joining up with the main road again.
Forty or fifty kilometres into the forest, in other words. Hmm. He folded up the map and tried the number again.
Still no answer. He checked his watch. Five past three. The sun was still blazing down over the lake. His room was in the shade, but even so the temperature was approaching thirty-five degrees. He sat there for a while, in two minds about what to do next.
What the hell should he do?
Then he remembered that he’d noticed some sort of outdoor dining area under capacious parasols facing the lake. He dug out Klimke’s Neutral Observations from his case, collected his pack of cigarettes and left the room.
Two dark beers and four cigarettes later he made another attempt to call Waldingen, with the same negative result.
What the hell are they up to? he wondered. If they are taking care of a gang of teenage girls, surely the least they can do is to man the telephone.
Or had Kluuge been so shit-scared that he’d supplied the wrong number?
Van Veeteren rang directory enquiries: the number was correct.
He checked his watch.
Half past four. Now what?
A shower, and then a slow stroll through Sorbinowo, he decided. Preferably along a few shady alleys, if there were any. In order to work up an appetite for dinner, if for no other reason. That visit to God’s chosen flock would have to wait until tomorrow, no matter what. He didn’t fancy the idea of heading off into the forest without having established contact first.
But never mind that. If he was hoping for a case that would keep him occupied for the next two weeks, the last thing he wanted was to rush things.
He undressed and marched into the yellow-and-blue bathroom.
For Christ’s sake, he thought.
Then he showered in complete darkness for the next ten minutes.
8
The drive to Waldingen took thirty-five minutes. The last six or seven kilometres involved a narrow and decidedly bumpy dirt track that seemed to be about as infrequently used as his own sexual urges. The forest was dense and aromatic, settlements were few and far between. When he emerged from the trees and drove out to the lake and the buildings used for children’s camps, he noted that since he’d left the main road he couldn’t have passed more than four farms, and he hadn’t met a single vehicle driving in the opposite direction. He drove into a space marked out by a few sunlit pine trunks, and parked his car.
A woman dressed in a grey and white sari came to greet him, before he’d had the chance even to get out of the car. Or rather, it looked like a sari, but when he looked more closely he could see that she was wearing a length of thick, unbleached cotton cloth. Her skin, hair, lips and eyes were about the same colour, and Van Veeteren had a fleeting vision of a bowl of porridge left out of the fridge overnight.
Forty-five, he decided. A bit dotty. Man-hater.
‘Chief Inspector Veeteren?’ she said, proffering a somewhat limp hand.
‘Van Veeteren. Yes, I phoned you last night. I wanted to speak to Mr Yellinek.’
‘Come with me.’
She led the way to the horseshoe-shaped building that embraced an overgrown grassy patch with islands of blueberry sprigs and wild raspberries. The dark brown, substantial wooden buildings with newly fitted tin roofs comprised a main house that was quite large, with two storeys, a veranda and chimneys, and a smaller one on each side – simple, rectangular boxes from a much later date. The lake was on the other side of the road, only fifty metres or so away, and when he glanced in that direction he became aware of the naked bodies on the shore.
A dozen or so girls, paddling in the shallow water or sitting in the sun on towels, chatting away to one another.
But no splashing about. No noise, no giggling and shouting, no carefree laughter. In their midst he noticed two other women, dressed in exactly the same way as the one in front of him. He paused in mid-stride, and observed the painting – that’s what it was, no other word would suffice – while associations raced in torrents through his mind.
But nothing stuck Only a feeling of somewhat worrying admiration. And when the man on the veranda cleared his throat, Van Veeteren turned his back on the scene and wiped it from his memory.
‘Welcome to our abode.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We are not happy about your visit, but we offer you our hospitality and will answer your questions.’
‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I take it you are Mr Yellinek?’
The man said nothing but bowed his head. He was older than Van Veeteren had expected, presumably round about his own age. Not many years younger, in any case. Thin and somewhat lopsided. His hair was mousey and shoulder-length, tied in a sort of ponytail. His beard hung down over his chest in tufts, and his clothes had evidently been made from the same material as those of the three women. Wide-fitting, greyish white shirt and voluminous trousers ending halfway up his shin. Sandals.
A prophet, no doubt about that, Van Veeteren thought, following him into the house. They sat down opposite each other at a large, round wooden table surrounded by ten simple chairs. Yellinek put on a pair of glasses with taped frames, and looked the chief inspector in the eye.
‘You have fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘We have prayers at eleven o’clock.’
Van Veeteren raised an eyebrow and left it up there for a few seconds.
‘The fact of the matter is,’ he explained, ‘that I am here on behalf of the police investigating a crime, and I shall spend as much time on it as I consider to be appropriate. But if you are cooperative, I see no reason why it should take more than a quarter of an hour.’
Oscar Yellinek said nothing.
‘How would you describe your association?’
Yellinek took off his glasses and put them in a brown leather case.
‘I don’t suppose for one moment that you intend to become a member of our church, Chief Inspector. Might I suggest that we devote our time to discussing the reason you have come here instead?’
‘I gather you have had previous contact with the police?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘So you accept our authority?’
‘As long as what you want doesn’t conflict with the will of God. Might I ask you to come to the point?’
Van Veeteren shrugged.
‘You know what this is all about. We have been informed that a little girl has disappeared from your camp. I’m just looking into the matter.’
‘Nobody is missing.’
‘How many young people do you have here?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Exclusively girls?’
‘We don’t believe in unregulated relations between the sexes at a young age.’
‘So I have gathered,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘So you have a dozen girls here. How old are they and what’s the point of their stay?’
Yellinek clasped his hands on the table in front of him.
‘Between twelve and fourteen,’ he said. ‘The purpose is to prepare them for reception into the Pure Life.’
‘A sort of confirmation?’
