After Moreno had reported in more detail about the Wim Felders accident, Reinhart phoned Oscar Smaage, whom he had spoken to the previous afternoon. Smaage was news editor on the Telegraaf, and hence not all that difficult to get in touch with.
‘There was something I forgot yesterday,’ Reinhart explained. ‘Regarding Clausen, that is. I wonder if you had one of those meetings of yours on…’
He gestured to Moreno, who handed over a sheet of paper with the relevant date.
‘On the fifth of November? The Angels, I mean. It was a Thursday. Can you fill me in on that?’
‘Just a moment,’ said Smaage, and Reinhart could hear him leafing through some book or other. One chance in ten, he reckoned as he waited. At most. But nevertheless he knew that he wouldn’t have hesitated to bet on it.
‘You’re right,’ said Smaage. ‘Thursday, the fifth of November. We were at Ten Bosch. All the brothers were present. It was an enjoyable evening. Why do you ask?’
‘I realize that it’s asking a lot,’ said Reinhart, ‘but we’d like to know when Clausen went home. Roughly, at least.’
Smaage burst out laughing.
‘What the hell?…’ he said. ‘No, I haven’t a clue. It would have been half past eleven-stroke-twelve o’clock — we don’t usually hang around longer than that. I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking you why you-’
‘Absolutely right,’ said Reinhart, cutting him short. ‘Many thanks for the information.’
He hung up and took out his pipe.
‘We get lucky sometimes,’ he said. ‘It fits. Bugger me if it doesn’t fit! Clausen could very well have killed that lad, the timing’s right… So that could be the root cause of it all. Hell’s bells, it’s just too awful when you come to think about it.’
‘What’s too awful?’ wondered Moreno.
‘Don’t you see? What started this whole business off could have been a pure accident. Erich Van Veeteren’s death. Vera Miller’s… And God only knows what happened last Thursday. A bloody straightforward accident, that’s all, and then the wheels started turning…’
Moreno thought about her discussions with her neighbour the previous evening. About accidents and patterns, billiard balls cannoning or not cannoning. Sudden changes of direction… ‘The butterfly effect’?
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s remarkable. But we need to investigate it all in more detail yet. It’s still only a possibility at this stage.. Even if I also think it all fits in. Do we still have people out at Rumford, by the way? Isn’t it time now to pull people out and cut back on resources? As far as Clausen’s concerned, at least.’
Reinhart nodded. Lit his pipe and started leafing through some papers.
‘It’s all about these two bastards,’ he muttered. ‘Clausen and Keller. Three dead bodies so far… And they’ve both vanished. What a bloody disaster.’
He eventually found the document he was looking for.
‘Nobody has had anything to say about Keller,’ he said. ‘He seems to be a real hermit. Just the kind of background you need if you’re going to become a blackmailer… Exactly the right type, come to think about it.’
Moreno had certain reservations about this broad generalization, but she had no chance to spell them out because Constable Krause stuck his head in through the door.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but we’ve just had an important fax.’
‘Really?’ said Reinhart. ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘From the airport,’ said Krause. ‘It looks as if Aron Keller left on a flight last Saturday afternoon.’
‘A flight?’ said Reinhart. ‘Where to?’
‘New York,’ said Krause. ‘Left Sechshafen at 14.05. British Airways.’
‘New York?’ said Reinhart. ‘Hell’s bells.’
34
Nothing happened the rest of the day, apart from the fact that it snowed.
At least, that was how it seemed to Reinhart. It snowed and something had slipped through his fingers. He spent hour after hour in his office, and every time he looked out of the window all he could see was those flakes drifting down over the town. Occasionally he stood by the window, watching the scene. Stood there smoking his pipe, his hands in his pockets, and thinking about The Chief Inspector. About what he had promised him at the beginning of the investigation, and how he had been so close to fulfilling that promise.
Or had he? Had he never been close, in fact?
And what was the situation now? What had happened between Clausen and Keller? He thought he knew the answer to that, but refused to dig it up and look at it. Not yet. Not just yet. Perhaps in view of The Chief Inspector and that promise he had made… Yes, on second thoughts that was precisely why, of course.
Shortly after lunch Moreno came back, now with Bollmert and deBries at her heels. They sat down and began reporting on Keller’s friends and acquaintances. Just as they had feared, there weren’t any. None of the people in the address book they had impounded — the dozen or so they had made contact with — had claimed to be especially close to the man. Some of them didn’t even know who Aron Keller was, and couldn’t understand why their names and addresses were in the book. In toto there were only two people who admitted that they had any kind of dealings with him: his two sisters in Linzhuisen. Without hesitation they both — independently — called him a crashing bore and a hermit, but said that even so they took it in turns to visit their respective families.
About once a year. At Christmas time.
Sometimes he came, sometimes he didn’t.
As for his life and way of living, there was hardly anything to say. He had been a bit odd ever since he fell off a tractor and hit his head when he was about ten. Perhaps even before that. He had been married to a woman just as pig-headed as he was, and they had split up after less than a year. She’d been called Liz Vrongel, and was probably still called that.
His only interest had been silence. And football.
‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Well, at least they won’t need to send him an invitation this Christmas. He won’t be going.’
‘How do you know that?’ wondered deBries, who was unaware of the message from Sechshafen.
‘He’ll be celebrating Christmas in New York,’ said Reinhart with a sigh. ‘The bastard. We’ll get round to that in a minute. What about the other Keller in the book? I seem to recall that there were three.’
‘His father,’ said deBries, pulling a face. ‘A seventy-five-year-old boozer up in Haaldam. Lives in some kind of home, some of the time at least. He hasn’t been in touch with any of his children for twenty years.’
‘A marvellous family,’ said Moreno.
‘Idyllic,’ said deBries. ‘The old man’s a right pain in the arse, it seems. Perhaps his son takes after him?’
‘I expect so,’ said Reinhart. ‘Any other information?’
‘Yes,’ said Bollmert. ‘We think we know how Erich Van Veeteren knew him. Aron Keller worked as a probation officer for a few years.’
Reinhart produced something reminiscent of a snarl.
‘Isn’t that just bloody typical!’ he said. ‘It’s scandalous that they let types like him become probation officers. Who do they think is going to be helped to fit back into society by an arsehole like Keller…? The only meaningful relationship he can have is with a vacuum cleaner.’
‘He hasn’t had any customers for three years,’ said deBries. ‘If that’s any consolation. We’re not sure yet if he took care personally of Erich Van Veeteren, but it won’t take long to check that out.’
‘Why haven’t you done it already, then?’ asked Reinhart.
‘Because you wanted us here at one o’clock,’ said deBries.
‘Ah,’ said Reinhart. ‘Sorry.’
He stood up and watched the snow falling for a while.
‘I wonder…’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s it, of course.’
‘What?’ said Moreno.
‘He must certainly have had some kind of hold over Erich. They can hardly avoid it in that business… And then
