tour of the outside of the building, he was aware that there were also external forces conspiring to keep the faithful at bay.
‘Murdering bastards’ was sprayed in shaky fifty-centimetre-high letters over the entrance doors at the gable end. A bit further along, the graffiti urged readers to ‘Kill the swine’; combined with a large number of ‘Fuck messages and other obscenities, the overall impression was depressing. He also had the feeling that most of the graffiti was recent: that these young, anonymous al fresco artists had most probably been creating their masterpieces in the last few days.
Or nights, to be more accurate.
The Other World, he thought, and turned on his heel to put the whole wretched business behind him.
But, it suddenly occurred to him: if it really was the case that the persecution of the first Christians was a part of the dogma in the catechism of the Pure Life, then here was grist to their mill.
But given the current circumstances, that could hardly provide much consolation.
After a lengthy dinner in the almost deserted dining room, he returned to his room just in time for the ten o’clock news. He switched on the television, and lay back on his bed.
It was a twenty-minute broadcast, and he noted with a heavy heart that almost half of it was devoted to happenings in the Sorbinowo forests.
Pictures from the places where the bodies had been found – both of them. Pictures of the summer camp buildings, and of both the dead girls – albeit while smiling and still alive. Information about their age, where they lived, their interests. Instructive maps complete with crosses and arrows. Long-winded summaries of the investigation to date, followed by interviews.
First of all Kluuge, who looked sweaty and embarrassed, and hardly gave the impression of trustworthiness, it unfortunately had to be said. Then Suijderbeck, who came out with four swear words in a mere thirty seconds and seemed to be having difficulty in refraining from suggesting that the sleek-haired reporter might consider going to hell.
And to round it all off, a picture of the press conference as a whole – something which allowed the first ray of hope to illuminate the surface for some considerable time.
Or at least, that is how Van Veeteren saw it. The two places on the far right of the five-man police panel were occupied by no less than Inspector Reinhart and Constable Jung – no, Inspector Jung as he now was – and even if neither of them seemed able to raise a smile (Reinhart looked as if he were sitting on a heap of broken glass), the chief inspector couldn’t help but notice that his cheek muscles kept twitching – his own cheek, that is, his right one.
Obviously, any such thoughts faded away as soon as his friends and workmates withdrew; but the very fact that they had unexpectedly turned up to support him definitely gave him a faint feeling of confidence and cautious optimism. For the first time for a very long time.
I wonder if they’ve booked rooms at Grimm’s, Van Veeteren thought. Perhaps I ought to give them a ring.
But on second thoughts, he desisted. Instead, he devoted the next two hours to reading all the documents associated with the Pure Life and its members, given to him by Puttemans; and when he had finished, his conclusion was that it had most probably been a waste of time.
Like so much else.
27
Nevertheless, he phoned them the next morning.
‘We have nothing to do with the investigation,’ Reinhart explained. ‘We’ve come here to track down an ancient detective chief inspector who’s disappeared.’
‘I’m on his trail,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘No need to worry.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Reinhart. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m just following up a few leads.’
‘That’s a quotation.’
‘Could be. In any case, I’ll be back tomorrow, or the day after. How are things?’
‘Bloody awful,’ said Reinhart. ‘You must know that. Who’s done it? That Messiah-prat?’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Where’s he hiding, then?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe here. There are at least five hundred households in Stamberg that would be prepared to put him up. Most of them have been investigated, but you never know.’
‘No, you never do,’ said Reinhart, lapsing into one of his hacking morning coughs before continuing. ‘I find it a bit hard to imagine you wandering around, knocking on doors; but that’s not my problem. Anyway, if he’s not the one, who is it?’
‘In that case it’s somebody else,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘I’ll make a note of that,’ said Reinhart. ‘And what does the chief inspector think I should use my little grey cells for on a day like today?’
Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
‘Finding the murderer,’ he decided. ‘Yes, that would improve your situation quite a bit.’
‘I’ll make a note of that as well,’ said Reinhart. ‘If you phone this evening, I’ll give you a report. By the way, to be serious for a moment…’
‘Yes?’
Three seconds passed.
‘I don’t like this business at all.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Van Veeteren.
Another pause, presumably while Reinhart fumbled after his pipe and tobacco.
‘Child murderers like these are the worst set of bastards I can think of.’
‘All the more reason to make sure we catch them,’ said the chief inspector.
‘Exactly,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll do whatever I can. By the way, what are our colleagues like?’
‘They’ve passed the test,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Suijderbeckis probably the best.’
‘The one with the wooden leg?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay so long for now,’ said Reinhart and replaced the receiver.
The woman eyed him first for quite a while through the peephole in the door, and made him hold up his ID in front of the tiny hole before starting to unlock. This complicated procedure took another half-minute, and he began to wonder if she was quite right in the head.
But perhaps they’re all like this, he thought, when she’d finally finished and he was able to step inside the cramped vestibule. All the mutton-heads in this naively sanctimonious flock.
But then again, given what certain newspapers had written and the contents of some graffiti, maybe there were good grounds for barricading oneself in these days. If you wanted to avoid coming in excessively close touch with the Other World. Who was he to judge?
Her handshake was cold and damp. She led him into the living room and invited him to sit down on a flowery sofa in front of an oval table laid with tea and cakes.
‘Help yourself,’ she said, in a shaky voice.
‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren.
She poured out some pale-looking tea from a pot, and he observed her furtively. A slim and somewhat anaemic woman. Forty plus, he guessed. The same sort of anaemia as displayed by the Three Graces in Sorbinowo, he noted, and wondered what it could be due to.
A state of spirituality that was on the way to suffocating all bodily functions and needs? The triumph of the will?
Or was it just his usual prejudices and traditional thoughts about gender roles? Hard to say. Nevertheless Renate turned up briefly in his mind’s eye. Glared reproachfully at him and disappeared.
