A lousy two thousand guilders. A few years ago she’d have been able to cough up twice as much as that with no trouble at all. Simply dig down into her purse, pull out a bundle of notes and tell the dolled-up slut to shove the change up her ass.
It wouldn’t really matter if Renate didn’t get her money; she wasn’t dependent on her. But she was dependent on Raoul, and Renate happened to be Raoul’s woman. For the time being, at least. Without him she would soon be without an apartment and without any work, that was for sure. But what the hell, she could manage on her own account, of course she could, start again from scratch like she’d done before; but there was no denying that it was good to have everything taken care of and made easy for her. Certainly. She was living a pleasant life as middle age started to creep up on her….
So it was worth making an effort to scrape together the money she owed. She hadn’t really understood how serious the situation was until last night, that was why she was a bit short of time now. Renate hadn’t sounded the same as usual on the telephone; she wouldn’t be able to get away with excuses this time, that had been very obvious.
Two thousand guilders. A quarter past ten at the Rote Moor. Otherwise, you’re in the shit.
That was her problem, basically.
She’d phoned three or four friends, but it had been a waste of time, needless to say. She could have got a few hundred, maybe more, if she’d kept going a bit longer, but it was nearly midnight, and there were limits.
And then there was Leo Verhaven. He’d struck her as a possibility—perhaps the best one—the moment she’d put the receiver down after Renate’s ultimatum.
Leo.
And he didn’t even have a telephone.
That was somehow typical.
She checked that the van was parked where it usually stood. By the loading bay in Kreugerlaan. Then she wandered through the market hall and across the square, but she didn’t see him anywhere. She wanted to bump into him as if by accident. A happy coincidence. Hover around like a cat faced with hot milk, perhaps.
Or would it be better to come straight to the point? Hard to say. Verhaven wasn’t exactly easy to handle.
She stationed herself next to the monument in Zwille, where she could keep an eye on both the van and the lower part of the square. Sat down on one of the benches under the statue of Torres, lit a cigarette and waited. The pale autumn sun had risen over the rooftops and was spraying jets of heat onto her back and her neck, giving her a feeling of hope and well-being, despite everything. Now she was a cat in the sun again, and when she noticed the furtive looks being given her by some of the passing men, she automatically started adjusting her clothing; she took off her scarf, unfastened a couple of buttons in her blouse, opened her legs the couple of inches every man worthy of the name noticed without being aware of it….
This is me, she thought. I’m made for this, and I’m better at it than any other woman in the world.
That was an exaggeration; she knew it was, but just now she needed all the self-confidence she could talk herself into.
She checked her watch.
Twenty minutes to ten.
She had less than two hours left to live.
He turned up at a quarter to eleven.
She stood up immediately, crossed over the street and bumped into him just as he was coming round the corner.
“Leo!” she said, and thought she’d made it sound as much of a nice surprise as she’d intended.
He stopped. Nodded in that slightly surly way of his. As if she’d interrupted him in the middle of some important calculation or fascinating line of thought. He gave her what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Perhaps there was hope after all.
She moved closer to him and placed her hand on his arm. Continued smiling. They’d had sex—she counted the occasions in a flash—six times. He was the hot type; no interest at all in foreplay or romantic stuff. Easy to start, hard to drive, as her friend Nellie usually said.
“Where are you going?” she said.
Verhaven shrugged. Nowhere, it seemed. Or at least, nowhere important.
“Could we get together, maybe?”
“Now?”
“Yes. I have to meet a friend of mine shortly, but after that if you like.”
He shrugged again. Not a good sign, she realized that, but she had no choice,
“I’ve got a little problem.”
“Really?” said Verhaven.
She hesitated. Looked rather worried as she stroked his arm.
“What kind of a problem?”
“Money.”
He didn’t answer. Looked away and stared over her shoulder.
“Can you help me, please?”
Nicely put. Just the right pitch between pleading and pride.
“How much?”
“Two thousand guilders.”
“Go to hell.”
She ran out of steam.
“Please, Leo…”
“I have to go.”
She took hold of him with the other hand as well. Spoke close to his face now.
“Leo,” she said, “it’s so very, very important. I’ll repay every single…”
“Let go!”
He tore himself free. She took a pace back. Bit her upper lip hard and managed to fill her eyes with tears in only one second.
“Leo…”
“Good-bye.”
He thrust her to one side and walked past her. She spun around.
“Leo!”
He didn’t even stop. Kept on walking down Zwille and turned into Kreugerlaan. Oh, shit!
Fucking shit!
The tears were almost genuine now. She stamped several times and gritted her teeth. Shit!
A car pulled up beside her. The driver leaned over and rolled down the window.
“Like to come with me?”
Without hesitation she opened the door and jumped in.
When she had dried her tears with the handkerchief he held out for her, she saw who it was.
She also looked at her watch.
Ten to ten.
Maybe it would turn out OK after all.
X
May 23–28, 1994
34
“Right, we’re dropping this case as of now!”
The chief of police removed a dry leaf from a fig plant. Van Veeteren sighed and contemplated the blue-suited outline of his boss against the lush green background. The hell you are! he thought.
Although it didn’t exactly come as a shock.
“We have more important things to do.”
Another leaf was selected for feeling and analyzing. The chief inspector averted his eyes. He turned his attention instead to a half-chewed toothpick and waited for what came next, but nothing did. Not right away, at least. Hiller pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and continued fumbling with the plants. Van Veeteren sighed again; the chief of police’s weakness for botanical pursuits was a constant and frequently discussed topic of conversation in the lower regions of the Maardam police station. There were a number of theories. Some considered the phenomenon to be an obvious substitute for a withered love life—elegant Mrs. Hiller was said to have put up the shutters after her fifth child—while another body of opinion supported the theory that the green panorama was in fact camouflage to conceal the secret microphones that served to record every word uttered in the somber and solemn building that served as police headquarters. Inspector Markovic in Missing Persons generally advocated the so-called lack-of-potty-training theory, but most people, including Van Veeteren, felt it sufficient to maintain that, damn it all, the chief of police would have been much better as a head gardener.
A head gardener in a suit? he thought, stuffing the toothpick into the gap between the seat and the armrest of the leather armchair he was sitting in. Why not? The more time Hiller devoted to his potted plants and the less time he spent attending to his police duties, the better.
Leave the monkey to do whatever it wants in the jungle, Reinhart always said. Life is easier that way.