took another man occasionally?
Yes, she was in fact scared of what Ron would do if he found out about it; but that level of fear was nothing like this other one. He would no doubt give her a beating, throw her out for a while, perhaps; but this other fear was something different. She could feel it.
To tell the truth, she wasn’t sure what she felt; it must be something new. She had been convinced that there was nothing new anymore, as far as she was concerned, thought she had already experienced every kind of nastiness in existence.
But this felt. . horrendous?
Was “fear” the wrong word for this? she wondered. Was it too weak? Perhaps there was something stronger?
“Terror”?
She shuddered. Wrapped the covers more closely around her.
Yes, that’s what it was. It was a feeling of terror creeping up on her. This new man filled her with terror.
She reached out and switched the light on. Sat up and lit a cigarette. What the hell was going on? She inhaled deeply several times, and tried to sort out her thoughts.
Tonight had been their third meeting, and they still hadn’t been to bed together. That said all there was to be said. Something must be wrong.
The first time, she’d had her period. Looking back now, she realized that he had almost seemed relieved.
The second time, they’d gone to the movies. There had been no question of anything else.
But this evening ought to have been when it happened.
They’d drunk a few glasses of wine, and watched some idiotic program on the telly. She’d been wearing a thin, flimsy dress and not a stitch underneath, and they’d sat on the sofa. She had caressed the back of his neck, but all he’d done was to stiffen up. . Stiffen up and place a heavy hand on her knee.
Left it lying there like a dead fish, while he attacked the wine even more voraciously.
Then he had apologized for not feeling well, and gone to the bathroom. He’d left soon after eleven.
They were going to meet on Saturday for the fourth time.
He would pick her up straight after work. They’d go for a drive, if the weather was anything like reasonable, and then go to his place. He was adamant that he wanted her to stay the m i n d ’ s e y e
night. Only half an hour after leaving her, he’d called and made the arrangements. Apologized again for not feeling on top form. And she had agreed to all the plans, of course. Said she was looking forward to it.
She had second thoughts almost before replacing the receiver. Why hadn’t she said that she had a previous engage-ment? Why had she been so stupid as to say yes to a man she didn’t want?
Why could she never learn?
She stubbed out her cigarette in annoyance, and noticed that her fear was giving way to anger. Perhaps that was a sign.
A sign that she was only imagining things. Surely it couldn’t be all that dangerous? She’d had so many men in her life, surely she could cope with one more. No doubt she would get this John, as he called himself, where she wanted him.
Satisfied with these conclusions, she switched off the light and rolled over onto her side. It really was time for some sleep now. She would get up at seven, and be in place in the boutique at half past eight, as usual. Just before falling asleep, however, she managed to make two decisions that she promised herself she would remember when she woke up the next morning.
Firstly, she would talk to Johanna after all. Impress upon her that she had an obligation of absolute silence, of course; but nevertheless, fill her in on the circumstances.
Secondly, she would meet this man on Saturday, but if the slightest thing went wrong, she would turn on her heel without more ado, and that would be that.
That’s what would happen.
Once this had been decided, Liz Hennan was finally able to drop off to sleep thinking about more down-to- earth matters.
Such as those expensive trainers, for instance: the ones she was intending to buy in order to improve her times and boost the number of calories she could burn off.
Which must have been a bad investment and wishful thinking, in view of the fact that she had only three days left to live.
33
“Where’s Reinhart?” wondered Van Veeteren, arranging two used toothpicks in the form of a cross on the desk in front of him.
“Here!” said Reinhart, as he came in through the door. “I nipped into the book auction for a few minutes. Am I late?”
“Who the hell has time to read books?” said Rooth.
“I do,” said Reinhart, sitting down next to the radiator.
“Shitty weather, by the way! You wonder how people can raise the strength to go out and kill one another.”
“Go out?” said deBries, and sneezed twice. “Most of the murderers I know kill one another indoors.”
“Yes, but that’s because they can’t go out to do it,” said Rooth. “They obviously get on everybody’s nerves, just sitting around and gaping at this nonstop rain day after day.”
“It stopped raining in the afternoon the day before yesterday,” said Heinemann.
“Can we get started?” asked Van Veeteren. He counted his flock: Munster, Reinhart, Rooth, deBries, Jung, and Heinemann. That made seven, including himself. Seven officers working on the same case. That wasn’t something that happened every day.
Mind you, this was only the first week. The newspapers were still dreaming up headlines. Psycho Murderer. Death High School. And so on. There again, the word count dimin-1 9 7
ished noticeably with every new edition. Presumably he could expect several of his team to be given other assignments from Monday onward. DeBries, Jung, and Heinemann. . perhaps also Rooth.
But for the time being, they were at full strength. Hiller had committed himself to several pledges, both on TV and in the newspapers. It would soon be time to bid for money for the next financial year. It wouldn’t do any harm if they had a murderer under lock and key before Christmas, at the latest.
And the right murderer this time.
Rooth blew his nose. Reinhart looked as if he needed to do the same, but he lit his pipe instead. Van Veeteren was being careful with every movement involving the small of his back.
The match against Munster on Tuesday had left its mark, no doubt about that. He was in pain, especially when he sat down. He glanced at deBries and Heinemann. They looked distinctly groggy as well. Who knows if that was due to a cold or a lack of sleep? But in any case, his collection of police officers was not a particularly impressive bunch, to be honest.
Not something to line up for a live broadcast, he thought.
Let’s hope the inside looks a bit better than the shell.
“Can we get started?” he said again.
“Majorna first?”
Van Veeteren nodded, and deBries took a notebook out of his briefcase.
“There’s not a lot to say,” he said. “We’ve spoken to every living soul out there, apart from those afflicted with mutism and the potted plants. Doctors, staff, patients. . A total of 116
in all. About 100 haven’t seen a thing, but half of them think they have. Several have had dreams and visions. . For fuck’s sake, four have admitted to the murder.”
He paused and blew his nose into a paper handkerchief.
