The Inspector and Silence (2 page)

He handed over the can and Moreno emptied it in one go.

‘It’s incredibly hot,’ she said. ‘I must have drunk three litres since this morning. You could always ask Münster – if anybody knows, he will.’

Jung nodded.

‘How old is he?’

‘Who? Münster?’

‘The chief inspector, of course. He can’t be sixty yet, surely?’

‘No idea,’ said Moreno. ‘How much longer are we going to have to hang around here? Nothing’s happening. Apart from the fact that my brain’s starting to boil.’

Jung checked his watch.

‘Another hour, according to our instructions.’

‘Drive round one more time,’ said Moreno. ‘At least that’ll start a bit of air flowing. There’s not much point in sitting here and getting sunstroke. Or what do you say, Inspector?’

‘One has to be prepared to die while doing one’s duty,’ said Jung, starting the car. ‘That’s what it says in the rule book. I think it would be a damned shame if he were to leave . . . He can be a pain at times, but so what? Where do you want me to drive to?’

‘To the snackbar, so we can buy some more Coke,’ said Moreno.

‘Your word is my command,’ said Jung. ‘But I think we should get something non-fizzy this time. Look at that, for Christ’s sake! Mind you, it’s been in full sunlight . . .’

He pointed at the gigantic thermometer on the gable end of the swimming baths.

‘Thirty-seven degrees,’ said Moreno.

‘Exactly! Body temperature, more or less.’

‘I’m thirsty,’ said Moreno.

Chief Inspector Van Veeteren clambered into his car and closed his eyes.

‘That woman!’ he muttered. ‘I’ve given that woman my life.’

He groaned. The car had been parked in the square for over an hour in roasting hot sunshine, and when he touched the steering wheel he smelt a whiff of burned flesh. Gehenna, he thought. That’s where we all end up.

Sweat was pouring off him. Down his face, the back of his neck, under his arms. He wound down the windows and carefully wiped his brow with a less than immaculate handkerchief.

He contemplated the soaking wet rag. There were traces of cold sweat there as well.

‘Twenty-five years of my life!’ he said to himself, correcting his earlier claim. Started the car and swung out from his parking space. ‘A quarter of a century!’

And now she had tried to steal two more weeks. He began to recall the conversation in detail.

A holiday cottage out at Maalvoort. Well, that’s great . . . Plenty of space. Four rooms plus kitchen. Dunes and beach and the sea . . . Renate and him. Jess and the twins . . .

He wondered how carefully she had planned it all. They had been talking for quite some time; everything had been going fine, from his point of view, it seemed – and then the questions and the proposal had come out of the blue . . . He ought to have known. For Christ’s sake, he ought to have known by now! He would also be on holiday in August, wouldn’t he? Just when Jess would be coming home at last for a few weeks. The grandchildren and Grandma and Grandad all together, one big family, what good fortune . . . ! (Huh, misfortune more like! Very unfortunate, and he couldn’t help smiling at the unfortunate fortune, despite everything.) The cottage was on the big side; she’d been late in making a booking and most places were already taken. If he wanted to have time to himself, that wouldn’t be a problem, there was plenty of room for him to be alone. Both indoors and outdoors . . .

Oh yes, this had been planned all right. It was a trap, he thought. A typical carefully laid trap by his ex-wife, a spider luring the unwary into her web. Hell and damnation!

He switched on the stereo, then switched it off again.

Jess and the kids . . .

‘I’m afraid not,’ he’d said.

And Erich had promised to come as well, for a few days at least.

‘I’m afraid not, my dear,’ he’d said. ‘You’re too late. I’m already booked up.’

‘Booked up?’ Her eyebrows had been raised in chastened despair. ‘You, booked up already?’

‘Crete!’ He blurted out the first place that came into his head. ‘Two weeks, from the first onwards.’

She didn’t believe him. He could see that right away; one eyebrow sunk back to scratch position, but the other remained dangling from her forehead like a silent reprimand.

‘Crete,’ he said again, quite unnecessarily. ‘Rethymnon, but I’m thinking of going down to the south coast as well . . . and, well—’

‘Are you going on your own?’

‘On my own? Dammit all, of course I’m going on my own! How the hell could you think otherwise?’

He bumped against the kerb of a traffic island with his left front wheel, and cursed to himself.

A quarter of a century. Then five years of freedom, but still she was there, setting her traps. What was she really after? He shuddered, despite the summer heat. Wiped the back of his neck with the handkerchief as well. Turned into Rejmer Plejn and was fortunate enough to find an empty parking space under one of the elms.

Crete? he thought as he got out of the car. Why not?

Yes indeed,
why not
? If you could redeem your sins by doing penance, it should be child’s play to conjure up a retroactive truth from a white lie.

I’m on good form linguistically today, he thought. Unfortunate fortune! Retroactive truth! . . . I ought to start writing my memoirs PDQ.

He crossed over the square. Inserted a toothpick into his mouth and marched into the travel agent’s on the corner.

The woman standing at the counter had her back turned towards him, and it was a few seconds before he realized who she was. Her chestnut-brown hair had become slightly more chestnutty since he’d seen her last, and her voice more resonant.

I should damned well think so.

Ulrike Fremdli. When he met her the previous – and only – time, her husband had just been murdered. He made a rapid calculation and concluded it must have been in February. Last February – that chilly, godforsaken month. The blessed time of hopelessness, as Mahler used to call it. They had been sitting in an ordinary, cosy living room in an ordinary, cosy terrace house in Loewingen. He and Ulrike Fremdli, newly widowed. He had asked her the usual, clinically disconsolate questions and he had been impressed by the way in which she handled them.

Handled both the questions and the grief and shock she must have been feeling.

When he left her, he had realized that she was a woman he could easily have fallen in love with. Thirty years ago. At the time when he was still capable of falling in love. He had thought about it quite a lot afterwards. Yes, it certainly would have been possible.

If he hadn’t already given away his life to somebody else, that is.

And now she was standing here, booking a holiday. Ulrike Fremdli. Fifty and a bit, he would have thought. With her hair recently dyed even more chestnut brown.

There were certain patterns . . .

He took a queue ticket and sat down on the narrow tubular-steel armchair behind her, without greeting her. Of course, there was no reason to think that she would remember him as clearly as he remembered her. Or would even remember him at all, come to that. He waited. Shifted the toothpick to the right side of his mouth and tried to look as if he wasn’t listening.

As if he were just a very ordinary customer wanting to book a package holiday. Or an unusually sweaty part of the furniture.

But he certainly was listening. Ears cocked. At the same time he could feel a worrying sensation beginning to nag at him. Both in his gut and behind his larynx, where he had long been convinced that the soul was situated. In his case, at least.

Because Crete was what was being discussed. As plain as a pikestaff, he’d realized that right away. The attractively sun-tanned travel agent was talking about Theseus and Ariadne and the Village of Widows. About Spili and Matala and the Samaria Gorge.

And now about Rethymnon.

Chief Inspector Van Veeteren gulped. Took out his handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck again. Despite the slow-moving fans whisking the air under the ceiling, it was as hot as a baking oven.

‘You mustn’t underestimate the currents,’ stressed the bronzed young man.

Certainly not, Van Veeteren thought.

‘The Christos Hotel,’ suggested the young Adonis. ‘Simple, but well run. Situated in the middle of the old town . . . Only a minute’s walk to the Venetian harbour.’

Ulrike Fremdli nodded. The demigod smiled.

‘Leaving on the first, then? Two weeks?’

Van Veeteren felt an attack of giddiness rising up inside him. An almost pubertal feeling of dizziness. He put down the magazine and stood up quickly. I must get a breath of fresh air, he thought. Hell’s bells! I can feel a heart attack coming on.

Out in the street he paused under a lime tree. Spat out the toothpick and bit his bottom lip hard. Confirmed that this did not wake him up, and hence he had not been dreaming.

For Christ’s sake, he thought. I’m too old for this sort of thing.

He bought a bottle of mineral water at the newspaper stall and drank it all in one gulp. Then paused for another minute, thinking things over. It would be silly to get carried away, he told himself.

But it would be even sillier to ignore all the signs that are dangled in front of me. By the way, seeing as I’m here . . .

He emerged into the sunshine again. Walked quickly and jauntily over the square and turned into Kellnerstraat. Passed by a few second-hand bookshops before stopping at the corner of Kupinski’s Alley. Wiped the sweat from his brow and looked hard at the over-full display window.

Carefully, as if studying a poker hand.

Yes, the notice was still there.

It must have been hanging there now for – he worked it out – six weeks. He breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, half the summer must have passed since he first saw it.

He hesitated again before slowly walking back towards the square. Chewed at a toothpick and contemplated the Art Nouveau facades dating from the turn of the century. Weather-beaten, but still looking good. The leafy lime trees casting shade over the pavements. Yorrick’s pavement cafe on the corner. Winderblatt’s directly opposite. A large, panting St Bernard dog under one of the tables, its tongue reaching out as far as the kerb.

Oh yes, he thought. I sure as hell could see myself living here.

And by the time he got into his car, he had made up his mind.

If that notice is still there in August . . . well, I’ll go ahead and do it.

It was as easy as that.

It was then even easier to drive hell for leather back home to Klagenburg, pickup the telephone and order a two-week package holiday to Rethymnon, Crete . . . the Christos Hotel, which had been recommended to him by a good friend. Single room. Departing 1 August, returning on the 15th.

When he hung up, he glanced at his watch. It was 11.40, 17 July.

Not much point going to the police station before lunch, he decided, and tried to feel a little regret. Didn’t succeed very well. He wandered around his flat, fanning himself with yesterday’s
Allgemejne.
Not that it did much good. He sighed. Pulled off his sticky shirt, fetched a beer from the fridge and inserted a Pergolesi CD into the hi-fi.

Life? he wondered.

Arbitrary or well-planned?

‘The heat makes people less inclined to commit crimes,’ said deBries.

‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Reinhart. ‘The facts are the precise opposite, of course.’

‘Meaning what?’ wondered Rooth, with a yawn.

‘They just don’t have the strength,’ said deBries.

‘Of course they do,’ said Reinhart. ‘The hotter it gets, the lower the defences – and human beings are criminal animals at heart. Read
The Stranger.
Read Schopenhauer.’

‘I haven’t the strength to read anything,’ said Rooth. ‘Not when it’s as hot as this, for fuck’s sake.’

‘And people’s urges become more urgent,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘No wonder. Just look at all those women running around town half-naked – it’s not surprising that frustrated studs throw their inhibitions aside.’

‘Frustrated studs?’ said Rooth. ‘What the hell . . . ?’

‘Hmm,’ muttered deBries. ‘Sex murderers will obviously be inspired to act in weather like this – but at least we haven’t had any such cases yet.’

‘Just wait a bit,’ said Reinhart. ‘The ridge of high pressure is only four days old. Where the hell’s the chief inspector, by the way? I thought we were supposed to have a meeting after lunch. It’s nearly half past one.’

DeBries shrugged.

‘He’s probably playing badminton with Münster.’

‘No,’ said Rooth, tucking into an apple. ‘Münster was in my office a few minutes ago.’

‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ said Reinhart.

‘He’d say next to nothing if he didn’t,’ said deBries.