always assuming they had an opportunity of commenting, which they didn’t. They spent five hours and forty-five minutes searching Kolderweg 17 from attic to boiler room. They were assisted by two black Alsatians with two red-haired minders, and, for at least half the search, Detective Inspector Rooth in his capacity of instigator of the operation.
The property was built at the end of the 1890s: there was an abundance of remarkable passages, corridors and abandoned cupboards, and nobody still alive had ever seen a plan of the building. That is if you could believe the owner – a certain herr Tibor who turned up in a Bentley with a large collection of keys at lunchtime. But when Rooth himself called off the operation two hours later, it could be stated with confidence that no woman of Else Van Eck’s dimensions – and no other woman come to that! – could have been hidden away in any of the building’s nooks or crannies.
Be they alive or dead.
But on the other hand several of the tenants were feeling distinctly upset. Joensuu’s protestations to the effect that it was just a routine investigation lost credibility as first the attic spaces were emptied, then bath tubs were turned upside down and the bottoms of sofas were cut open.
‘Bloody hooligans!’ snarled herr Engel when the Alsatian Rocky II investigated the collection of bottles under his bed. ‘Where’s that woman who came to see me the other day? At least she displayed a modicum of tact and good sense.’
What did I say! thought Inspector Rooth when it was all over. I’m going to keep this case at arm’s length.
‘Well, how did it go with your theory?’ Jung asked when Rooth returned to the police station.
‘Great,’ said Rooth. ‘I have another theory now. About how it happened.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Jung, looking up from the piles of papers.
‘Froken Mathisen ground her down in the mincing machine and let Mussolini gobble her up.’
‘I thought Mussolini was a vegetarian?’ said Jung.
‘Wrong,’ said Rooth. ‘It was Hitler who was the vegetarian.’
‘If you say so,’ said Jung.
The run-through with Chief of Police Hiller on Friday afternoon was not a very memorable event. Two dwarf acacias had died during the week, despite having received all the care, nourishment and love of which a human being is capable.
The chief of police was not wearing mourning, although he did have black bags under his eyes.
Things were not much better on the human level. Munster summarized the situation with the assistance of Moreno and Jung (who had spent most of the day locating and interviewing various relatives and acquaintances of Else and Arnold Van Eck – and made about as much progress as a string quartet in a school for the deaf), and after an extremely uninspiring hour it was decided to keep more or less all the officers currently on the case, to send out a lengthy press communique, and to leave all doors wide open for the mass media and any member of the public who might be able to provide relevant information.
Help, thought Munster when he had finally returned to his office. That’s what we need. We don’t know a damned thing, and what’s required now is help.
TV, newspapers, anything at all. The general public, that great detective.
Tip-offs, that’s what they needed.
And yet, it was still only a three-piece puzzle.
Leverkuhn. Bonger. Else Van Eck.
When he tried to think about how it felt, the only conclusion he could draw was that it was not especially uplifting.
20
‘You do realize it’s Saturday, do you?’ said Synn.
‘I rang him yesterday,’ said Munster. ‘The only time he had available was a couple of hours this morning. Do you think he’s found himself a woman?’
Synn raised an eyebrow.
‘You’re not suggesting that he would give her preference rather than work, are you? He must be bloody unique in the world of men if he does, I must say.’
Munster tried to respond, but found that there was some kind of spiritual eructation in the way, and no words came out.
‘Synn, for goodness’ sake…’ he managed to utter in the end, but she had already turned her back on him.
He drank up his coffee and left the kitchen. As he crouched in the hall fastening his shoelaces, he could hear her messing about with the children upstairs.
She loves me even so, he thought hopefully. When all’s said and done, she still does.
‘I’ll be home by one at the latest!’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘I’ll do some shopping on the way back.’
‘Buy something!’
Marieke came sliding down the stairs.
‘Buy something! I want something! Wrapped up in paper!’
He lifted her up. Gave her a hug, buried his nose in her newly washed hair and decided he would buy no less than three presents. Something for Marieke, something for Bartje, something for Synn.
A hundred roses for Synn.
I must put a stop to this deterioration in our relationship, he thought. I really must.
But would roses be the right thing to fill the cracks? Well, that was something he would have to think long and hard about.
He put Marieke down and hurried out into the rain.
‘You’re looking well, Chief Inspector,’ said Munster.
Van Veeteren slurped the froth off his beer.
‘Kindly refrain from using those words, Munster,’ he said. ‘I’ve known you for long enough and said many times that we don’t need to use titles.’
‘Thank you,’ said Munster. ‘But in any case, you are looking well. That’s what I was trying to convey.’
Van Veeteren took a deep swig, and smacked his lips with pleasure.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a word with the Good Lord, and we’ve agreed on seven good years after the wandering through the darkness. And I’ll be buggered if that isn’t what I deserve – when I’m sixty-five He can do whatever He likes with me.’
‘Really?’ said Munster. ‘I must say I’ve started feeling a bit on the old side… And Reinhart is off work just now, so things get a bit difficult at times.’
‘Don’t they have a new chief inspector up their sleeves?’
Munster shook his head.
‘I think they’re waiting for two things. To see if you come back…’
‘I’m not coming back,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘… and if you don’t, I reckon Heinemann has to retire first. Nobody can envisage him in that role, and he’s next in line, as it were.’
‘But Hiller became chief of police,’ Van Veeteren reminded him.
He picked up his tobacco pouch, placed a little cigarette machine on the table and started rolling.
‘I’ve given up toothpicks,’ he explained. ‘I was becoming addicted. And this rolling almost makes it a craft… Well, what the hell is it you want? We don’t need to sit around all day being as polite as a couple of Chinamen.’
Munster took a swig of his beer and looked out over the rainy square, where people were bustling from one stall to another. He wondered vaguely how many times he’d sat here at Adenaar’s with the chief inspector. Listening to his bad-tempered expositions and gloomy observations… and noting the absolutely clear and incorruptible spirit that was always present under the surface. No, it wasn’t difficult to understand why he had jumped off the bandwagon, Munster thought. He’d been on it for thirty-five years, after all.
