That afternoon Moreno went to stay with Selma Perhovens. A promise was a promise, after all, and the landlady at Dombrowski’s had informed her firmly that new guests were due to move into Moreno’s room that evening.
Perhovens hadn’t sounded as if she’d regretted making the offer when Moreno phoned her that morning. On the contrary. We women must stick together, she said, and the least we can do is to offer one another a bit of hospitality in times of need. Besides, they had quite a lot to talk about, she thought.
Moreno thought so as well, and she had no hesitation in taking over the box room. Box room and guest room. The flat was in Zinderslaan, and was large, old and lived-in: four rooms and a kitchen and high ceilings — far too big for a rather small mother and her slightly built daughter, but she had acquired it in connection with her divorce, so why not?
The daughter was called Drusilla, was eleven going on twelve, and seemed to have about twice as much energy as her mother. Which was saying something. When Moreno crossed the threshold, Drusilla eyed her up and down, from top to toe.
‘Is she going to stay here? Cool!’
Moreno gathered that she wasn’t the first temporary guest in the box room. While a two-hour belt of rain drifted past, she devoted herself to playing cards, watching the television and reading comics together with Drusilla. Not one thing after the other, but all at the same time. Simply gaping at the telly was too boring, Drusilla thought. And the same applied to playing cards. You needed to have something to do as well.
Meanwhile Perhovens sat in her room, writing: there were two articles that needed to be written by half past four, she apologized for being a poor hostess, but what the hell. .
She was afraid that she was also booked that evening, unfortunately, and at about five o’clock she took Drusilla with her and left Moreno to her own devices. They’d be back by about eleven, all being well.
Or thereabouts.
‘You must stay for several days,’ insisted Drusilla as they left. ‘I shan’t be going to visit my cousins until next week, my friend is in Ibiza, and Mum’s so boring when all she does is work.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Moreno.
When she was on her own she ran a bath. Luckily she had her mobile in the bathroom, for while she was lying there in the lime-blossom-scented foam, she had no fewer than three calls.
The first was from her best friend Clara Mietens, who had finally got back home and listened to her answering machine. She had been on a buying trip to Italy (Clara owned and ran a boutique in Kellnerstraat in central Maardam, selling clothing not produced by factories or sweat-shops), she’d met a man who wasn’t worth bothering about, and had nothing at all against a few days cycling around Sorbinowo, as they had discussed earlier. Next week, Monday or Tuesday perhaps — she would need a bit of time to brief her stand-in. And to check and see if she really did still have a bike.
Moreno explained — without going into detail — that she was also tied up for a few days, and they agreed to get in touch again on Sunday.
Was the idle life by the seaside invigorating? Clara had asked.
Moreno assured her that it was, and hung up.
Then Inspector Baasteuwel rang. He reckoned the pair of them ought to have a meeting in order to discuss things. In view of the latest development, he and Kohler had booked into Kongershuus, and he was free that evening. So how about a bite to eat and a glass of wine? he wondered. And a bit of intelligent conversation about what the hell was going on in this godforsaken dump with that goddamned chief of police.
Moreno accepted without needing to give the proposal any further thought. Werders restaurant, eight o’clock.
Two minutes later Mikael Bau rang. He was also free that evening and really needed to talk to her, he claimed. To sort out this and that, no hard feelings, but surely they could have a bite to eat and a glass of wine, like civilized human beings?
She said that unfortunately she was tied up that evening, but that she’d have nothing against meeting him the next day, always assuming that she hadn’t gone home by then. He accepted after a few seconds of reluctant silence. Then he wondered if she always behaved like this when she was having her period. Hiding herself away like a wounded lioness, telling all males to go to hell.
She laughed and said that he didn’t need to worry about that. Her period was over, she was lying in lime- blossom-scented bubbles in a lion-footed bathtub and looking forward to new adventures.
He asked what the hell she meant by that, but she didn’t know either and so they closed down the call having half agreed to meet the following day.
Inspector Baasteuwel had booked a table behind two dense artificial fig trees, and was sitting with a dark beer, waiting for her.
‘Why did you become a cop?’ he asked when they had completed their orders. ‘I’m not an idiot, but I can’t help asking that whenever I meet a new brother-in-misery. Or sister.’
Moreno had seven different answers prepared for whenever she was asked that question, and selected one of them.
‘Because I thought I’d be good at it,’ she said.
‘Good answer,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I can see that you’re not an idiot either.’
She noticed that she liked the man. She had hardly been able to think along such lines during that morning’s improvised meeting at Vegesack’s place, but now she had no doubt that she was talking to a colleague she could trust. A man who could stand up for himself.
Slovenly and ill-mannered, to be sure — well, maybe not slovenly, but it was pretty obvious that he couldn’t give a toss about convention. His facial stubble was no doubt four or five days old by now, and his grey-black, somewhat tousled hair had presumably not made acquaintance with a pair of scissors for at least six months. His eyes were deep and dark, and his crooked nose at least two sizes too big. His mouth was wide and his teeth irregular. He’s as ugly as sin, Moreno thought. I like him.
But they were not sitting there in order to exchange compliments.
‘Has anything more happened?’ she asked. ‘During the afternoon, I mean.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Things might be starting to move at last. It’s a bit awkward to do things without Vrommel noticing, of course, but we’ll get round that. It’s about time we had something to do as well — these first few days have been more like a wake than a murder investigation. But now we know why. Did you know that Vegesack calls him the Skunk, incidentally? He happened to let it slip.’
Moreno said that she had also heard that, and smiled.
‘So far it’s just a question of laying out hooks, I’m afraid,’ Baasteuwel continued. ‘No bites yet, but they’ll come. Trust me: if Vrommel has any skeletons in his cupboard, you can bet your sweet life we’ll dig them out. I’ve spoken to fru Van Rippe as well, only on the telephone mind you, and Kohler has had a chat with his brother. It didn’t produce anything of interest, it seems. He’s six years older and doesn’t have much idea of what his younger brother got up to as a teenager. He’d already flown the nest when it happened in 1983.’
‘What about Bitowski?’ asked Moreno. ‘The other name Mikaela got from Vera Sauger. Have you found him?’
Baasteuwel shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Everybody’s on holiday at this bloody time of year. According to what we’ve been told he’s out in the archipelago with some of his mates, but we haven’t been able to confirm that yet. A neighbour thinks he left on Sunday last week — that very same crucial Sunday, dammit. . He’s unmarried as well, so either he’s out there hitting the bottle, or he’s buried in the sand somewhere too. We’ll be questioning a few more relatives and acquaintances tomorrow.’
‘Have you any idea what sort of a person he is?’ Moreno wondered. ‘If he really did meet Mikaela Lijphart and had a talk to her, you’d have thought he’d have reacted in some way.’
‘Not if he’s sitting back in a deckchair drinking sun-warmed beer,’ Baasteuwel suggested. ‘Not if he’s buried in the sand either, come to that. .’
He popped a piece of meat into his mouth and chewed away thoughtfully. Moreno did the same, and waited.
