4
Van Veeteren parked outside the overgrown garden. He checked that the number on the flaking mailbox by the gate really did correspond with the address he’d noted down on the scrap of paper in his breast pocket.
Yes. No doubt about it.
“You’ll find it all right,” Chief of Police Bausen had said.
“There’s nothing else like it anywhere in town!”
That was certainly no exaggeration. He got out of his car and tried to peer over the tangled spirea hedge. It looked dark inside there. Heavy, sagging branches of unpruned fruit trees coalesced at about chest height with the undergrowth-grass three feet high, untamed rosebushes and an assortment of prickly tendrils of obscure origin-to form a more or less impenetrable jungle. There was no sign of a house from the pavement, but a well-worn path suggested that one might pos sibly be in there somewhere. A machete would have been use ful, thought Van Veeteren. The guy must be crazy.
He opened the gate, crouched down and ventured in. After only ten yards or so he found a house wall ahead of him, and a thickset man came to meet him. His face was rugged, wrinkled and heavily tanned-it had been a hot summer. His hair was sparse, almost white, and Van Veeteren thought he looked as if he’d already been retired for some time. Nearer seventy than sixty, if he’d had to guess. But still pretty fit and strong, obvi ously. His clothes indicated that he was on home territory slippers, worn corduroy trousers and a checked flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up.
“Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, I presume?”
He held out a muscular hand. Van Veeteren shook it and admitted his identity.
“Forgive the garden! I started growing roses and a few other things a couple of years ago, but then I got fed up.
Bloody amazing how fast everything grows! I haven’t a clue how to sort it out.”
He flung out his arms and smiled apologetically.
“No problem,” said Van Veeteren.
“Anyway, welcome! Come this way; I have a few easy chairs around back. I take it you drink beer?”
“Masses,” said Van Veeteren.
Bausen contemplated him over the edge of his glass and raised an eyebrow.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said. “I felt I had to check out what sort of bastard I’d been stuck with. Before we meet the rest of them, that is. Cheers!”
“Cheers,” said Van Veeteren.
He lounged back in the wicker chair and emptied half the bottle in one gulp. The sun had been blazing down all the way there; only an hour, it was true, but he could feel his shirt cling ing to his back.
“I think the heat wave’s going to last.”
The chief of police leaned forward and tried to find a patch of sky through the network of branches.
“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“It’s not bad,” said Bausen. “Once you get out into the jungle, you’re usually left in peace.”
That seemed to be the case. A well-camouflaged little nest, no doubt about it. The dirty yellow awning; straggly clumps of bushes and roses climbing up the trellis; the thick, tall grass; a heavy scent of late summer, the buzzing of bees… And the patio itself: nine or ten square yards, stone flags and a frayed cord mat, two battered wicker chairs, a table with newspapers and books, a pipe and tobacco. Next to the house wall was a lopsided bookcase full of tins of paint, brushes, plant pots, sev eral magazines and other bric-a-brac… a chessboard pro truded from behind a few crates of empty bottles. Oh yes, there was something special about this place. Van Veeteren produced a toothpick and stuck it between his front teeth.
“Sandwich?” asked Bausen.
“If I can have something to wash it down with. This is empty, I’m afraid.”
He put the bottle on the table. Bausen knocked out his pipe and rose to his feet.
“Let’s see if we can do something about that.”
He disappeared into the house, and Van Veeteren could hear him pottering about in the kitchen and singing something that sounded reminiscent of the bass aria from The Pearl Fishers.
Well, he thought, clasping his hands behind his head. This could have got off to a worse start. There’s life in the old boy yet!
Then it struck him that there could hardly be more then eight or ten years between them.
He declined Bausen’s offer of accommodation most reluc tantly, indicating that he might well change his mind later on.
In any case, he hoped that his esteemed colleague would keep a door open… if this business drags on and on, that is…
Instead he took a room at The See Warf. Fourth floor with a balcony and sun in the evening. View over the harbor, quays and the bay with the open sea beyond. This wasn’t too bad a place either, he had to admit. Bausen pointed out to sea.
“Straight ahead you can see Lange Piirs, the lighthouse, but only when the mornings are clear. Last year that meant four days. On top of the cliffs over there is The Fisherman’s Friend, a gourmet restaurant. Maybe we can treat ourselves to an evening there, if we can’t think of anything better to do.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Perhaps it’s time to do a bit of work?”
Bausen shrugged.
“If you insist, Chief Inspector.” He checked his watch. “Oh, damn! They’ll have been waiting for us for half an hour, I reckon!”
The police station in Kaalbringen was a two-story affair at the
Grande Place. A front office, canteen, changing rooms and a few cells in the basement; a conference room and four offices on the upper floor. Because of his status as chief of police,
Bausen had the biggest office, of course, with a desk and book cases in dark oak, a worn leather sofa and a view over the square. Inspectors Moerk and Kropke each had a smaller office overlooking the courtyard, and the fourth was occupied by
Constables Bang and Mooser.
“Allow me to introduce Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, who’s come here to solve the case for us,” said Bausen.
Moerk and Kropke stood up.
“Bausen’s the man in charge,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m only here to help out… if and when needed.”
“You’ll be needed all right,” said Bausen. “This is the whole
Kaalbringen force. Plus the lesser ranks, of course, although I wouldn’t expect too much of them if I were you.”
“Inspector Kropke,” said Kropke, standing to attention.
Idiot, thought Beate Moerk, and introduced herself.
“Inspector Moerk is responsible for all the charm and intu ition we have to offer,” said Bausen. “I would advise you not to underestimate her.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Van Veeteren.
“Right, shall we get going?” Bausen started to roll up his shirtsleeves. “Is there any coffee?”
Beate Moerk indicated a tray on a table in the corner.
Kropke ran a hand through his fair, close-cropped hair and fumbled with the top button of his shirt behind the knot in his tie. He was obviously the one charged with holding forth.
Rookie’s up first, presumably, Van Veeteren thought. Per haps Bausen is teaching him the ropes.
Seemed to be necessary, if he was to be honest.
