“No,” he said. “I have been thinking about that, and I don’t think he has.”
“He could be a foreigner, of course,” Van Veeteren pointed out. “The borders are so open nowadays that anybody can drive into the country with a dead body in the trunk.”
Munster agreed.
“What are you planning to do next, then?”
Munster hesitated.
“I don’t know, put it on ice, I suppose. Rooth has already started working on something else. I suspect Hiller wants me to join Reinhart’s group from the day after tomorrow onward.
Our body will probably have to lie in the deep freeze waiting for the next coincidence, I guess.”
Van Veeteren nodded in appreciation.
“Good, Munster,” he said. “I couldn’t have put it better myself! Lie in the deep freeze waiting for the next coincidence-I don’t think that’s what they had in mind, though, that business of life after death. But cheers in any case!”
“Cheers,” said Munster.
“So you don’t have any good advice to offer?” he asked as they were on their way out.
Van Veeteren scratched the back of his head.
“No,” he said. “You’ve said all there is to say. You have to be able to show a bit of patience after all. Hens don’t lay eggs any quicker if you stand watching them.”
“Where do you get all your expressions from?”
“No idea,” Van Veeteren said, feeling quite pleased with himself. “That’s the way it is with us poets. They just come.”
9
She’d failed to catch on from the first indication. A few lines she’d read in one of the evening papers while traveling from the airport in a taxi. Anybody might have overlooked it.
Then it became more worrying. When she’d finished
unpacking and taken her two tablets, she turned her attention to the daily papers that Mrs. Pudecka had left in two neat piles on the kitchen table, as usual. She lay back in the Biedermeier armchair in front of the fire and started to work her way slowly through them, one by one; that was when the suspicion began to nag at her. Of course, it was pure fantasy at the moment-a whimsical idea, something of that sort, prompted and set in motion by her bad conscience, no doubt.
The vague feeling of guilt that naturally had no justification but was nevertheless always with her, deep down, more or less insistent, but never totally absent. She wished it had been otherwise. That it could have made up its mind to be completely-absolutely and very definitely-absent. Once and for all.
But that was not how it was, of course.
She went to the kitchen. Made another cup of tea, took some of the newspapers to the bedroom and started working through them more systematically. Stretched herself out under the blanket and read, letting her mind wander back through time as she tried to recall dates and events. Dozed off 5 1
for a few minutes when dusk crept up on her, but was thrust out of a dream in which his face had suddenly appeared before her, in sharp detail.
His totally silent and expressionless face with those unfathomable eyes.
She stretched out a hand and switched on the lamp.
Could it be him?
She looked at the clock. Half past six. In any event it was too late to set off in the car this evening. The flight had tired her out, as usual. Nobody could expect her to sort things out immediately, but she was also aware that it was not something she could sweep under the carpet and hope it would stay there. There were some things you simply couldn’t skirt around. There was such a thing as duty.
She took a shower and spent a few hours in front of the television. Phoned Liesen to tell her that she was back home, but didn’t say a word about her misgivings. Of course not.
Liesen was one of the people who knew nothing about it; there had never been any reason to tell her.
No compelling reason.
They didn’t mention a word about it on the news. That wasn’t so odd, when you came to think about it; over two weeks had passed, and of course there were other more important things to keep citizens informed about. Presumably it had all begun to fade away and disappear from people’s minds, and she suspected that if she didn’t intervene, the whole business would soon be forgotten.
She sighed uneasily. Wouldn’t that be best? For it to be forgotten? Surely there was no rhyme or reason why the past should be raked over again? Think of the unpleasantness that might be stirred up. Would he never tire of following her like a. . like a, what is it they say nowadays? A poltergeist? Something like that, in any case.
But there was that vague stirring of conscience. That slight, nagging feeling of guilt. That is what it was really about, and would she ever be rid of it if she kept out of it this time as well? A good question, to be sure. Even if she looked on the positive side she could hardly have more than ten or twelve years left, and sooner or later she would find herself standing in front of that wall.
Facing her maker, that is. In which case it might be a good idea to be on solid ground.
Yes, indeed. She sighed, stood up and switched off the television. She would have to follow this up.
But there again, there was nothing, nothing at all, in fact, to suggest that it really might be him. Not the slightest detail.
No doubt it was just her nerves getting the better of her.
She set off early the next morning. She had woken up at half past five, another of those inevitable curses that old age brings with it. Got up, had breakfast and driven the car out of the garage before seven.
There was not much traffic; once she had wriggled her way out of town and reached the hills, she was more or less alone on the road. It was a lovely morning, with a thin layer of mist that slowly dispersed as the sun broke through. She stopped at the picturesque inn between Geerlach and Wurpatz and drank a cup of coffee. Pulled herself together and tried to keep her thoughts and the nagging worry under control as she leafed through the morning papers. There wasn’t a word. Not in any of them.
She drove straight through Linzhuisen without stopping and arrived at the house soon after half past nine. Got out and walked up to the door. Managed to open it with a little difficulty, and then it was not many minutes before she realized that her worst fears could very well be true.
It was far from certain, of course, but having come this far she clearly had no alternative but to contact the police.
She did that shortly afterward; from the telegraph station in Linzhuisen, to be exact, and the call was logged in to Maardam at 10:03 by the duty officer, Police Constable Pieter Willock.
Ten minutes later Detective Inspector Rooth marched into Inspector Munster’s office without knocking and announced with ill-concealed excitement:
“I think we’ve got him.”
10
Sleep, he thought. That’s all I want.
The hours before he had been admitted were not the orgy of solitude he had imagined, and perhaps it was those telephone calls just as much as What Is In Store that were hound-ing him and keeping him awake long into the early hours.
Not that they had phoned to bid him farewell-or at least, it hadn’t sounded like that. But if something unexpected were to happen, they would naturally feel better, having spoken to him that final evening.
Renate was first. Beating about the bush as usuaclass="underline" talking about the holiday cottage they had once owned; about books she hadn’t read, but had seen; about her brother and sister-in-law (that awful brother of hers: For some unknown reason he got on rather well with the sister-in-law-in the old days, that is); and it was not until after a quarter of an hour or more that she came around to mentioning the operation.
Was he worried?
Worried? Of course not. No, needless to say she hadn’t expected him to be. Perhaps he could give her a ring when it was all over, in any case?