had propped up to the right of his plate-without reading more than the occasional line here and there and without having the slightest idea of the content. If this was camouflage, it was a poor effort.
Anybody taking a closer look at him would doubtless have noticed that something fishy was going on. He was well aware of that, but there was no risk.
Who on earth would want to take a closer look at him?
Nobody, he had decided; and that was, of course, a perfectly correct conclusion to reach. Between eleven and two, some 200 to 250 customers would have lunch at the railroad restaurant. Most of them were regulars; but there would be a large number of chance diners, making it highly unlikely that anybody would pay any attention to this ordinary-looking man in corduroy trousers and grayish green pullover by the window, minding his own business.
Especially if you bore the time factor in mind. He couldn’t help smiling to himself at the thought. If everything went to plan, an awful lot of time would pass. Months. With any luck, years. Masses of time. Ideally what was going to happen would never be discovered.
Needless to say, that would be the optimal solution-nothing ever seeing the light of day-but he realized that it would be stupid to bank on that. It was better and smarter to be prepared for all eventualities. Better to sit here quietly and do nothing to draw attention to himself. An unknown diner among a lot of unknown diners. Noticed by nobody, forgotten by everybody.
At about twelve, when the place was at its busiest, some of the customers tried to take the seat opposite him at the little table, but he turned them away. Explained politely that unfortunately it was reserved, he was waiting for a friend.
Later, during the critical moments around a quarter to one, he became tense. That was inevitable. When he saw the first of the newly alighted passengers, he moved his chair closer to the window and ignored everything else. It was essential to concentrate hard: Identifying him might well be the weakest link in the whole chain. A long time had passed, and who could tell how much he might have changed during all those years? Obviously, in no circumstances must he miss him.
He must not let him pass unnoticed.
When he did eventually see him, he was emerging from the cafe on the other side of the square an hour and a half later. It was obvious there was no need to have worried.
Of course, it was him. That was immediately clear when he was still thirty yards away-the same energetic, wiry little figure; slightly hunched, perhaps, but not much. His hair thinner and paler in color. Receding at the temples. Movements a bit stiffer.
A bit grayer, a bit older.
But definitely him.
He left his table and went out into the street. The man was standing at the taxi rank. Just as expected. Number three in the line, searching for something in his pockets. Cigarettes, money, could be anything.
Nothing to do but wait, then. Wait, go and sit in the car, then follow him. There was no hurry. He knew where the cab would take him.
Knew that everything was going to happen according to plan.
For one brief moment he felt slightly dizzy as blood rushed to his head, but he soon regained control of himself.
The taxi pulled away. Drove round the square, and as it passed him outside the cafe, he could see the familiar profile through the back window less than six feet away, and he knew at that moment that there would be no problem.
No problem at all.
IV
12
“What do you think?” Rooth asked.
Munster shrugged.
“I don’t know. But he’s probably our man. We’ll have to wait and see what the forensic officers say.”
“It’s not exactly a cheerful place.”
“No. That’s certainly what strikes you, somehow. Shall we take a walk to the village? We’re not doing any good here.
We’ll have to talk to the neighbors sooner or later anyway.”
Rooth nodded and they set off in silence down the winding path through the woods. After a few hundred yards the countryside opened up, with low farmhouses on each side, and only a stone’s throw farther on was the village of Kaustin.
They continued as far as the church and the main road.
“How many souls live in this place, do you know?” asked Rooth.
Munster glanced at the churchyard, but assumed the question referred to those who had not yet been laid to rest.
“A couple of hundred, I would guess. There’s a store and a school, in any case.”
He pointed down the road ahead of them.
“What do you reckon?” said Rooth. “Shall we do a bit of sounding out?”
“Might as well,” said Munster. “If the shopkeeper doesn’t know anything, nobody else will.”
There were two old ladies sitting on chairs inside the store, and it was obvious to Munster that they had no intention of leaving. While Rooth took a careful look at the range of chocolate bars and bags of candy, he steered the slimly built shopkeeper into the storeroom. Perhaps that was unnecessary.
Their arrival in the village, five or six cars one after the other on a forest track that was normally quiet, could hardly have passed unnoticed. Even so, there was plenty of reason to keep in the background as far as possible. The link was not yet confirmed, when all was said and done.
“My name’s Munster,” he said, producing his ID.
“Hoorne. Janis Hoorne,” said the shopkeeper with a nervous smile.
Munster decided to get straight to the point.
“Do you know who owns that house in the forest up there?
The turnoff by the church, I mean.”
The man nodded.
“Who, then?”
“It’s Verhaven’s.”
His voice is hoarse, Munster thought, his eyes shifty.
What’s he worried about?
“Have you had this store for long?”
“Thirty years. My father ran it before I did.”
“You know the story, then?”
He nodded again. Munster waited for a few seconds.
“Has something happened?”
“We don’t know yet,” Munster explained. “Possibly. Have you noticed anything?”
“No. . no, what should I have noticed?”
His nervousness was like an aura around him, but there might be a good reason for that. Munster eyed him up and down before continuing.
