“You can call me a buffalo if you like, as long as I can get some sleep now.”
“Anything special?”
Klempje thought for a moment.
“No. Some madman or other rang from Majorna just a
couple of minutes ago and wanted to talk to what he called the unpleasant one. Funny, eh? Who do you think he could have meant?”
“V.V.?”
“Who else?”
“What was it about?”
“No idea. He hung up. And Joensuu and Kellerman are down in the cells wrestling with a whore on cloud nine. Holy shit, but what a glamorous life we lead!”
Klempje staggered out and Krause took his place in the glass booth.
The unpleasant one? he thought. Majorna?
He thought for a moment, then called the fourth floor.
No answer.
He tried Munster.
No answer there either.
Oh, what the hell? he thought and took a paperback out of his inside pocket.
23
The letter arrived in the afternoon mail.
Without giving it a second thought he put it in his pocket; he had a number of things to do that couldn’t wait, and he might just as well read it when he got home. He might have wondered in passing what it could be: he didn’t often receive mail at work, and this letter seemed to be private.
He then forgot all about it, of course, and it wasn’t until he was feeling around in his jacket pockets for laundry tokens that he discovered it. He used a mechanical pencil to split it open and took out a sheet of paper folded twice.
It was only one single line. But it was clear enough.
The first few seconds, his mind was a complete blank. He stood there motionless, leaning over the desk, his eyes nailed to the words.
Then his brain started working. Slowly and methodically.
Yet again he was surprised by how he could be so worked up and yet so calm at the same time. How he could simultane-ously feel his blood seething and also let his thoughts coldly and objectively glean the reality behind this letter.
He examined the postmark. Yesterday’s date.
Looked more closely. A few letters were illegible, but it must be Willemsburg.
That fitted. That’s where he was incarcerated. Everybody knew that. A few had even been to visit him.
He stretched out on the bed and switched off the light. Felt the prickling sensation in his gut, but was able to keep it under control without difficulty. The question was. .?
The question was so easy to formulate that it was almost embarrassing.
Were there any more letters?
Were there any more letters?
He went to the kitchen and opened a beer. Sat by the window. Drank a few long swigs and blinked away the tears that beer always gave him.
With the certainty of a sleepwalker he produced the answer.
No, there were no more letters.
He had been at home for three hours. Nobody had
phoned. A delay of that length would have been inconceiv-able. No, there were no other letters.
He drummed his fingers on the bottle.
There was just one other possibility. . His brain was working lightning-fast now. . The possibility that it took longer for letters to be delivered to police headquarters. They might receive a letter tomorrow. That was a possibility. It had to be faced up to.
He took another swig. Jackdaws were cawing outside the window. His mind wandered to Hitchcock and
But if. . if there was another letter, already written and posted. . irrevocably. . it must arrive by tomorrow. Tomorrow at the latest.
Tomorrow. If he hadn’t heard anything by noon tomorrow, he was safe.
That was the answer. He raised the bottle to his mouth and emptied it. Looked up at the sky over the rooftops. Darkness was falling fast; no doubt there would be another star-filled sky tonight. He wondered vaguely if that would be an advantage or a disadvantage.
But the final answer was still in the offing even so. He had waited and been patient. Bided his time.
He took a deep breath. The prickling sensation in his gut was strong and pleasant now. Almost erotic.
It was time.
24
He woke up and couldn’t remember his name.
That had happened before, he was sure. He had a memory of another morning.
But now it was night. A shaft of pale moonlight enveloped the foot end of his bed, and draped a figure standing there.
It was a woman, no doubt about it. Her silhouette was outlined clearly against the window, but her face was in darkness.
“Diotima?” he whispered out of the blue, he didn’t know why. It was just a name that floated up to the surface of the well of forgetfulness. Somebody he missed.
But no, surely it wasn’t her?
She came closer. Walked slowly around the head of the bed, came around to his right side. Raised her arm, and something glinted in her hand. .
Mitter. . Janek Mattias Mitter. . He remembered just as the pain cut him in two.
And before the scream had time to leave his mouth, a pillow had been pressed down over his face. He groped around with his hands, tried in vain to grasp his visitor’s wrists. . But he lacked the strength, and pain pumped white-hot glowing waves out of his chest and stomach.
I am nobody, he thought. Nothing but a colossal pain.
The last thing to come to him was an image.
An old picture, something he might have drawn himself once. Or taken from a book.
It was an image of death, and it was a very personal truth.
An ox.
And a swamp.
This was his life. An ox that had fallen into a swamp.
Sinking slowly down into the mud. Sinking slowly into death.
When night came, a calm and starry night, only his head was still above ground, and the last thing. . the very last thing to disappear, was the ox’s surprised eye, staring up at the myriad stars.
