The Return

V: She visited her mother and her daughter occasionally.

Stopped over in Elming for the odd night. But more or less all the time, yes.

H: Were you engaged?

V: No.

H: You didn’t intend to get married?

V: No.

H: Why not?

V: That wasn’t why we lived together.

H: Why did you live together, then?

[Verhaven’s reply erased]

H: I see. Did you fall out at all?

V: Sometimes.

H: Did you fight?

V: Now and again, I suppose.

H: Did you beat her at all?

V: Yes. She liked it.

H: She liked you beating her?

V: Yes.

H: How do you know? Did she say so?

V: No, but I know she liked it.

H: How can you know that if she never said anything?

V: You can tell. They show it.

H: What do you mean by “they”?

V: Women.

H: Did she hit you as well?

V: She tried, but I was stronger than she was.

H: Did you drink a lot of hard liquor together?

V: No, not all that much.

H: But it did happen?

V: Yes. We used to have a few drinks on a Saturday, seeing as I had Sunday off.

H: Off? Didn’t you have to look after the hens?

V: Yes, of course; but I didn’t have to go to market.

H: I see. Can you tell us what happened on Saturday, March thirtieth? The week before Beatrice

disappeared, that is.

V: We drank a bit. Fell out. I hit her.

H: Why?

V: She annoyed me. I think she wanted a bit of a beating.

H: How did she annoy you?

V: She was being difficult.

H: You beat her so badly that she had to take refuge with a neighbor. It was three in the morning. She had no

clothes on. What do you say to that?

V: She was drunk.

H: But that doesn’t mean she wanted a bit of a beating, does it?

[No reply from Verhaven]

H: Don’t you think that was overstepping the mark, beating your fiancee so violently that she had to flee to a neighbor for safety?

V: She didn’t need to go. She was drunk and hysterical.

She came back again later, after all.

H: What about the following week? Did you beat her

several times?

V: No, not that I recall.

H: Not that you recall?

V: No.

H: Why should you forget something like that?

V: I’ve no idea.

H: What did you do when you got back home on

Saturday, April sixth?

V: Made a meal and ate it.

H: Nothing else?

V: Saw to the hens.

H: Where was Beatrice when you got home?

V: I don’t know.

H: What do you mean by that?

V: That I don’t know.

H: Shouldn’t she have been at home?

V: Maybe.

H: Had you arranged anything?

V: No.

H: She hadn’t planned to go anywhere?

V: No.

H: To visit her mother and daughter, for instance?

V: No.

H: Were you surprised that she wasn’t at home when you returned?

V: Not especially.

H: Why?

V: Nothing much surprises me.

H: Tell us what you did the rest of the day.

V: Nothing much.

H: What, exactly?

V: I sat around at home. Watched television. Went to bed.

H: And you still didn’t wonder where your fiancee was?

V: No.

H: Why didn’t you wonder?

V: They come and go.

H: What do you mean?

V: Women. They come and go.

H: Tell us what you did on Sunday.

V: I was at home. I didn’t do anything much. Saw to the hens.

H: And where did you think Beatrice was?

V: I don’t know.

H: It wasn’t that you knew where she was?

V: No.

H: It wasn’t that you knew she was lying dead in the forest, murdered? Nearly a mile into the forest?

V: No.

H: So you didn’t kill her, which would explain why you didn’t wonder where she was?

V: No, that’s not how it was. It wasn’t me who killed her.

H: But you didn’t miss her on Sunday?

V: No.

H: You didn’t check to see if she’d gone to her mother’s, for instance?

V: No.

H: Do you have a telephone, Mr. Verhaven?

V: No.

H: So you weren’t the least bit worried about Beatrice?

V: No.

H: And what about the following week? Didn’t you miss her then, either?

V: No.

H: You never wondered where she might have gone to?

V: No.

H: Did you think it was a relief, not to have her around?

[No reply from Verhaven]

H: I repeat: Did you think it was a relief not to have her around?

V: At first, perhaps.

H: Did your fiancee have a job at that time?

V: Not just then.

H: Where did she work when she was employed?

V: At Kaunitz’s. The garden center in Linzhuisen. But only occasionally.

H: When did you tell the police that your fiancee,

Beatrice Holden, was missing?

V: On Tuesday, the sixteenth.

H: Where?

V: In Maardam, of course.

H: And what made you report her missing on that

particular day? If you weren’t worried?

V: It just occurred to me. As I was driving past the police station.

H: So you still didn’t think something might have

happened to her?

V: No. Why should I?

H: Don’t you think it would be natural to think that?

V: No. She usually got by.

H: But she didn’t on this occasion.

V: No, not on this occasion.

H: How did you hear that she’d been found dead?

V: The police came and told me.

H: How did you react to that?

V: I was sorry.

H: Sorry? Sergeant Weiss maintains that you didn’t react at all. That you simply thanked him and asked him to

go away.

V: Why should I cry on his shoulder? I can get by.

H: Don’t you think you’ve been acting rather strangely since Beatrice Holden disappeared?

V: No, I don’t think so.

H: Do you understand that other people might think so?

V: I don’t know what other people think. They can think whatever they like as far as I’m concerned.

H: Really? And you are absolutely certain that it wasn’t you who killed your fiancee?

V: It wasn’t me.

H: Did you often go to the part of the forest where her body was found?

V: No.

H: Have you ever been there?

V: I might have been.

H: But not that weekend when she disappeared?

V: No.

H: What do you think about her death, Mr. Verhaven?

V: Nothing.

H: You must have some idea about how she died?

V: Some man or other, of course. Some sick type who can’t find himself a woman.

H: You don’t regard yourself as somebody like that?

V: I have no difficulty in finding myself women.

H: Thank you. No further questions at present.

Van Veeteren stuffed the bundle of papers into the narrow space under the top of his bedside table. It was very nearly one o’clock. I’d better get some sleep, he thought. Verhaven?

If only he’d been present at the trials! At the very least he could have spent an hour or two in court in connection with the Marlene case, when he’d played a minor role in the investigation. It might have been enough, actually seeing him in the flesh.

A few minutes watching him in the dock and he’d have known. Known if the nagging worry at the back of his mind was something to follow up. If there was any justification for it at all, or if Verhaven really was the primitive man of violence he’d been portrayed as being.

Guilty or not guilty, then?

It was impossible to say. Impossible then, impossible now.

But no matter what, there was no getting away from one fact: Somebody had been lying in wait for him when he was released from prison.