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April 30:
Leopold Verhaven is arrested on suspicion of having
murdered his 23-year-old fiancée, or alternatively com-
mitted manslaughter.
That was all. Van Veeteren put the photocopy at the bottom of
the pile and checked the time. Half past eleven. Shouldn t
lunch be served about now? For the first time since he came to
after the operation, he could feel a little pang of hunger. That
must surely be a sign that he was on the mend?
In any case, everything seemed to have gone according
t h e r e t u r n
to plan. That is what the young surgeon with the cherubic
cheeks had stressed enthusiastically that very morning, when
he had called in to prod at Van Veeteren s stomach with his
pale, cocktail-sausage fingers. A mere six to eight days conva-
lescence, then the chief inspector would be able to return to
his usual routines, more energetic than ever.
Energetic? Van Veeteren thought. How can he know that I
have any particular desire to be energetic?
He turned his head to look at the display of flowers. Three
bouquets, no more, no less, were squeezed onto the bedside
table. His colleagues . Renate s. Jess and Erich s. And this after-
noon Jess was due to visit him with the twins. What more
could he ask for?
Now he could hear the food trolley approaching down the
corridor. Presumably he would only be allowed a few morsels
of dietary fare, but perhaps that was just as well. Maybe he
was not yet ready for rare steak.
He yawned and turned his thoughts back to Verhaven.
Tried to imagine that little village off the beaten track around
the beginning of the 1960s.
What components would have been there?
The usual ones? Presumably.
Narrowness of outlook. Suspicions. Envy. Wagging
tongues.
Yes, that was about it, generally speaking.
Verhaven s outsider status?
He seems to have been an odd character, and an odd char-
acter was what was needed. The ideal murderer? Perhaps that
is what it looked like.
How about proof ? He tried to recall the circumstances, but
he couldn t remember much more than a series of question
marks that he hadn t been able to sort out.
Had they managed to resist all the half-truths that must
have emerged? There had been a bit of a manhunt, he remem-
1 2 9
bered. Quite a lot of insinuations in the media about the com-
petence of the police and the courts. Or rather, incompetence.
The police had been under pressure. If they didn t find a mur-
derer, they were condemning themselves . . .
What about the forensic proof ? It had been a case of cir-
cumstantial evidence, hadn t it? He must get down to the
court records that Münster had brought him, that was obvi-
ous. If only he could get something nutritious down himself
first. Certainly there had been one or two shaky points. He
had only talked about the case once with Mort after it was all
over, and it had been obvious that his predecessor had not
been too happy about discussing it.
He was slightly better informed about the other business,
the Marlene case. Hadn t that investigation left quite a lot to
be desired as well? Van Veeteren had actually been involved in
it, but only on the periphery. He d never been in the court-
room. Mort had been in charge on that occasion as well.
Leopold Verhaven? Surely this was a chapter in legal his-
tory that would not stand up to meticulous rescrutiny?
Or was he merely imagining things? Was it just a matter of
him needing something more or less perverse to occupy his
mind as he lay here flat on his back, waiting for his intestine to
heal properly again? Screened off and isolated from the out-
side world, where the only thing demanded of him was to lie
still and not get excited.
Something really messy. An old legal scandal, like the one
in that crime novel by Josephine Tey, whatever it was called.
Why was it so difficult to let your mind lie fallow?
What was it that Pascal had said? Something about all the
evil in the world being caused by our inability to sit still in an
empty room?
Shit, what an existence, he thought. Hurry up and wheel in
the food trolley, so that I can get my teeth into a good old
spinach soup!
20
Quite a few stories were circulating about him, said Bernard
Moltke, lighting another cigarette.
You don t say, said deBries. What kind of stories?
Various kinds. It s hard to tell which ones dated from
before Beatrice and which ones came afterward. Which ones
are authentic, if you like. It was mainly during the trial that
gossip was rife. We d never met up so much in the village
as we did during those months. Afterward, things quieted
down, somehow. As if it were all over. Which it no doubt
was.
Can you give us an example of the kind of story you are
talking about? asked Moreno. Preferably an authentic one.
Bernard Moltke thought for a moment.
The one about the cat, he said. I certainly heard that
one much earlier, in any case. They say he strangled a cat with
his bare hands.
DeBries could feel a shudder shooting down his spine, and
he saw Constable Moreno give a start.
Why? he asked.
I don t know, said Moltke. But anyway, he s supposed to
have wrung its neck. When he was ten or twelve years old.
Ugh, said Moreno.
Yes. Maybe somebody dared him to do it. I have an idea
that was it.
1 3 1
Was that supposed to be a sufficient reason?
Don t ask me, said Moltke. Lots of people say that s
what he was like.
What do you have to say about Beatrice Holden, then?
Moltke drew deeply on his cigarette, seemingly searching
through his memory.
A damned good-looking woman, he said. A bit on the
wild side, that s true, but Good Lord . . . Ah well. Same color
hair as you, miss.
He winked at Moreno, who remained stony faced, to
deBries s great satisfaction.
Why was she in with Verhaven, then? she asked instead.
He can t have been very attractive to women, surely?
Don t say that, protested Moltke, poking his index finger
into his double chins. Don t say that. You never know what s
going on inside a woman. Isn t that right, Inspector?
Absolutely, said deBries.
What about Marlene? asked Moreno, totally unmoved.
The same type of thoroughbred, I take it?
Moltke burst out laughing, but soon turned serious.
You bet your sweet life she was, he said. A bit older,
that s all. A goddamned scandal that he killed the pair of
them.
You saw Marlene Nietsch as well, then? asked deBries.
Only the once. They hadn t met all that much before . . . it
was all over.
I see, said deBries. I understand you were a witness at
the first trial?
Yes, sir.
What was your testimony about?
Moltke thought for a while.
I m damned if I know, he said. I was up at Verhaven s
t h e r e t u r n
quite a bit around the time it happened, that s all really.
Helped him with the lighting inside the chicken sheds. He was
experimenting with daily rhythms and there was some wiring
job he wasn t up to.
So that s it, said deBries. Were you there on the Satur-
day she disappeared? Well, if you believe what he said, that is.
Moltke nodded solemnly.
Yes, I put in a few hours that Saturday. Finished about
one, roughly. I was the last person to see her alive, I suppose.
Apart from the murderer, of course.
The murderer? said Moreno. You mean Verhaven?
Yes, said Moltke. I suppose I do.
You don t sound too convinced, said deBries.
A brief silence again.
Oh yes, he said. I ve become convinced as the years have [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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April 30:
Leopold Verhaven is arrested on suspicion of having
murdered his 23-year-old fiancée, or alternatively com-
mitted manslaughter.
That was all. Van Veeteren put the photocopy at the bottom of
the pile and checked the time. Half past eleven. Shouldn t
lunch be served about now? For the first time since he came to
after the operation, he could feel a little pang of hunger. That
must surely be a sign that he was on the mend?
In any case, everything seemed to have gone according
t h e r e t u r n
to plan. That is what the young surgeon with the cherubic
cheeks had stressed enthusiastically that very morning, when
he had called in to prod at Van Veeteren s stomach with his
pale, cocktail-sausage fingers. A mere six to eight days conva-
lescence, then the chief inspector would be able to return to
his usual routines, more energetic than ever.
Energetic? Van Veeteren thought. How can he know that I
have any particular desire to be energetic?
He turned his head to look at the display of flowers. Three
bouquets, no more, no less, were squeezed onto the bedside
table. His colleagues . Renate s. Jess and Erich s. And this after-
noon Jess was due to visit him with the twins. What more
could he ask for?
Now he could hear the food trolley approaching down the
corridor. Presumably he would only be allowed a few morsels
of dietary fare, but perhaps that was just as well. Maybe he
was not yet ready for rare steak.
He yawned and turned his thoughts back to Verhaven.
Tried to imagine that little village off the beaten track around
the beginning of the 1960s.
What components would have been there?
The usual ones? Presumably.
Narrowness of outlook. Suspicions. Envy. Wagging
tongues.
Yes, that was about it, generally speaking.
Verhaven s outsider status?
He seems to have been an odd character, and an odd char-
acter was what was needed. The ideal murderer? Perhaps that
is what it looked like.
How about proof ? He tried to recall the circumstances, but
he couldn t remember much more than a series of question
marks that he hadn t been able to sort out.
Had they managed to resist all the half-truths that must
have emerged? There had been a bit of a manhunt, he remem-
1 2 9
bered. Quite a lot of insinuations in the media about the com-
petence of the police and the courts. Or rather, incompetence.
The police had been under pressure. If they didn t find a mur-
derer, they were condemning themselves . . .
What about the forensic proof ? It had been a case of cir-
cumstantial evidence, hadn t it? He must get down to the
court records that Münster had brought him, that was obvi-
ous. If only he could get something nutritious down himself
first. Certainly there had been one or two shaky points. He
had only talked about the case once with Mort after it was all
over, and it had been obvious that his predecessor had not
been too happy about discussing it.
He was slightly better informed about the other business,
the Marlene case. Hadn t that investigation left quite a lot to
be desired as well? Van Veeteren had actually been involved in
it, but only on the periphery. He d never been in the court-
room. Mort had been in charge on that occasion as well.
Leopold Verhaven? Surely this was a chapter in legal his-
tory that would not stand up to meticulous rescrutiny?
Or was he merely imagining things? Was it just a matter of
him needing something more or less perverse to occupy his
mind as he lay here flat on his back, waiting for his intestine to
heal properly again? Screened off and isolated from the out-
side world, where the only thing demanded of him was to lie
still and not get excited.
Something really messy. An old legal scandal, like the one
in that crime novel by Josephine Tey, whatever it was called.
Why was it so difficult to let your mind lie fallow?
What was it that Pascal had said? Something about all the
evil in the world being caused by our inability to sit still in an
empty room?
Shit, what an existence, he thought. Hurry up and wheel in
the food trolley, so that I can get my teeth into a good old
spinach soup!
20
Quite a few stories were circulating about him, said Bernard
Moltke, lighting another cigarette.
You don t say, said deBries. What kind of stories?
Various kinds. It s hard to tell which ones dated from
before Beatrice and which ones came afterward. Which ones
are authentic, if you like. It was mainly during the trial that
gossip was rife. We d never met up so much in the village
as we did during those months. Afterward, things quieted
down, somehow. As if it were all over. Which it no doubt
was.
Can you give us an example of the kind of story you are
talking about? asked Moreno. Preferably an authentic one.
Bernard Moltke thought for a moment.
The one about the cat, he said. I certainly heard that
one much earlier, in any case. They say he strangled a cat with
his bare hands.
DeBries could feel a shudder shooting down his spine, and
he saw Constable Moreno give a start.
Why? he asked.
I don t know, said Moltke. But anyway, he s supposed to
have wrung its neck. When he was ten or twelve years old.
Ugh, said Moreno.
Yes. Maybe somebody dared him to do it. I have an idea
that was it.
1 3 1
Was that supposed to be a sufficient reason?
Don t ask me, said Moltke. Lots of people say that s
what he was like.
What do you have to say about Beatrice Holden, then?
Moltke drew deeply on his cigarette, seemingly searching
through his memory.
A damned good-looking woman, he said. A bit on the
wild side, that s true, but Good Lord . . . Ah well. Same color
hair as you, miss.
He winked at Moreno, who remained stony faced, to
deBries s great satisfaction.
Why was she in with Verhaven, then? she asked instead.
He can t have been very attractive to women, surely?
Don t say that, protested Moltke, poking his index finger
into his double chins. Don t say that. You never know what s
going on inside a woman. Isn t that right, Inspector?
Absolutely, said deBries.
What about Marlene? asked Moreno, totally unmoved.
The same type of thoroughbred, I take it?
Moltke burst out laughing, but soon turned serious.
You bet your sweet life she was, he said. A bit older,
that s all. A goddamned scandal that he killed the pair of
them.
You saw Marlene Nietsch as well, then? asked deBries.
Only the once. They hadn t met all that much before . . . it
was all over.
I see, said deBries. I understand you were a witness at
the first trial?
Yes, sir.
What was your testimony about?
Moltke thought for a while.
I m damned if I know, he said. I was up at Verhaven s
t h e r e t u r n
quite a bit around the time it happened, that s all really.
Helped him with the lighting inside the chicken sheds. He was
experimenting with daily rhythms and there was some wiring
job he wasn t up to.
So that s it, said deBries. Were you there on the Satur-
day she disappeared? Well, if you believe what he said, that is.
Moltke nodded solemnly.
Yes, I put in a few hours that Saturday. Finished about
one, roughly. I was the last person to see her alive, I suppose.
Apart from the murderer, of course.
The murderer? said Moreno. You mean Verhaven?
Yes, said Moltke. I suppose I do.
You don t sound too convinced, said deBries.
A brief silence again.
Oh yes, he said. I ve become convinced as the years have [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]