‘Just one thing, perhaps,’ said Jung. ‘Shouldn’t we put the girl’s picture in the newspapers as well? And on the telly? Surely there’s no need to keep quiet about her disappearance any more.’
‘That’s already been taken care of,’ said Reinhart. ‘She’ll be in tomorrow’s papers — and maybe even on the late news this evening.’
‘I have the feeling we’ll have this bastard cornered any time now,’ said Rooth. ‘Today we’ve been as efficient as an earthquake.’
‘Does anybody else have an intelligent thought?’ asked Reinhart, looking round the room. ‘If not, you’re welcome to clear off. We’ll meet under a cold star tomorrow morning — and never fear, we’ll solve this case sooner or later.’
Later, Münster thought. I’ll put money on that.
18
After the brief run-through in Reinhart’s office on Tuesday afternoon, Inspector Rooth paid a visit to the gym in the basement of the police station.
He pumped iron and pedalled away for almost twenty minutes, then showered and loitered in the sauna for forty. Sweated himself dry, rested and got dressed — almost another hour’s effort.
When he emerged into Wejmarstraat it was still only half past seven, and he had plenty of time. His table at Kraus was reserved for half past eight, and since for some incomprehensible reason it wasn’t raining, he went for a long and invigorating walk along Wejmargraacht and back — as far as the allotments next to the Richter Stadium.
Why not, now that the fitness gremlin had sneaked its way into his being?
As he was walking, he tried to imagine how the evening would turn out. He had no difficulty in conjuring up the face of Jasmina Teuwers in his mind’s eye. No difficulty at all. Her high cheekbones. Her long neck and blonde hair. Her blue-green eyes that were so bright, he had been tongue-tied the first time he gazed into them. Her smile, that was like sunrise over the sea.
Che bella donna! Rooth thought — they had first met when they both attended a course in Italian. That was no coincidence, of course: last summer he had phoned his good friend Maarten Hoeght, whose job involved organizing evening courses, and asked which beginners’ courses attracted the most eligible young ladies. French and Italian, Hoeght had declared without a moment’s hesitation: and since Rooth had studied French at grammar school and achieved less than satisfactory grades, he had chosen Italian.
Italiano! The language of Dante and Boccaccio. And Corleone. One evening a week. Thursdays, between eight and ten o’clock. At the very first class it had struck him that choosing this course was a stroke of genius. Twenty-two women, three men: one of the other men was a Greek Orthodox priest in his sixties; the other was a cripple, but had nevertheless done a runner after only two sessions.
Easy meat, polyglot Rooth had thought: and he still thought so two months later.
Like the experienced if somewhat wounded courtesan he was, he had proceeded with caution. He had restricted himself to non-alcoholic drinks, and chatted urbanely with three different women on three different Thursday evenings: but in the end nature and fate had asserted themselves, and he had selected Jasmina Teuwers.
It was after the latest class the previous week that he had eventually plucked up enough courage to ask — without any beating about the bush — if she might be prepared to have dinner with him: nothing special. When, after an exceedingly brief hesitation (which wasn’t really a hesitation at all, Rooth decided, but merely a perfectly understandable palpitation), she said yes, he had felt once again like the awkwardly blushing fifteen-year-old he had been at school dances.
Incredible, Rooth thought. The wings of love will transport you through fire and water. He wondered what such thoughts might be in Italian. Perhaps that was a question they could discuss while eating their dessert?
Amore. . acqua. . fue. .?
He arrived at Kraus a quarter of an hour early, but the table was free and so he sat down and waited.
As he sat there he recalled the little distinction he and Jung had discussed that morning. Facing up to facts of life and death, or waving two fingers at them.
What was his own approach, in fact? Did he want to face up to the facts of his own life? Did he dare to?
He ordered a beer, and thought about it.
Forty-two is old. Unmarried, not engaged. Detective inspector with prospects of promotion to intendent in three or four years’ time.
What difference did it make, for God’s sake? Inspector or intendent?
A few hundred a month more. What would he do with the extra money? Buy a bigger aquarium?
Not much more is going to happen in my life, he thought in a moment of grim insight. Unless I’m shot in the course of duty, that is. That’s always a possibility.
And nothing much has really happened thus far either, he added. Nothing to speak of, that is. Why don’t I have a wife and children and a context, like Münster and Reinhart?
Even Jung seemed to have solid ground under his feet, since he moved in with Maureen. Why was it only Inspector Rooth who chased after women without success, year after year?
But then again, he thought philosophically and took a swig of beer, then again it’s not a hundred per cent clear that such aspirations are worth bothering about. Just look at my poor sisters!
Rooth had four sisters. They were younger than he was, and had all been in such a rush to find a man and a house and children that you could be forgiven for thinking it was some sort of competition. At the last Christmas dinner at his seventy-odd-year-old parents’ place out at Penderdixte, if he remembered and had counted correctly, the number of nephews and nieces amounted to nine. And at least two of the sisters had been pregnant. His father had commented that the situation was very Icelandic — with a meaningful look at Rooth’s mother, who had come over from Rejkjavik shortly after the war. Or maybe he had gone there to fetch her: there were several uncertainties in the family history.
Anyway, thought Rooth laconically, whatever the circumstances I’ll never be able to survive without relations. But I prefer women of my own to networks of relatives.
At that point the image of Jasmina Teuwers floated up into his consciousness again, and he forgot all about that business of facing up to facts or waving two fingers.
But it was already five minutes after half past. Why hadn’t she arrived?
A quarter of an hour later she still hadn’t turned up, and he had sent the waitress away twice without having ordered.
What the hell had happened? Rooth began to think that it was embarrassing to sit there alone at the table. All around him were diners chatting away merrily, devouring their main courses and draining bottles of wine: it was only at his corner table, set for two, that there was a lonely, middle-aged detective inspector with shattered hopes and a receding hairline.
Bugger this for a lark, he thought. I’ll wait for another five minutes, then I’ll phone her.
In fact he held out for ten minutes; and then when he furtively took his mobile out of his briefcase, he realized that he didn’t have her number.
‘Sacramento diabolo basta,’ Rooth muttered silently to himself. ‘Madre mia, what the hell should I do? Something must have happened to her. No doubt she’s been run over by a tram on the way here. Or been mugged. Or been arrested by the police.’
After a little more thought that last possibility seemed to be somewhat unlikely — and it suddenly occurred to him that he had given her his telephone number. Yes indeed: he hadn’t received hers, but she’d got his. For some reason or other.