And it was not surprising that the Good Lord had granted him seven good years. Munster would have done the same.
‘Well?’ Van Veeteren asked again.
‘Yes, there was something I wanted to ask you about, in fact.’
‘Leverkuhn?’
Munster nodded.
‘How could the chief… How did you know that?’
Van Veeteren lit his roll-up and inhaled as if he had just invented the first cigarette.
‘Five a day,’ he said. ‘This is number one. What did you say?’
‘You knew that I wanted to talk to you about Leverkuhn. How?’
‘I guessed,’ said Van Veeteren modestly. ‘It’s not the first time, after all. And I still read the newspapers.’
Munster nodded, somewhat embarrassed. It was true, in fact. On two previous occasions since Van Veeteren had left the stage, Munster had plucked up courage and discussed on-going investigations with him. The first time, nearly a year ago, he had been most reluctant to get him involved again, but he had soon realized that the old bloodhound instinct had not died out altogether. And that the chief inspector even derived a certain grim satisfaction from being consulted in this fashion.
But the fact that he would never admit as much for even a second was another matter, of course.
‘I understand,’ said Munster. ‘Thank you for being willing to help. And listen. Anyway, of course it’s about Leverkuhn, no point in denying it.’
Van Veeteren emptied his glass.
‘I’ve read about it, as I said. It seems a bit special. If you buy me another beer it would no doubt improve my sense of hearing.’
There was a slight twitch in the muscles of one cheek. Munster drained his own glass, and went to the bar.
Two beers and forty-five minutes later, they had finished. Van Veeteren leaned back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully.
‘No, this certainly doesn’t seem to be a straightforward case,’ he said. ‘Things seem to be pulling in different directions. The threads seem to be unwinding instead of coming together.’
‘Exactly,’ said Munster. ‘Leverkuhn, Bonger and fru Van Eck. I’ve been thinking about it, and there seems to be just enough that links them together to suggest that their fates were connected – but yet not enough to suggest a motive.’
‘That could well be, yes,’ said Van Veeteren mysteriously. ‘But I think you should be careful not to take that jigsaw puzzle analogy too far. It can be so damned annoying to have a piece too many.’
‘Eh?’ said Munster. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Van Veeteren didn’t answer. Sat up in his chair, and began playing with his cigarette machine instead. Munster looked out of the window again. Another of those meaningless comments, he thought, and felt a little pang of irritation that was as familiar to him as a favourite jacket.
A piece too many? No, he decided that it was just an example of the chief inspector’s weakness for smokescreens and mystification, nothing more. But what was the point of that in a situation like this?
‘What about the wife?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What do you make of her?’
Munster thought for a moment.
‘Introverted,’ he said eventually. ‘She seems to have a lot buttoned up inside her that she’s reluctant to let come out. Although I don’t really know – there’s no such thing as normal reactions when you come home and find your husband murdered like that. Why do you ask?’
Van Veeteren ignored that question as well. Sat squeezing his newly rolled cigarette, seemingly lost in thought.
‘Anyway,’ said Munster. ‘I just wanted to talk it through. Thank you for listening.’
Van Veeteren lit the cigarette and blew smoke over a begonia that was probably just as dead as the chief of police’s acacias.
‘Tuesday afternoon,’ he said. ‘Give me a few days to think a few things over, and then maybe we can have a game of badminton. I need to get a bit of exercise. But don’t expect too much – regarding your case, that is,’ he added, tapping his brow with his knuckles. ‘I’m rather more focused on beauty and pleasure nowadays.’
‘Tuesday, then,’ said Munster, writing it down in his notebook. ‘Yes, I’d heard rumours about that – a new woman, is that right?’
Van Veeteren put the cigarette machine into his jacket pocket, and looked inscrutable.
The presents added up to nearly 500 euros, topped by a red dress for Synn costing 295. But what the hell? Munster thought. You only live once.
What had she said the other day?
He shuddered, and got into his car. However you looked at it, life was no more than the total of all these days, and at some point, of course, you start being more interested in the days that have passed rather than those yet to come.
But there are moments in life – let’s hope so in any case – when you have an opportunity to devote yourself to the here and now.
Such as a Saturday and Sunday in November like these.
Damn and blast, Intendent Munster thought. I wish to God I had one of those copper’s brains that you can switch on and off in accordance with working hours.
If there is such a thing, of course. He remembered an old conversation with the chief inspector – presumably at Adenaar’s as usual – about the concept of intuition.
The brain functions best when you leave it in peace, Van Veeteren had argued. Keep tucked away the questions and information you have, and think about something else. If there’s an answer, it will come tumbling out sooner or later.
Like hell it will! Munster thought pessimistically. I suppose there are brains and brains…
Whatever, after the conversation with the chief inspector and the shopping at the height of the Saturday rush hour, there was no doubt that he felt switched off – so he could let his brain work away undisturbed in the background, and see if anything came tumbling out.
He looked at his watch. Ten past one. It was a Saturday in November, it was raining, and he had nothing to do except devote himself to his family.
21
During the night between Friday and Saturday Inspector Moreno slept for over twelve hours, and when she woke up at about half past ten on the Saturday morning, it was quite a while before she realized where she was.
And that she was alone.
That the five years with Claus Badher were at an end, and that from now on she only had herself to worry about. It felt strange. Not least the fact that a month had passed since she left him, but only now had the penny dropped that her fate was in her own hands.
As if to check whether those hands were strong enough to carry it, she took them out from under the warm bedcovers and examined them for a while. Didn’t think they looked up to much – but that’s the way it is with women’s hands. Underdeveloped and a bit childlike. There was an enormous difference between them and the large, sinewy equipment with which men were blessed. Usable and good to look at. Now that she came to think about it, she couldn’t recall ever having seen a woman with attractive hands. They were like a chicken’s wings, it struck her – dysfunctional and pathetic. Perhaps there was food for thought in this striking difference – the extent to which it typified something basic when it came to the difference between men and women?
An expression of essential differences? Their hands?
And never the twain shall meet, she thought: but then she suddenly saw in her mind’s eye a black man’s hand
