like an X-rated film he had watched by mistake – and he knew that it wasn’t there purely by chance.
He spent the whole afternoon in his office, reading through all the reports and minutes connected with the case that had accumulated already, without becoming much the wiser.
The case of Waldemar Leverkuhn?
That’s the way it is, was how he summed it up in resignation as he left the police station at half past four. For some unknown reason, an unknown perpetrator (man? woman?) had killed a harmless pensioner – in the most bestial fashion imaginable. Four days had passed since the murder, and they were still nowhere near a solution.
Another elderly man had disappeared that same night, and the police knew just as much about that as well.
Nothing.
Yet again – he had lost count of how many times it had happened these last few days – some wise words from Van Veeteren came into his head.
Police work is like life, the chief inspector had announced over a Friday beer at Adenaar’s a few years ago. Ninety-five per cent of it is wasted.
Wasn’t it about time they had got round to that last five per cent? Intendent Munster asked himself as he worked his way up through the labyrinth that formed the exit from the underground garage at the police station. Shouldn’t the breakthrough be due any time now?
Or was it the case, it struck him as he emerged into Baderstraat, that those gloomy words of wisdom from Van Veeteren were a sort of nudge, encouraging him to call in at Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop?
To pay a visit to the chief inspector?
It was a bold thought, of course – probably the only one that had struck him all day – and he decided to leave it in the back of his mind for the moment, and see how it grew.
Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and began to long for Synn and the children.
TWO
17
‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Krause, furrowing his brow.
He noted down the name and telephone number. Chewed at his pencil. There was something about this…
‘Address?’
He wrote that down as well and stared at it.
Surely it was…?
No doubt about it. He asked, and had his suspicions confirmed. Could hear how his voice was becoming rather excited, and tried to cough it away. Said thank you for the call and promised that somebody would be there within half an hour. Replaced the receiver.
My God! he thought. What the hell can this mean?
He dialled Munster’s number. Engaged.
Moreno. No reply.
Van Eck? Surely it can’t be a coincidence, he thought as he rose to his feet.
Munster beckoned him to come in as he continued talking on the telephone. Judging by the expression on his face, it must be Hiller at the other end of the line. Krause nodded to Moreno, who was sitting on one of the visitor chairs, leafing through a sheaf of papers.
Rather listlessly, it seemed. She looked tired, Krause noted, and leaned back against the bookcase. Everybody was tired at the moment, for whatever reason.
Munster managed to get rid of the chief of police and looked up.
‘Well? What’s the problem?’
‘Hmm,’ said Krause. ‘I’ve just had a strange telephone call.’
‘Really?’ said Munster.
‘Really?’ said Moreno.
‘Arnold Van Eck. The caretaker in Kolderweg. He says his wife has disappeared.’
‘What?’ said Moreno.
‘What the hell?’ said Munster.
Krause cleared his throat.
‘Yep, that’s what he claimed,’ he said. ‘Vanished into thin air yesterday, it seems. I promised we’d be there pronto. Shall I?… Or maybe…?’
‘No,’ said Munster. ‘Moreno and I will follow it up. That’s…’
He failed to establish what it was. Collected his briefcase, scarf and overcoat and hurried out of the door. Moreno followed him, but paused for a moment in the doorway.
‘Are you sure this isn’t something Rooth has invented?’ she said, looking searchingly at Krause. ‘He doesn’t seem to be all that reliable at the moment.’
Krause shrugged.
‘Are you suggesting Rooth has kidnapped her, or something? You’d better go there and take a look, and find out. If I remember rightly she’s the size of a house… It can’t be all that easy to hide her away.’
‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘Stay here and we’ll keep you informed.’
‘
Arnold Van Eck looked as if he’d sold the cream but lost the money. He must have been standing by the window, waiting for them, because he received them in the entrance hall where they also met fru Leverkuhn who was carrying bags and suitcases full of her husband’s clothes to a waiting taxi.
‘They’re going to the charity shop,’ she said. ‘I thought you lot would have been able to leave me alone for a day at least.’
‘It’s not… It’s…’ stammered Van Eck, shifting his feet nervously.
‘It’s not you we want to talk to today,’ Munster explained. ‘Herr Van Eck, perhaps we ought to go into your flat.’
The little caretaker nodded and led the way. His tiny frame looked more wretched than ever – it looked as if it could fall to pieces at any moment, so compelling were his tears and his despair. Munster wondered if he had slept a single wink that night.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked when they had sat down around the diminutive kitchen table covered by a blue- and-white checked oilcloth, with a yellow artificial flower in a vase in the middle.
Van Eck flung out his arms in a gesture intended to express his impotence.
‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ said Moreno.
‘Your wife?’ asked Munster.
‘Alas, yes,’ said Van Eck. ‘That’s the way it is.’
Alas, yes? Munster thought. He must be barmy. But then he knew – through his work and in other ways – that there were people who would never have been given the role of themselves if it had been a question of a film or a play rather than life itself. Arnold Van Eck was definitely one of those.
‘Tell us about it,’ said Moreno.
Van Eck sniffed a few times and slid his thick spectacles further up his shiny nose.
‘It was yesterday,’ he said. ‘Yesterday evening… She disappeared some time during the afternoon. Or evening.’
He fell silent.
