But nothing happened.
Night after night, and absolutely nothing happened.
Not a single dodgy incident. Not the slightest indication. Nothing suspicious at all.
Two things nagged at him when he went to bed.
The first was a headache, caused by a whole day of tension and strain. To cope with that, every night he would take two tablets, washed down with a swig of whiskey in the dark kitchen.
That helped to some extent, but it didn't cure it.
The other thing was a thought. The thought that she might not come at all. The possibility that while he was spending these days in isolation and on red alert, she was actually somewhere else. Somewhere a long way away.
In an apartment in Maardam. In a house in Hamburg. Anywhere at all.
The possibility that this was the punishment she had decided to give him. Simply to let him wait. Wait for the murderer who never came. Wait for death, whose visit had been postponed.
And as one evening followed another, both these things grew in stature. The headache and the thought. A little bigger every evening, it seemed.
And neither tablets nor whiskey could do anything to help.
She pulled up beside an elderly man walking along the side of the road. Leaned over the empty passenger seat, wound down the window, and attracted his attention.
“I'm looking for Mr. Biedersen. Do you know where his house is?”
This was the second time she'd driven through the village. Dark outside. Quite dark inside the car as well, hat pulled down over her eyes, and a minimum of eye contact. A calculated risk, that's all. As they say.
“Yes, of course.”
He pointed out the house and explained where it was. It wasn't far away. Nothing in the village was far away. She memorized what he had said, thanked him, and continued on her way.
It's all so easy, she thought. Still just as easy.
She knew that the car gave her all the camouflage she needed; and it was indeed from inside the car-the hired Fiat that had been another expense but also a necessity-that she discovered him. That same evening. Parked in the darkness and drizzle opposite the inn. It was still a calculated risk, but there wasn't much of an alternative. In a place like this a stranger couldn't turn up many times before questions started to be asked. Who? Why?
Unnecessary and dangerous. There was no point in driving around, looking for him. But it was important to find him even so. Before he found her.
This time she had an opponent, not merely prey. There was a difference.
She watched him go in. Didn't see him come out.
The next evening, the same thing. While he was in there, she paid a visit to the house. Scrutinized it from the road for several minutes before driving back.
Thought about how to go about it.
He must know.
He had gone out of his way to entice her here; she had realized that from the start.
The third evening she went a step further. Drove into the village and parked the car behind the church. Walked down to the inn. Went in without hesitation and bought some cigarettes at the bar. She could see him sitting right at the back, out of the corner of her eye. A beer and a whiskey. He seemed alert and tense, but paid her no attention. There were more people in there than she'd expected, in fact. Twenty or so, half of them in the bar, the rest in the restaurant.
Three evenings out of three, she thought.
That meant that in all probability, it would be the same on day four and day five.
It was obvious what to do next. She had the upper hand again.
It was about time. All the waiting and the passage of time had been to her advantage, that was clear. But now things were coming to a head. The money she had left was committed, down to almost the last guilder. Every day cost money, and she no longer had the option of holding back, for the sake of it.
Just one opportunity She wouldn't get another. Making a mistake was no longer a possibility either. It was clear that she would have no second chance of putting things right, if she made a mess of it.
So: what she must do was arrange things the best way she could. In line with the others, and making this a worthy conclusion.
It was quite a long time since she had started out on this mission. There was only one of them left. Just one of them still alive, she thought as she returned to the little cottage by the lake.
And in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp she arranged his death.
Later, at first light, she woke up and was unable to fall asleep again. So she got up and dressed. Went down to the lake and walked out onto the jetty. Stood there for quite a while, gazing out over the dark water and the mists, and trying to recall the almost ecstatic rapture she had felt in the beginning. Trying to weigh that against the calm she felt now.
The superior feeling of perfection and control.
She could find no real balance-but nor could she find any objections. Everything was falling into place. Soon it would be over. Everything.
Two more days, she decided. In two more days. That might be a good time, bearing in mind the date as well.
Then she went back indoors, and sat down at the table. Started writing.
At my mother's interment…
39
Melgarves? Something about this Melgarves rang a bell…
Jung fished around among the papers cluttering up his desk.
“Did you serve Maureen breakfast in bed today, then?”
Jung looked up.
“Eh? Why on earth should I do that?”
“You mean you don't know what day it is today?” said Moreno, glaring at him.
“No.”
“International Women's Day. March eighth.”
“Good God,” said Jung. “I'd better buy her something. Thank you for letting me know. Did you get breakfast in bed?”
“Of course,” said Moreno with a smile. “And a bit more besides.”
Jung wondered for a moment what that might imply, then returned to his lists of incoming tips.
“This Melgarves character,” he said. “I don't understand why he's ended up on this list.”
“André Melgarves?”
“Yes indeed. He's one of the group. He's phoned in and passed on some information or other, but he's been bracketed with all the others… Krause must have missed his significance.”
“That's not like him,” said Moreno.
She crossed the room and read the brief notes over Jung's shoulder, frowned, and started chewing the pencil she had in her hand… A certain Mr. André Melgarves had phoned from Kin-sale in Ireland and announced that he had information that could be of interest to the ongoing investigation. They were welcome to give him a call. His address and telephone number were duly recorded.
“When did this come in?” Moreno asked.
Jung looked at the back of the card.
“The day before yesterday,” he said. “I think it's probably as well for the chief inspector to take this himself-what do you reckon?”
“I think so,” said Moreno. “Go and show him now-but don't mention that it came in two days ago. He seemed a bit grumpy this morning, I thought.”
“You don't say?” said Jung, getting to his feet.
The young man was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with “Big Is Beautiful” printed on it. He was very suntanned, and his short-cropped hair looked like a field of ripe wheat. He was chewing away at something, and staring at the floor.
“Name?” said Van Veeteren.
“Pieter Fuss.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Occupation?”
“Messenger.”
“Messenger?”
“For a security company.”
I see, thought Van Veeteren. Almost a colleague. He swallowed a feeling of impotence.