; combined with a large number of ‘Fuck messages and other obscenities, the overall impression was depressing. He also had the feeling that most of the graffiti was recent: that these young, anonymous al fresco artists had most probably been creating their masterpieces in the last few days.
Or nights, to be more accurate.
The Other World, he thought, and turned on his heel to put the whole wretched business behind him.
But, it suddenly occurred to him: if it really was the case that the persecution of the first Christians was a part of the dogma in the catechism of the Pure Life, then here was grist to their mill.
But given the current circumstances, that could hardly provide much consolation.
After a lengthy dinner in the almost deserted dining room, he returned to his room just in time for the ten o’clock news. He switched on the television, and lay back on his bed.
It was a twenty-minute broadcast, and he noted with a heavy heart that almost half of it was devoted to happenings in the Sorbinowo forests.
Pictures from the places where the bodies had been found – both of them. Pictures of the summer camp buildings, and of both the dead girls – albeit while smiling and still alive. Information about their age, where they lived, their interests. Instructive maps complete with crosses and arrows. Long-winded summaries of the investigation to date, followed by interviews.
First of all Kluuge, who looked sweaty and embarrassed, and hardly gave the impression of trustworthiness, it unfortunately had to be said. Then Suijderbeck, who came out with four swear words in a mere thirty seconds and seemed to be having difficulty in refraining from suggesting that the sleek-haired reporter might consider going to hell.
And to round it all off, a picture of the press conference as a whole – something which allowed the first ray of hope to illuminate the surface for some considerable time.
Or at least, that is how Van Veeteren saw it. The two places on the far right of the five-man police panel were occupied by no less than Inspector Reinhart and Constable Jung – no, Inspector Jung as he now was – and even if neither of them seemed able to raise a smile (Reinhart looked as if he were sitting on a heap of broken glass), the chief inspector couldn’t help but notice that his cheek muscles kept twitching – his own cheek, that is, his right one.
Obviously, any such thoughts faded away as soon as his friends and workmates withdrew; but the very fact that they had unexpectedly turned up to support him definitely gave him a faint feeling of confidence and cautious optimism. For the first time for a very long time.
I wonder if they’ve booked rooms at Grimm’s, Van Veeteren thought. Perhaps I ought to give them a ring.
But on second thoughts, he desisted. Instead, he devoted the next two hours to reading all the documents associated with the Pure Life and its members, given to him by Puttemans; and when he had finished, his conclusion was that it had most probably been a waste of time.
Like so much else.
27
Nevertheless, he phoned them the next morning.
‘We have nothing to do with the investigation,’ Reinhart explained. ‘We’ve come here to track down an ancient detective chief inspector who’s disappeared.’