‘What exactly is it you’re thinking?’ asked Perhovens after a short pause. ‘That it was somebody else who did it? Forget it, if so. It’s impossible. The bastard was sitting there weeping with the corpse on his knee.’
Moreno sighed.
‘Isn’t it possible that she jumped?’
‘Why would he confess in that case?’
Good question, Moreno thought. But not a new one.
‘Who was the doctor?’ she asked, without really understanding why. ‘The one who carried out the post- mortem, that is.’
‘DeHaavelaar,’ said Perhovens. ‘Old deHaavelaar, he used to do everything in those days. Births, illnesses and post-mortems. I think he even dabbled in veterinary matters as well. Anyway, it was his word that counted. As infallible as amen in church. Although he didn’t appear in court, that wasn’t necessary.’
‘Wasn’t necessary?’ said Moreno in surprise. ‘Why ever not?’
Perhovens flung her arms out wide.
‘I don’t know. But they just read out his verdict. The clerk of the court, if my memory serves me correctly. I suppose he had other matters to see to, deHaavelaar.’
The shadow of a suspicion flashed past inside Moreno’s head. From left to right, it seemed, and that very fact — that she noticed the direction — made the actual content disappear. At least, that’s what it felt like. Just a symbol from an alphabet she had never learned. Remarkable.
And immediately afterwards came just as fleeting an image of Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, sitting at a desk and looking at her. Or rather, boring his gaze into her. Very odd, she thought. Surely I’m a bit on the young side for brain haemorrhages?
‘I see,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘Is he still living in Lejnice, this doctor?’
‘DeHaavelaar? Yes on both counts. Still living and still in Lejnice. He must be getting on for eighty, I would think, but he struts around town scattering cynicisms left, right and centre. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Moreno. ‘It was just a thought that flashed past.’
Perhovens looked hard at her for a few seconds, apparently somewhat confused. Then she slammed the palm of her hand down on her notebook.
‘I’m going to write about this — do you have any objections?’
Moreno shook her head.
‘By the way,’ said Perhovens. ‘I think we had an agreement. That bloke on the beach, what’s his name?’
‘Ah yes, of course,’ said Moreno. ‘Van Rippe. His name’s Tim Van Rippe.’
Perhovens frowned again.
‘Van Rippe? Sounds familiar. But no, I don’t know who that is. Are you sure about it?’
‘Do you think I’d sit here giving the wrong name of a murder victim to a journalist?’ said Moreno.
‘Sorry,’ said Perhovens. ‘I forgot that I wasn’t talking to the local police mafia. To change the subject, what do you say to lunch? Maybe we can reach some definite conclusions if we get some protein inside us.’
Moreno looked at the clock and nodded.
‘No harm in trying,’ she said.
Former Town Medical Officer Emil deHaavelaar lived in Riipvej, it turned out, in a large patrician mansion among the dunes. But he declined to meet her there — if it was just about a bagatelle, as she maintained. He might possibly be able to exchange a few words with her at Cafe Thurm later in the afternoon, after a visit to his dental hygienist to have some tartar removed.
At about four o’clock, if that was all right with her. Moreno accepted, hung up and returned to Selma Perhovens at the table where they were eating lunch.
‘A grumpy old curmudgeon?’ she asked.
‘An aristocrat,’ said Perhovens. ‘The last one, if you believe what he says. I interviewed him when his book came out a few years ago. About his forty years as Aesculapius here in Lejnice — you know, the ancient Greek god of medicine and healing. That’s what he called his book, believe it or not:
Moreno shrugged.
‘I was intending to go home tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But I want to talk to that Vera Sauger first — I have a meeting with her this evening. Assuming she turns up. I don’t know why I’m poking my nose into all this stuff, to be honest. I can’t afford to stay in a guest house for ever. My police wage doesn’t allow much in the way of extravagance, I’m afraid. Not even at Dombrowski’s.’
Perhovens gave her what could only be described as a grim clown-smile.
‘How very odd,’ she said. ‘I have to say that money is my biggest unrequited love as well, come to think of it. It always lets me down, is never there when I need it. If you decide to stay on for a few more days you’re welcome to stay at my place. I’ve got a little girl aged eleven, but no man to get in your way, and you can have your own room. I mean it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Moreno, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this energetic journalist. ‘Let’s see what things look like tomorrow morning.’
Perhovens gave Moreno her card, and checked her watch.
‘Oh hell! I’m missing the stallion prize-giving ceremony at the horse show in Moogensball. I must dash!’
After she’d left Moreno stayed behind at the table for a while, wondering whether or not to ring Vegesack. Just to catch up on the latest situation.
But after mature deliberation she decided to postpone that until the evening.
Dr deHaavelaar ordered a cognac and a glass of milk. Moreno restricted herself to a cappuccino.
‘It’s for balance,’ explained the doctor when the waiter came with the tray. ‘Bodily balance is all you need to worry about if you want to live to be a hundred.’
She didn’t doubt for a moment that Emil deHaavelaar would live to be a hundred. He had another twenty years or so to go, to be sure, but he looked like a well-dressed grizzly bear. Tall and broad-shouldered, and with the charisma of a spoilt film star. His white hair was thick and combed back, his moustache as dense as it was trim, and the colour of his skin suggested that he had spent enough hours in the sun out among the sand dunes to last him through any winter, no matter how long it turned out to be. She remembered that Selma Perhovens had used the word ‘strut’, and wondered why.
‘Always assuming one might want to hang on that long in this mish-mash of a world,’ he added, swirling his glass of cognac.
‘Yes,’ said Moreno, ‘one might well wonder about that.’
‘What do you want?’ asked deHaavelaar.
Moreno hesitated for a moment.
‘Winnie Maas,’ she said.
DeHaavelaar slammed his glass down onto the table with a bang. I’ve put my foot in it, Moreno thought. Dammit!
‘Who are you?’ said deHaavelaar.
‘Ewa Moreno. As I said on the telephone. Detective inspector.’
‘Can I see your ID?’
Moreno dug it out and handed it over. He put on a pair of glasses with very thin and presumably extremely expensive frames, and examined it carefully. Handed it back and took off his glasses.
‘Does the chief of police know you’re meeting me?’
She thought for a moment again.
‘No.’
He emptied his glass of cognac in one gulp. Washed it down with half a glass of milk. Moreno sipped her coffee and waited.
‘Why the hell do you want to come here and root around in something that happened twenty years
