He rested his head in his hands. Reinhart always said you should never try to think about anything important when your head’s not right. It’s better to shut down altogether, otherwise you’ll only fill it with a lot of garbage.
An unusually ugly tablecloth, he thought therefore, when he had opened his eyes again. But it seems somehow familiar. Didn’t Aunt K. have one like it when I visited her in summer about the beginning of the fifties? In that boathouse heated by the summer sun, where you could hear the water lapping under the floorboards. It felt a long way away from The Big Shadow in both time and space, but it must have been around the time when Verhaven left his father here in Kaustin to lead his own independent life.
Forty years ago, or thereabouts.
And then things turned out the way they did….
That’s life, Van Veeteren thought. One big goddamn lottery!
Or wasn’t it like that, in fact? Were there directions and patterns?
A determinant?
Münster leaned against the old gravestone and looked at the clock.
Ten minutes past ten. There were voices inside his head stubbornly urging him to go to the car and immediately drive back to The Big Shadow. The chief inspector had been on his own for more than an hour at this point—recently operated on, weak and sickly; it could be regarded as irresponsible not to keep an eye on him.
But there were other voices as well. Van Veeteren hadn’t actually insisted on any more than one hour of solitary majesty, although he had set the limit at half past ten. Münster had to choose between arriving too soon and arriving too late. An awkward choice, certainly; but if he stuck to the later time, at least he would escape being told off for disturbing the chief inspector’s holy thought processes. If Van Veeteren turned out to be unconscious somewhere among all the junk, that would be a serious matter, to be sure. But he’d rather turn up as an angel of mercy than as an unwelcome and premature intruder.
Münster closed his eyes. From inside the church came the muted, monotonous chanting of today’s sermon. He had watched the whole flock—about twenty pious souls—come wandering at regular intervals along the newly raked gravel path to the church door, where the shepherd had greeted each one with a handshake and a watery smile. Münster had tried to remain discreetly in the background, but the prelate had naturally got wind of him and fixed him with his beckoning gaze. Who was this person remaining willfully outside the temple gates?
But Münster had resisted. The other sheep had trotted slowly and patiently inside. The shepherd followed them in. The bells binged and bonged ten o’clock, a flock of temporarily homeless pigeons fled the steeple, and the service got under way.
The average age was unusually high, Münster noted as the doors closed behind them. It was clear to him that all the faithful would doubtless have deepened and sealed their relationship with the church within ten to fifteen years at most. By lying down to rest in the churchyard, that is.
Or being laid to rest, rather.
On a day like today he was almost inclined to envy them, just a little bit. Or at the very least to detect something serene and transfigured in this well-tended graveyard surrounding the ancient stone-built church with its recently repaired and profane red-tiled roof and black lacquered weathercock. Here, obviously, there was no cruel and avenging God. No trumpets sounding on the day of judgment. No eternal and inevitable damnation.
Only tenderness, reconciliation and the forgiveness of sins.
Mercy?
And then Synn intervened and interrupted (or joined in) his pious thoughts. The image of her naked body, curled up on her side in a summer-warm bed, her knees raised and her dark hair fanned out over the pillow and her shoulders: This image filled him with another kind of tenderness, the same uncomplicated happiness he had felt at the kitchen table a few hours ago, perhaps. And before long, he was recalling the talk about making love in the sight of God in the Garden of Eden He had created. If they could work out how to keep the children out of the way for a while, that ought not to be impossible. They had managed it before; soon he was busy recalling various moments of passion…. Making love in the rowboat on Lake Weimar last summer. In the middle of the lake with only the sky and the gulls as witnesses. And another occasion, early one morning high up on a Greek mountain with a panoramic view over the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. Not to mention the beach at Laguna Monda—that was before Bart was born, one of the very first times…. They had lain there in the warm, dense darkness with the breeze from the mountains caressing her body, her incredibly smooth skin and her…
A chord from the organ brought him back to his senses. Presumably it was intended to wake up a few other sheep dozing off in the flock inside the church. He opened his eyes and shook his head. The hymn singing gathered strength. With the vicar’s baritone, magnified by the microphone around his neck, leading the way, it floated out of the open windows and rose unshackled through the leaves of the trees, up into the heavens, where it was received and enjoyed, one can assume, by those already in residence to whom it was doubtless and unreservedly addressed.
Hallelujah, Münster thought, and yawned.
He sat up and checked his watch.
Twenty-seven minutes past. Time to act. He stood up, made his way through the graves and jumped over the wall next to where his car was parked. He had just opened the door and was about to get in when he clapped eyes on the chief inspector. He was strolling toward the churchyard, an unpleasant sight with his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and a garishly colored handkerchief knotted over his head. There were sweat stains under his arms, and his face was worryingly red; but amid all the wretchedness was a certain expression of satisfaction. A sort of restrained, contented grimace that could hardly be overlooked. Certainly not by somebody who had been around for as long as Münster had.
“There you are,” he said. “I was just going to get you. How’s it gone?”
“OK, thanks,” said the chief inspector, removing the handkerchief from his head. “Damned hot, though.”
“You took your time, I reckon,” Münster ventured. “Was there really all that much to scratch around in up there?”
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“There was a bit,” he said. “I had a chat with the neighbors on the way down as well. Had a beer with the Czermaks. It was all go.”
He wiped his forehead. Münster waited, but the chief inspector said nothing more.
“Did you get anywhere?” Münster asked eventually.
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “I think so. Let’s be off, then.”
As usual, Münster thought, slumping down behind the wheel. Just the same as ever.
“Where exactly did you get, then?” he asked once they had got under way, and the wind coming in through the windows had begun to restore the chief inspector’s usual facial color.
“I have an idea about who might have done it,” said Van Veeteren. “An idea, remember that, Inspector! I’m not claiming that I know anything.”
“Who?” asked Münster, but he knew that he was wasting his time.
Instead of answering, the chief inspector leaned back in his seat, stuck his elbow out the window and started to whistle Carmen.
Münster stepped on the gas and switched on the radio.
IX
September 11, 1981
33
At least nobody would be able to say that she hadn’t been out in good time.
She started prowling around the Covered Market as early as half past eight. He didn’t usually finish until about a quarter past nine or even half past, but obviously, it was best to leave a safety margin. The stakes were high, and Renate had made it clear that she wasn’t prepared to wait any longer for her money.