At about twelve, when the place was at its busiest, some of the customers tried to take the seat opposite him at the little table, but he turned them away. Explained politely that unfortunately it was reserved, he was waiting for a friend.
Later, during the critical moments around a quarter to one, he became tense. That was inevitable. When he saw the first of the newly alighted passengers, he moved his chair closer to the window and ignored everything else. It was essential to concentrate hard: Identifying him might well be the weakest link in the whole chain. A long time had passed, and who could tell how much he might have changed during all those years? Obviously, in no circumstances must he miss him.
He must not let him pass unnoticed.
When he did eventually see him, he was emerging from the café on the other side of the square an hour and a half later. It was obvious there was no need to have worried.
Of course, it was him. That was immediately clear when he was still thirty yards away—the same energetic, wiry little figure; slightly hunched, perhaps, but not much. His hair thinner and paler in color. Receding at the temples. Movements a bit stiffer.
A bit grayer, a bit older.
But definitely him.
He left his table and went out into the street. The man was standing at the taxi rank. Just as expected. Number three in the line, searching for something in his pockets. Cigarettes, money, could be anything.
Nothing to do but wait, then. Wait, go and sit in the car, then follow him. There was no hurry. He knew where the cab would take him.
Knew that everything was going to happen according to plan.
For one brief moment he felt slightly dizzy as blood rushed to his head, but he soon regained control of himself.
The taxi pulled away. Drove round the square, and as it passed him outside the café, he could see the familiar profile through the back window less than six feet away, and he knew at that moment that there would be no problem.
No problem at all.
IV
May 5–10, 1994
12
“What do you think?” Rooth asked.
Münster shrugged.
“I don’t know. But he’s probably our man. We’ll have to wait and see what the forensic officers say.”
“It’s not exactly a cheerful place.”
“No. That’s certainly what strikes you, somehow. Shall we take a walk to the village? We’re not doing any good here. We’ll have to talk to the neighbors sooner or later anyway.”
Rooth nodded and they set off in silence down the winding path through the woods. After a few hundred yards the countryside opened up, with low farmhouses on each side, and only a stone’s throw farther on was the village of Kaustin. They continued as far as the church and the main road.
“How many souls live in this place, do you know?” asked Rooth.
Münster glanced at the churchyard, but assumed the question referred to those who had not yet been laid to rest.
“A couple of hundred, I would guess. There’s a store and a school, in any case.”
He pointed down the road ahead of them.
“What do you reckon?” said Rooth. “Shall we do a bit of sounding out?”
“Might as well,” said Münster. “If the shopkeeper doesn’t know anything, nobody else will.”
There were two old ladies sitting on chairs inside the store, and it was obvious to Münster that they had no intention of leaving. While Rooth took a careful look at the range of chocolate bars and bags of candy, he steered the slimly built shopkeeper into the storeroom. Perhaps that was unnecessary. Their arrival in the village, five or six cars one after the other on a forest track that was normally quiet, could hardly have passed unnoticed. Even so, there was plenty of reason to keep in the background as far as possible. The link was not yet confirmed, when all was said and done.
“My name’s Münster,” he said, producing his ID.
“Hoorne. Janis Hoorne,” said the shopkeeper with a nervous smile.
Münster decided to get straight to the point.
“Do you know who owns that house in the forest up there? The turnoff by the church, I mean.”
The man nodded.
“Who, then?”
“It’s Verhaven’s.”
His voice is hoarse, Münster thought, his eyes shifty. What’s he worried about?
“Have you had this store for long?”
“Thirty years. My father ran it before I did.”
“You know the story, then?”
He nodded again. Münster waited for a few seconds.
“Has something happened?”
“We don’t know yet,” Münster explained. “Possibly. Have you noticed anything?”
“No…no, what should I have noticed?”
His nervousness was like an aura around him, but there might be a good reason for that. Münster eyed him up and down before continuing.
“Leopold Verhaven was released from prison in August last year. The twenty-fourth, to be exact. We think he came back to his house round about then. Do you know anything about that?”
The man hesitated, rubbing his thumbs nervously against his index fingers.
“You must know about most of what goes on here in Kaustin, surely?”
“Yes…”
“Well? Do you know if he came back here? Then, in August, or at some other time?”
“They say…”
“Yes?”
“Somebody saw him round about that time, yes.”
He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his upper lip.
“When was that?”
“Er, one day in August last year.”
“But there’s been no sign of him since then?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So it was just one day, is that right? He was seen on one or possibly several occasions, was he?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“By whom?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who saw him?”
“Maertens, if I remember rightly…Maybe Mrs. Wilkerson as well, I can’t really remember.”
Münster made notes.
“And where can I find Maertens and Mrs. Wilkerson?”
“Maertens lives with the Niedermanns, the other side of the school, but he works in the churchyard. You’re bound to find him there now, if you…”
He didn’t know how to go on.
“And Mrs. Wilkerson?”
The shopkeeper coughed and popped a couple of tablets into his mouth.
“She lives in the house just before you get to the forest. On the right-hand side. On the way up to Verhaven’s, that is.”
Münster nodded and closed his notebook. As they were leaving the store Hoorne plucked up enough courage to ask a question.
“Has he done it again?”
It was hardly more than a whisper. Münster shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Hardly.”
“Would you like a piece?”
Rooth held out a half-eaten bar of chocolate.
“No thank you,” said Münster. “Did you interrogate the old ladies?”
“Hmm,” said Rooth, his mouth full. “Shrewd characters. Refused to open their false teeth even an eighth of an inch unless they had a lawyer present. Where are we headed for now?”
“The church. The verger is supposed to have seen him.”
“Good,” said Rooth.
Maertens was busy digging a grave as Münster and Rooth approached, and Münster was reminded how he had once played a very immature Horatio while at school. He smiled briefly at the thought. Perhaps what the enthusiastic little drama teacher had claimed really was true, and that Hamlet was a play that contained something for every single phase of one’s life.
He didn’t dare to develop the thought any further and never asked whose grave it was.
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” Rooth said instead. “You are Mr. Maertens, aren’t you?”
The powerfully built man took off his cap and slowly straightened his back.