‘Eh?’
‘What sort of a prayer? What did it say?’
‘It… No, I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Repeat the prayer for me now!’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, like, he was the one who did the praying. I just repeated it silently.’
He did the praying, I just repeated it silently, thought Reinhart, and sighed.
‘So you don’t remember the words?’
‘No… No, I don’t.’
‘And this took ten minutes?’
‘He sat thinking as well, as I said.’
Reinhart lit his pipe and waited for a while.
‘Okay,’ he said, and glanced at Edwina Moulder. ‘Did he touch you?’
‘What?’ said Edwina Moulder.
Reinhart blew a cloud of smoke in her face.
‘The final warning,’ he said before turning his attention back to the girl. ‘Well, did he touch you?’
‘He just gave me a hug.’
‘Just gave you a hug?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
She seemed a bit confused.
‘From behind?’
‘Yes.’
Reinhart bit hard on the stem of his pipe.
‘While you were praying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only then?’
‘Yes.’
Edwina Moulder’s suntan seemed to have ebbed out into the yellow garden hammock, and her jaws were twitching and squeaking softly.
‘And then?’
‘Then? Er, then he left.’
‘Going where?’
Another shrug.
‘I don’t know. Headed for the lake, I think.’
‘The bathing rock?’
‘Could be.’
‘But you don’t know? He didn’t say what he was going to do?’
‘No, but…’
‘Well?’
‘I think he was going to go to the rock. He might have said that, but… No, I don’t remember.’
Reinhart paused, but nobody said anything, neither the girl nor her aunt.
‘So,’ he tried again, ‘you think Oscar Yellinek went down to the bathing rock some time round about ten o’clock or shortly before that, on Sunday evening?’
‘Yes. Maybe, in any case.’
‘Did you see him again after that?’
She paused to think.
‘No… No, I didn’t.’
‘Do you know if anybody else saw him after that?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t think any of the girls did.’
He waited for a few moments, but she just sat there looking at her knees, especially the right one, on which he could detect the dirty remains of a plaster. He put his pipe away.
‘So, you were the last one to see Clarissa Heerenmacht alive, and possibly also the last one to see Oscar Yellinek before he went missing. Have you told the police that business about him maybe going down to the bathing rock?’
She thought it over.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’
‘Nobody’s asked me that.’
‘Nobody’s asked you that?’
‘No.’
Typical, Reinhart thought.
Then he left the aunt and her niece to their fates, and returned to his car.
30
Uri Zander was dressed like somebody from the 1960s, and hanging over the corduroy sofa in the living room was a signed poster featuring a pop group called Arthur and the Motherfuckers. It was by no means impossible that Mr Zander was in fact identical with one of the four grim-faced youths in bomber jackets and sunglasses, but Van Veeteren didn’t bother to pursue the matter.
In any case, time had left its mark on Uri Zander. His hair was now long and straggling at the sides and at the back of his neck – the top of his head was empty – and a crescent-shaped pot belly coupled with a distinctly humped back made him reminiscent of a carelessly drawn question mark.
He didn’t seem particularly happy either.
‘Would you like anything to eat or drink?’ he asked as the chief inspector lowered himself warily into a red contraption made of soft plastic.
Van Veeteren shook his head.
‘Just as well, I’ve got nothing in.’
He took off his round-rimmed spectacles and started polishing them on his shirt, a tight-fitting flowery garment. The chief inspector thought he recalled the pattern from one of those summers at the beginning of time – probably sixty-seven or sixty-eight – when he had been so new to the game that he occasionally found himself rented out as a uniformed representative of the forces of law and order. Whenever the regular police were short-staffed, that is – which they were all the time.
All those pot-perfumed music festivals and free-love manifestations that, in retrospect at least, seemed to have been so thick on the ground. There were pleasanter memories than those, even in his life.
‘Well, as I explained,’ he began, ‘it’s not you we’re interested in, but your ex-wife. Madeleine Zander.’
‘Ugh!’ said Mr Zander.
‘I assume you’re familiar with the situation,’ the chief inspector went on. ‘We are busy with the murders of the young girls at Sorbinowo, and that sect she’s mixed up with is involved somehow or other. There were three women present at the camp, and Madeleine is one of them… As you may have heard, they all refused to cooperate with the police from the very beginning. I don’t know what you think of all this…’
‘Bloody idiots,’ said Uri Zander.
Ah, Van Veeteren thought. Good. He hadn’t really been worried, but there was always a risk that Uri Zander might line up on his ex-wife’s side. It was more than clear that this was not the case.
‘That accursed church,’ his host exploded. ‘And that priest… In my view the whole lot of ’em should be locked up; they’re a disgrace to the town. A disgrace to humanity dammit.’
‘So you know them all well?’ the chief inspector asked.
‘How can you avoid knowing about them these days?’ wondered Uri Zander, putting his glasses back on. He was evidently dissatisfied with the result as he took them off again right away and started polishing anew.
‘How long were you married to Madeleine?’
‘Eight years,’ said Zander. ‘From seventy-four to eighty-two. She was only twenty when we met. Got a bun in the oven the very first time we had a shag. We were on a tour, I thought she was your usual groupie of course, but in fact she was almost a virgin and then, well, things just went on from there.’
‘So you got married before the child was born?’
‘Of course. Oh, I liked her a lot in those days. And it was time to stop playing around. I was getting involved in too much of this and that, if you follow me?’
Van Veeteren nodded, as always in such circumstances.
‘Anyway, we settled down, I suppose you could say. I got myself a proper job and Madeleine looked after Janis, our daughter. Maybe things could have turned out okay – in any case, we were together for eight years: most marriages come to grief a lot sooner than that, don’t they?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Van Veeteren, who had stuck it out for more than three times as long as that. ‘No more children?’
Zander shook his head.
‘Nope. But when you think about it, it’s obvious it was doomed from the start.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Huh, I don’t really know. She was young and inexperienced. I’m seven years older, and then, well, it seemed as if she felt obliged to give everything a try, once she’d got over the first flush of being a mother. And she got over that pretty damned quick, by Christ she did.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Van Veeteren.
Zander finally replaced his spectacles and started groping around for cigarettes instead. He eventually found a pack under a pile of newspapers and magazines on the table. After a discreet check on how many were left, he offered one to the chief inspector and then lit up for both of them.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘she wasn’t exactly happy sitting around at home with the kid. With Janis, that is. She wasn’t happy about anything, if truth be told. She had loads of ideas about every bloody thing, but nothing was good enough to keep her happy in the long run.’
‘What kind of ideas?’ Van Veeteren wondered.
‘Everything you can think of,’ snorted Zander, forcing a cloud of smoke out through his hairy nostrils. ‘Every damned thing you can think of! She became a feminist, a Buddhist, a spiritualist – and in the end she became a lesbian as well.’