No problem at all.
IV
12
“What do you think?” Rooth asked.
Munster 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.
Munster 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 Munster. “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 Munster 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 Munster,” he said, producing his ID.
“Hoorne. Janis Hoorne,” said the shopkeeper with a nervous smile.
Munster 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, Munster 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. Munster waited for a few seconds.
“Has something happened?”
“We don’t know yet,” Munster 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. Munster 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.”
Munster 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.”
Munster 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. Munster 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 Munster. “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 Munster and Rooth approached, and Munster 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.
“I am indeed that gentleman,” he said. “Always delighted to assist the police.”
“Hmm,” said Munster. “It’s about Leopold Verhaven. We wonder if you’ve seen him around lately?”
“Lately? What do you mean by lately?”
“The last year or so,” said Rooth.
“I saw him when he came back last summer. . Let’s see now, that would have been August, I think. But he hasn’t been around here since then.”
“Tell us about it,” said Munster.
Mr. Maertens replaced his headgear and clambered out of the as-yet shallow grave.
“Well,” he began, “it was just the once. I was raking the gravel here in the churchyard. He came by taxi, got out just outside the gate. Er, then he started walking up the hill toward the woods. Went home, in other words.”
“When exactly was it?” Rooth asked.
Maertens thought for a moment.
“August, as I said. End of the month, if I remember rightly.”
“And that’s the only time you saw him?”
“Just the once, yes. God only knows where he went after that. They’d let him out again, of course. We talked about it in the village, it seemed to be about the right time, and so. .”
“Do you know if anybody else saw him?”
He nodded.
“Mrs. Wilkerson. Her husband as well, I think. They live up there.”
He pointed to the grayish white house on the edge of the forest.
“Thank you,” said Rooth. “We might need to come back
with more questions.”
“What’s he done now?” said Maertens.
“Nothing,” said Munster. “Did you know him?”
Maertens scratched the back of his head.
“In the old days, I suppose. He sort of dropped out of circulation.”
“I’d more or less gathered that,” said Rooth.
The Wilkersons appeared to have been expecting them, and that probably wasn’t surprising. The road was only about ten yards from the kitchen table where Mr. Wilkerson was now sitting with a cup of coffee and a tray of cookies in front of him, trying to look as if he was reading the newspaper. His wife produced two extra cups, and Munster and Rooth sat down.