Only tenderness, reconciliation and the forgiveness of sins.
Mercy?
And then Synn intervened and interrupted (or joined in) his pious thoughts. The image of her naked body, curled up on her side in a summer-warm bed, her knees raised and her dark hair fanned out over the pillow and her shoulders: This image filled him with another kind of tenderness, the same uncomplicated happiness he had felt at the kitchen table a few hours ago, perhaps. And before long, he was recalling the talk about making love in the sight of God in the Garden of Eden He had created. If they could work out how to keep the children out of the way for a while, that ought not to be impossible. They had managed it before; soon he was busy recalling various moments of passion. . Making love in the rowboat on Lake Weimar last summer. In the middle of the lake with only the sky and the gulls as witnesses. And another occasion, early one morning high up on a Greek mountain with a panoramic view over the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. Not to mention the beach at Laguna Monda-that was before Bart was born, one of the very first times. . They had lain there in the warm, dense darkness with the breeze from the mountains caressing her body, her incredibly smooth skin and her. .
A chord from the organ brought him back to his senses. Presumably it was intended to wake up a few other sheep dozing off in the flock inside the church. He opened his eyes and shook his head. The hymn singing gathered strength. With the vicar’s baritone, magnified by the microphone around his neck, leading the way, it floated out of the open windows and rose unshackled through the leaves of the trees, up into the heavens, where it was received and enjoyed, one can assume, by those already in residence to whom it was doubtless and unreservedly addressed.
Hallelujah, Munster thought, and yawned.
He sat up and checked his watch.
Twenty-seven minutes past. Time to act. He stood up, made his way through the graves and jumped over the wall next to where his car was parked. He had just opened the door and was about to get in when he clapped eyes on the chief inspector. He was strolling toward the churchyard, an unpleasant sight with his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and a garishly colored handkerchief knotted over his head. There were sweat stains under his arms, and his face was worryingly red; but amid all the wretchedness was a certain expression of satisfaction. A sort of restrained, contented grimace that could hardly be overlooked. Certainly not by somebody who had been around for as long as Munster had.
“There you are,” he said. “I was just going to get you.
How’s it gone?”
“OK, thanks,” said the chief inspector, removing the handkerchief from his head. “Damned hot, though.”
“You took your time, I reckon,” Munster ventured. “Was there really all that much to scratch around in up there?”
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“There was a bit,” he said. “I had a chat with the neighbors on the way down as well. Had a beer with the Czermaks. It was all go.”
He wiped his forehead. Munster waited, but the chief
inspector said nothing more.
“Did you get anywhere?” Munster asked eventually.
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “I think so. Let’s be off, then.”
As usual, Munster thought, slumping down behind the
wheel. Just the same as ever.
“Where exactly did you get, then?” he asked once they had got under way, and the wind coming in through the windows had begun to restore the chief inspector’s usual facial color.
“I have an idea about who might have done it,” said Van Veeteren. “An idea, remember that, Inspector! I’m not claiming that I know anything.”
“Who?” asked Munster, but he knew that he was wasting his time.
Instead of answering, the chief inspector leaned back in his seat, stuck his elbow out the window and started to whistle
Munster stepped on the gas and switched on the radio.
IX
33
At least nobody would be able to say that she hadn’t been out in good time.
She started prowling around the Covered Market as early as half past eight. He didn’t usually finish until about a quarter past nine or even half past, but obviously, it was best to leave a safety margin. The stakes were high, and Renate had made it clear that she wasn’t prepared to wait any longer for her money.
A lousy two thousand guilders. A few years ago she’d have been able to cough up twice as much as that with no trouble at all. Simply dig down into her purse, pull out a bundle of notes and tell the dolled-up slut to shove the change up her ass.
It wouldn’t really matter if Renate didn’t get her money; she wasn’t dependent on her. But she was dependent on Raoul, and Renate happened to be Raoul’s woman. For the time being, at least. Without him she would soon be without an apartment and without any work, that was for sure. But what the hell, she could manage on her own account, of course she could, start again from scratch like she’d done before; but there was no denying that it was good to have everything taken care of and made easy for her. Certainly. She was living a pleasant life as middle age started to creep up on her. .
So it was worth making an effort to scrape together the money she owed. She hadn’t really understood how serious the situation was until last night, that was why she was a bit short of time now. Renate hadn’t sounded the same as usual on the telephone; she wouldn’t be able to get away with excuses this time, that had been very obvious.
Two thousand guilders. A quarter past ten at the Rote Moor. Otherwise, you’re in the shit.
That was her problem, basically.
She’d phoned three or four friends, but it had been a waste of time, needless to say. She could have got a few hundred, maybe more, if she’d kept going a bit longer, but it was nearly midnight, and there were limits.
And then there was Leo Verhaven. He’d struck her as a possibility-perhaps the best one-the moment she’d put the receiver down after Renate’s ultimatum.
Leo.
And he didn’t even have a telephone.
That was somehow typical.
She checked that the van was parked where it usually stood.
By the loading bay in Kreugerlaan. Then she wandered
through the market hall and across the square, but she didn’t see him anywhere. She wanted to bump into him as if by accident. A happy coincidence. Hover around like a cat faced with hot milk, perhaps.
Or would it be better to come straight to the point? Hard to say. Verhaven wasn’t exactly easy to handle.
She stationed herself next to the monument in Zwille, where she could keep an eye on both the van and the lower part of the square. Sat down on one of the benches under the statue of Torres, lit a cigarette and waited. The pale autumn sun had risen over the rooftops and was spraying jets of heat onto her back and her neck, giving her a feeling of hope and well-being, despite everything. Now she was a cat in the sun again, and when she noticed the furtive looks being given her by some of the passing men, she automatically started adjust-ing her clothing; she took off her scarf, unfastened a couple of buttons in her blouse, opened her legs the couple of inches every man
