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‘Janine?'

‘She wouldn't talk to me. Then she came – some months after. Said she'd changed her mind. Said she wanted to pack the riding-school up, sell the horse, everything. I was mad at her then – called her a coward. I was working like a bastard, and I wasn't giving up then. They were waiting to pull my shirt, give me the elbow. If I'd sold this place then I wouldn't even have got what I'd paid for it – they'd have seen to that. If I sold it now,' drily, ‘I'd get double. I wouldn't let Janine stop then. She kept saying she was fed up, didn't want to go on – and she wouldn't give any reason.'

Light suddenly dawned.

‘She'd met the painter.'

‘I reckon so, yes. He turned up one day at the coast. Told me he'd got to know her, very silky. I never suspected a thing.'

‘What did he want?'

‘To make a big portrait, Janine and the horse, for a fancy price. It's his trick – he makes money that way.'

‘I know.'

‘I sent that notion overboard. But – well –' defensively, angrily, ‘I like painting, I've even bought a couple. I wasn't prejudiced against him – fellow has to earn his living. His stuff might be good. I gave him a drink, I said maybe I'd be interested in other stuff of his – how did you guess all this?'

‘I didn't. I thought there'd been some meeting between you – a remark you made about Stubbs.'

‘He told me about Stubbs. I had thought of buying a small
picture of a horse – even I could see it was good,' bitterly. ‘To make it up with Janine.'

‘How does Bernhard the boor from Bavaria come into the picture?'

‘Don't ask me.'

‘He never came near you?'

‘If he had I'd have broken his neck for him, big as he was – fat slob. I would, I tell you. If I'd just known. Janine never told me.'

‘The best thing you can possibly do,' said Van der Valk, jabbing the cavalry ballpoint at the air in a schoolmasterly way, ‘is to go home and pretend you don't know a damn thing.'

‘I stay here. I'll stand by Janine no matter what. And if she killed him I'll take whatever's coming to her.'

‘You'll do what you're told,' acidly. ‘This is quite enough of a ballsup without you making it worse. The moment you start hanging about, the press will draw conclusions.'

‘Can I see her?'

‘No.'

Rob threw him a bitter look.

‘Being a champion means knowing when you're beaten as well. And not throwing a little tantrum. Just stay quiet, act normal. No matter who asks you and what, know nothing. I'll deal with any pressmen.'

Rob stood up; he had dignity. He had more to say but he turned and went out. Van der Valk arranged a few fresh sheets of paper neatly on his desk and picked up his telephone.

‘Madame Zwemmer.'

A policeman in uniform held the door for Janine looking absurdly young and vulnerable in her short furry jacket and black ski-trousers. Van der Valk stood up and went for a short walk around the furniture.

‘Can I sit down?' She had forgotten her French and the exaggerated accent; she spoke in the natural voice of her childhood, soft and not unattractive. The only thing wrong with her, he thought, is that she is a little peasant girl who looks like a little princess and she doesn't know how to deal with it.

‘Of course – I was rude, I'm sorry.' He paced as far as the window. Nothing to be seen but darkness, a peaceful Dutch street, brick-paved, an old-fashioned ornate lamp-post of cast iron, painted a rather pretty pale blue – he had never noticed that before.
So accustomed one got to the greys and greens of Holland.

‘Have a cigarette.' She looked wan, poor little wretch.

‘Where's Rob?'

‘I sent him home.'

‘I wanted to tell him – how mean I've been.'

‘I know?'

‘You know?'

‘A bit – not enough. You're going to help me understand. I can see why you got friendly with Dickie in the first place. But what made you see him tonight?'

‘I was scared he'd tell Rob.'

‘That you'd slept with him? Rob wouldn't have believed it.'

‘He'd have had to. He could have proved it.'

‘Prove it? How?'

‘I have a tattoo. On my hip – I can't wear a bikini. Nobody knows, except Rob, and … it's a rose. In blue. It was done when I was young. I mean I had it done.'

‘I see. Dickie threatened to do that?'

‘I thought he might.'

‘You mean he asked to see you? Why?'

‘I don't know. He asked had you been on to me, and if I knew had you been on to Rob?'

‘He's a bit of a hard boy.'

‘Yes.' Simply.

‘How did Bernhard find out?'

‘We were in the White Horse. I was alone and I couldn't speak to Dick – he was with a whole group, chatting them up – the way he knew how.… I was very lonely and unhappy, and I suppose a bit jealous. I couldn't think how to approach him. Then I saw him look at me, and I wrote a note and screwed it up, and was going to just pass and slip it him, and then those women came back from the powder room and I flicked it, pretending it was a joke. But he let it fall – I don't know why. I think he was just being cruel – he is cruel, you know. I didn't dare pick it up – it would just have drawn attention. I let it lie. I thought the girls would sweep it up or drop it in an ashtray. Bernhard must have been watching. I suppose he must have picked it up.'

‘He told you.'

‘He came over at the manège and said he'd keep any date I cared
to make – in such a greasy way – I was disgusted. I knew he must have found it.'

‘He said he'd tell Rob?'

‘No.'

‘He just left you to draw conclusions?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Why not tell Rob anyway?'

‘I don't know. I half thought of it. I would have. He was being awfully nice to me too, after I'd been bitchy to him. That was why I didn't, I suppose. To tell him then, that I'd got into trouble – that was all it needed, I thought. So 1 did nothing. I thought of telling Arlette.'

‘I wish you had.'

‘After ' I realized that you were whatdyoucallem, investigating, I was scared to.'

‘You told Dick?'

‘No – I was ashamed to.'

‘Did he make any reference to Bernhard having got on to him?'

‘Not to me he never said a word.'

‘Had you seen him – before tonight – since Bernhard was killed?'

‘No. I thought it was an accident like everyone else. Then I heard some people talking, and I was frightened. I stayed away. I knew you were looking too, then. I thought I'd better be very careful. I was paralysed when you talked to me. Then I thought that was dim, and I'd better be friendly or you'd think it fishy.'

‘I'd like very much to know who started the talk about it's not being an accident.'

‘I don't know. I heard them whispering together. Mrs Sebregt and Mrs Elsenschot. Something like he'd been asking for a fall and the other laughed and said yes, but not just being too fat, but being too inquisitive – something like that. I was terribly frightened, I pretended I heard nothing.'

‘Did it strike you that he might have picked up other notes – or overheard things – that he might have tried the same trick on with others?'

‘I don't know. No, I don't think so. I thought they were talking just to be nasty to me. They were always saying little things that sounded harmless but I knew were meant for me. They are like that.'

‘I know. Who did you think killed Fischer? Did you think it was Dick?'

‘I thought it might have been – Rob – I thought he might have hit him, not meaning to kill him – he can be fierce, when something – when he feels he's attacked.'

‘Has he ever been to the manège?'

‘Not that I know of. He knew where it was.'

‘The place – where Fischer got it – would seem pretty public to a stranger, wouldn't you think?'

‘I suppose so, yes.'

‘A dozen people might see you. You would need to know the routine of the place well to realize is was pretty safe – it isn't overlooked by a window – it's easy to come and go unnoticed. Rob wouldn't know that.'

‘He wouldn't bother,' proudly. ‘He'd hit out and not care.'

‘You still think it might have been Rob?'

‘No.'

‘You think Dick would do a thing like that?'

‘I don't know. I would have thought he wouldn't care that much – not enough to kill someone.'

‘What did you want to do, tonight – when you went?'

‘I wanted to make a clean ending. To say I'd gone wrong, but I wasn't going to go on.'

‘How often did you sleep with him – once?'

‘Just once.'

‘Very well. Listen attentively. I'd like to leave this – finish with it, send you home. I'm certain you've told the truth. But I won't do that. I'm keeping you here till you've seen the Officer of Justice. I may question you again, speak sharply, call you a liar. I'm the Commissaire of Police, it's my job to interrogate people. Plenty would grumble – the crowd always grumbles, saying, “The police are always against the poor; they'll always stick up for the rich” – do you believe that?'

‘Not now,' slowly. ‘I've known it would come to this – that I'd have to swallow it.'

‘You aren't wrong. The law's a fool, and unfair. You've said it all your life – so have I. But it bears down on everybody once they're involved. You and I both – we have to carry responsibility. You're not a criminal, but you might be called to suffer. I have to
put you through it – I'd have to do the same to my own wife. You get that?'

‘Yes.'

‘Come on then – I'm going to lock you up.'

He felt very tired. It had been a long day and was nearly midnight. He could do with his bed. The painter could wait till morning, couldn't he? No, he couldn't.

No no no, thought Van der Valk, swallow it boy, just like you just told Janine.

He called the ‘cipier', as the old quiet policeman is called whose job is to sit in a guardroom outside a row of cells. They need to be old and quiet: it is not difficult work to lock someone up after taking away all ties, shoelaces, belts and bits of string, but it takes stability.

‘Verbiest gone home?' he called through to the inspectors' room. At this time of night the criminal brigade was not ordinarily on duty at all: what did one have municipal police for? The boy had had his share of work today; Van der Valk would not blame him if he had just sloped off.

‘No, sir,' came the duty brigadier's voice. ‘He's gone to scrounge a cup of coffee; he didn't know whether you'd need him.' Good. The young man wanted to learn his trade. Very well, the odds were that he would get the kind of lesson that is best quickly forgotten. Buried, thought Van der Valk – tactfully buried in an obscure corner of the mind. Like morphine – a dangerous drug, but there are times when it is still useful.

‘Tell him to come in and pick up a shorthand pad. And to bring me a cup of coffee too.'

A young uniformed agent brought in the painter. There had been no nibbling at his ego yet; he hadn't been wearing a tie, and he had sandals with buckles. He was in shirt-sleeves, carrying his jacket – it wasn't a cold jail.

‘Sit down there.' The boy sat, paying no heed to anything, without particular ostentation or insolence, simply as though all this bureaucratic paraphernalia were a great bore, which of course it is. Verbiest came in silently with his pad and pencil.

‘Sorry, sir – I was just getting …'

‘That's all right. You don't have to take any notes till we get a
pattern of question and answer; we have to get a few things straight first.'

‘Tell him not to waste his time,' said the painter calmly. ‘There aren't going to be any answers. I went out on the bike and met a girl with whom I had a date. Nothing illegal in that. Being in the dunes is forbidden – fine of ten gulden. You know my name and address.'

Van der Valk paid no heed, but sat on the corner of his desk and stirred his coffee.

‘That's all you'll get from me – make up your mind to that. You can keep me here all night and you won't get any farther.'

Van der Valk went on paying no attention to Verbiest.

‘What d'you do with the motorbike?'

‘Told the boys where to find it and to put it in the van, bring it back to the owner in the morning.'

‘Good.' He stayed sipping till the coffee, black and smelling good, was finished. Verbiest, after an interrogatory glance, lit a cigarette. Van der Valk put the cup down carefully, walked around and sat behind his desk, and said, ‘Look at me', in a soft voice. The painter glanced at him and looked away contemptuously. He smiled in a bored way – he had seen this tactic so often.

‘Verbiest.'

‘Sir.'

‘Put a headlock on him – choke him a bit – just till he falls unconscious.' The painter jumped to his feet; the young inspector, a healthy football-playing boy, was a lot faster, twisted an arm up behind the back in a professional way and got his elbow crooked round the throat. He did not put any pressure on, but watched his chief, who sat polite as a cashier waiting for a cheque to be made out.

‘A silly boy. Thinks I'm stupid. Thinks I'm just a cop. Thinks I'll hit him. Mistake – I want you to feel what it's like being murdered. You're a painter – an artist. Very well, I'll treat you as an artist. Choke him, Verbiest.'

The young man struggled, heaved, was helpless in the grip of a stronger heavier man, thrashed about trying to kick, got feebler, went limp, tried to scream, collapsed on the floor like a dishcloth.

‘Glass of water … no, throw it at him. Pick him up and dump him in the chair. Stay behind him; you don't need your pencil
awhile.… Nasty, isn't it? If he'd gone on another thirty seconds you'd have been dead. All your life still to lead, cut off by a sadistic old swine like me. Dead. That's what it's like being murdered. Look at me now.' The blueness went out of the boy's face and he got his natural sallow pallor back. He looked.