explain a connection he hadn’t the slightest idea about, and then he had insulted her.
Insulted her and stuck his nose into matters that were nothing at all to do with him.
Another bloody mess.
He got up at two o’clock and phoned her.
‘Were you asleep?’ he asked. ‘It’s Reinhart.’
‘I can hear that,’ said Moreno. ‘No, I was awake in fact.’
‘I want to apologize,’ said Reinhart. ‘I mean, I’m ringing to apologize… I’m a bloody cretin.’
She said nothing for a moment.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For the apology, that is. But I don’t think you’re all that much of a cretin. I wasn’t myself, it was my fault.’
‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Very clever. And uplifting. Two grown-up people exchanging apologies on the telephone in the middle of the night. It must have something to do with sun-spots — I’m sorry I rang
… No, for Christ’s sake! Now I’ve put my foot in it again.’
Moreno laughed.
‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ Reinhart asked.
‘I’m trying to think of ten plausible connections.’
‘Oh dear. How many have you got?’
‘None,’ said Moreno.
‘Excellent,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with. Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow under a cold star.’
‘Good night, Chief Inspector,’ said Moreno. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, incidentally?’
But Reinhart had already hung up.
23
Van Veeteren stared at the phosphorescent second hand making its leisurely way round the face of the clock. He had been doing that for quite some time, but every new circuit was a new experience even so. He suddenly remembered that a long time ago, in pre-puberty — if he had in fact ever been through such a phase — he used to occupy himself when he couldn’t sleep by taking his pulse. He decided he’d try that now.
Fifty-two the first minute.
Forty-nine the second one.
Fifty-four the third.
Good Lord, he thought. My heart is collapsing as well.
He lay there for a few more minutes without taking his pulse. Wished he’d had Ulrike by his side, but she was sleeping over with her children out at Loewingen. Or at least, with one of them. Jurg, aged eighteen, and the last one to fly the nest. She obviously needed to spend some time with him as well, he realized that. Even if he seemed to be an unusually level-headed young man. As far as he could judge, at least: they had only met three times, but everything seemed to point in that direction.
Apart from the fact that he wanted to become a police officer.
Van Veeteren sighed, and rolled over in order to avoid having to look at the confounded clock. Put one of the pillows over his head.
A quarter past two, he thought. I’m the only person in the whole world who’s awake.
He got up an hour later. It was impossible to sleep — the last few nights he had managed no more than two to three hours on average, and no known medicines helped.
Nor did beer. Nor wine. Nor even Handel.
It was just as bad with other composers, so it wasn’t Handel’s fault.
It’s not possible, he thought as he stood in the bathroom, splashing cold water into his face. It’s not possible to sleep — and I know why, for Christ’s sake. Why don’t I just admit it? Why don’t I stand on the mountain-top and shout it out so loudly that all mankind can hear it?
Revenge! Show me the father who can lie at peace in his bed while the search for his son’s murderer is going on out there!
It was as simple as that. Embedded deep down in the black hole of biology. He had known that when he wrote about it in his diary a few hours ago, and he knew it now. Action was the only effective antidote. Homo agentus. In all situations. Illusory or real. Do something, for God’s sake!
He got dressed. Checked the weather through the kitchen window, and went out. It felt freezing cold, but no rain and hardly any wind. He set off walking.
Southwards to begin with. Down over Zuijderslaan and Primmerstraat towards Megsje Plejn. When he came to the Catholic cemetery he hesitated for a moment, then decided to skirt round it: but when he came to the southeastern corner he felt that he’d had enough of all that asphalt and turned off into Randers Park, which was a sort of natural extension of the cemetery. Or perhaps the cemetery was a natural extension of the park, it wasn’t clear which. No doubt there was a history to explain it, but he wasn’t aware of it.
He thought the darkness in there among all the trees and bushes felt almost like a sort of embrace, and the silence was striking. The park is listening, he thought as he proceeded slowly… Further into the heart of darkness — that was an image that seemed unusually apt. Mahler used to claim that nature is alive during the night. During the day she sleeps and allows herself to be observed: but during the night she comes to life, and invites you to go out there and really feel her presence.
Absolutely right, no doubt about it. Van Veeteren shook his head to break that chain of thought and get away from all that verbosity. Tossed up inside his head and turned right when he came to a fork, and after a minute found himself in front of the statue of Hugo Maertens. It was lit up not very brightly by a single spotlight in the flower bed that surrounded the heavy pedestal, and he wondered why. Tourists in the park at night? Hardly. He checked his watch.
Ten to four.
Action? The only effective antidote? Give me a bit of space in which to act then, Mother Nature! Release me from captivity!
He shrugged, and lit a cigarette.
I’m just wandering around in the night in order not to go mad, he thought. For no other reason. Then he heard a twig breaking somewhere out there in the darkness. So I’m not alone, he thought. Animals and lunatics wander about during the night.
By three o’clock he felt unable to wait any longer. He went out to the garage, slung the plastic carrier bag on the passenger seat and clambered into the car. Started the engine and began the drive to the town centre. He didn’t meet a single car all the way along the unlit road, and as he passed by the concrete culvert he thought no more about it than he would have done about any other familiar old landmark. There was nothing to think about it. What had happened seemed now to be so far in the past that it was beyond recall. He couldn’t remember it. Even if he’d wanted to.
He turned left after the Alexander Bridge, followed Zwille as far as the Pixner Brewery and came up to Randers Park on its southern side. Parked outside the entrance where the minigolf courses were situated — they were not open at this time of night, of course. Nor at this time of year. He remained sitting in the car for a while. It was just short of half past three. The park looked dark and brooding, lost in its own deep winter slumbers. Nature closes down at night, he thought, and he wondered why his opponent had chosen this particular place. Did he live nearby, or was it the very inaccessibility of the place that had been decisive? If so that indicated excessive caution: at this time of night there must be hundreds of empty rubbish bins that were easier to get to. Last time he had chosen to carry out the transaction in a restaurant, with an abundance of possible witnesses, so tonight’s venue may have been chosen to avoid that.
There would be no assistant to collect the bag tonight. It would be the blackmailer himself, and he would know that his victim was of a different calibre than he had thought from the start. A very different calibre.
The thought almost made him smile, and no doubt the fact that he could sit here in his car and wait in the darkness without feeling worried at all indicated stability and self-control. If the blackmailer didn’t accept his
