Woman with Birthmark (27 page)

He would sit or lie there and glance through something from his father's library, which was not exactly voluminous and not particularly varied. Adventure stories. Brash, cheap literature bought by the meter at auctions or at sales time. He would quite like to read the occasional one, to be honest, but found it hard to concentrate.

Other things nagged and disturbed him. Other things.

Then he would go out for another walk, for an hour or so. As dusk drew in he would come back home in the dark. It felt like something he was waiting for, this darkness: a confidant and an ally. He knew that he had the upper hand as soon as night fell. If they were to confront each other while it was dark, he was at an advantage. He might need it.

Then he would have dinner in the dark kitchen. He never switched on a light—the worst-case scenario would be if she came across him in a lit-up window.

He had been into the village only once, to do some shopping. He tried to avoid it, during daylight hours at any rate. Nor did he go there during the evenings those first few days, but he soon realized that the isolation would be intolerable if he couldn't at least spend an hour at the inn with a beer.

He went there on the third evening. He made a risk assessment before setting out, and realized that the dangerous part would be returning home. On the way in, he could make sure he was walking behind hedges, through private gardens, or along the village street, which had no lighting. Inside the inn, lots of the drinkers had a clear view of the door. That fact would hardly present her with an opportunity, even if she found out where he was.

But walking back home was a different matter. Dangerous. If she knew he'd been at the inn, she had every opportunity of setting up an ambush, and so he took every possible precaution on his walk back to the house. Avoided the road. Dashed out of the inn and around the corner of the building, staying in the shadows there for quite a while. Then he would head for home cross-country, over terrain he had known in detail since he was a boy—changing direction, zigzagging irrationally, and approaching the house from a different direction every night. Extremely carefully, and gun in hand. Every sense on red alert.

But nothing happened.

Night after night, and absolutely nothing happened.

Not a single dodgy incident. Not the slightest indication. Nothing suspicious at all.

Two things nagged at him when he went to bed.

The first was a headache, caused by a whole day of tension and strain. To cope with that, every night he would take two tablets, washed down with a swig of whiskey in the dark kitchen.

That helped to some extent, but it didn't cure it.

The other thing was a thought. The thought that she might not come at all. The possibility that while he was spending these days in isolation and on red alert, she was actually somewhere else. Somewhere a long way away.

In an apartment in Maardam. In a house in Hamburg. Anywhere at all.

The possibility that this was the punishment she had decided to give him. Simply to let him wait. Wait for the murderer who never came. Wait for death, whose visit had been postponed.

And as one evening followed another, both these things grew in stature. The headache and the thought. A little bigger every evening, it seemed.

And neither tablets nor whiskey could do anything to help.

She pulled up beside an elderly man walking along the side of the road. Leaned over the empty passenger seat, wound down the window, and attracted his attention.

“I'm looking for Mr. Biedersen. Do you know where his house is?”

This was the second time she'd driven through the village. Dark outside. Quite dark inside the car as well, hat pulled down over her eyes, and a minimum of eye contact. A calculated risk, that's all. As they say.

“Yes, of course.”

He pointed out the house and explained where it was. It wasn't far away. Nothing in the village was far away. She memorized what he had said, thanked him, and continued on her way.

It's all so easy, she thought. Still just as easy.

She knew that the car gave her all the camouflage she needed; and it was indeed from inside the car—the hired Fiat that had been another expense but also a necessity—that she discovered him. That same evening. Parked in the darkness and drizzle opposite the inn. It was still a calculated risk, but there wasn't much of an alternative. In a place like this a stranger couldn't turn up many times before questions started to be asked. Who? Why?

Unnecessary and dangerous. There was no point in driving around, looking for him. But it was important to find him even so. Before he found her.

This time she had an opponent, not merely prey. There was a difference.

She watched him go in. Didn't see him come out.

The next evening, the same thing. While he was in there, she paid a visit to the house. Scrutinized it from the road for several minutes before driving back.

Thought about how to go about it.

He must know.

He had gone out of his way to entice her here; she had realized that from the start.

The third evening she went a step further. Drove into the village and parked the car behind the church. Walked down to the inn. Went in without hesitation and bought some cigarettes at the bar. She could see him sitting right at the back, out of the corner of her eye. A beer and a whiskey. He seemed alert and tense, but paid her no attention. There were more people in there than she'd expected, in fact. Twenty or so, half of them in the bar, the rest in the restaurant.

Three evenings out of three, she thought.

That meant that in all probability, it would be the same on day four and day five.

It was obvious what to do next. She had the upper hand again.

It was about time. All the waiting and the passage of time had been to her advantage, that was clear. But now things were coming to a head. The money she had left was committed, down to almost the last guilder. Every day cost money, and she no longer had the option of holding back, for the sake of it.

Just one opportunity She wouldn't get another. Making a mistake was no longer a possibility either. It was clear that she would have no second chance of putting things right, if she made a mess of it.

So: what she must do was arrange things the best way she could. In line with the others, and making this a worthy conclusion.

It was quite a long time since she had started out on this mission. There was only one of them left. Just one of them still alive, she thought as she returned to the little cottage by the lake.

And in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp she arranged his death.

Later, at first light, she woke up and was unable to fall asleep again. So she got up and dressed. Went down to the lake and walked out onto the jetty. Stood there for quite a while, gazing out over the dark water and the mists, and trying to recall the almost ecstatic rapture she had felt in the beginning. Trying to weigh that against the calm she felt now.

The superior feeling of perfection and control.

She could find no real balance—but nor could she find any
objections. Everything was falling into place. Soon it would be over. Everything.

Two more days, she decided. In two more days. That might be a good time, bearing in mind the date as well.

Then she went back indoors, and sat down at the table. Started writing.

At my mother's interment…

Melgarves? Something about this Melgarves rang a bell….

Jung fished around among the papers cluttering up his desk.

“Did you serve Maureen breakfast in bed today, then?”

Jung looked up.

“Eh? Why on earth should I do that?”

“You mean you don't know what day it is today?” said Moreno, glaring at him.

“No.”

“International Women's Day. March eighth.”

“Good God,” said Jung. “I'd better buy her something. Thank you for letting me know. Did you get breakfast in bed?”

“Of course,” said Moreno with a smile. “And a bit more besides.”

Jung wondered for a moment what that might imply, then returned to his lists of incoming tips.

“This Melgarves character,” he said. “I don't understand why he's ended up on this list.”

“André Melgarves?”

“Yes indeed. He's one of the group. He's phoned in and passed on some information or other, but he's been bracketed with all the others…. Krause must have missed his significance.”

“That's not like him,” said Moreno.

She crossed the room and read the brief notes over Jung's shoulder, frowned, and started chewing the pencil she had in her hand…. A certain Mr. André Melgarves had phoned from Kin-sale in Ireland and announced that he had information that could be of interest to the ongoing investigation. They were welcome to give him a call. His address and telephone number were duly recorded.

“When did this come in?” Moreno asked.

Jung looked at the back of the card.

“The day before yesterday,” he said. “I think it's probably as well for the chief inspector to take this himself—what do you reckon?”

“I think so,” said Moreno. “Go and show him now—but don't mention that it came in two days ago. He seemed a bit grumpy this morning, I thought.”

“You don't say?” said Jung, getting to his feet.

The young man was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with “Big Is Beautiful” printed on it. He was very suntanned, and his short-cropped hair looked like a field of ripe wheat. He was chewing away at something, and staring at the floor.

“Name?” said Van Veeteren.

“Pieter Fuss.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Occupation?”

“Messenger.”

“Messenger?”

“For a security company.”

I see, thought Van Veeteren. Almost a colleague. He swallowed a feeling of impotence.

“Anyway, I'm not the officer in charge of your case,” he explained, “but I have a few things to say about it and I'd like to have an answer to a question. Just one.”

Pieter Fuss looked up, but as soon as he caught the chief inspector's eye he reverted immediately to examining his sneakers.

“On Friday, February twenty-third,” said Van Veeteren, “at half past midnight, I was walking toward Rejmer Plejn. I was on my way home after an evening with some good friends of mine. I suddenly found my way blocked by you and four other young men. One of your friends pushed me up against a wall. You punched me in the face. You eventually forced me down onto the sidewalk. You hit me and kicked me. You had never seen me before. My question is: Why?”

Pieter Fuss's expression did not change.

“Have you understood my question?”

No reply.

“Why did you attack an unknown person? Punch him and kick him? There must be a reason, surely?”

“I don't know.”

“Can you speak a little louder? I'm recording this.”

“I don't know.”

“I don't understand. Are you saying you don't know why you do things?”

No answer.

“You were five against one. Do you think that was the right thing to do?”

“No.”

“So you do things that you think are wrong?”

“I don't know.”

“If you don't know, who does?”

No answer.

“What do you think your punishment ought to be?”

Pieter Fuss mumbled something.

“Louder!”

“I don't know.”

“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “Listen to me. If you can't give me a sensible answer to the question why, I shall see to it that you get at least six months for this.”

“Six months?”

“At least,” said Van Veeteren. “We can't have people running around who don't know why they do what they do to their fellow human beings. You can have two days to think about this in peace and quiet….”

He paused. For a moment it looked as if Fuss was about to say something, but then there was a knock on the door and Jung poked his head inside.

“Are you busy, Chief Inspector?”

“No, not at all.”

“I think we've had a tip that could be of interest.”

“What, exactly?”

“One of the group has rung from Ireland. We thought you might like to follow it up yourself?”

He handed over the card.

“Okay,” said the chief inspector. “Can you escort this promising young man down to the duty officer? Be a bit careful—he's not all that sure what he's doing.”

Fuss stood up and slunk away with Jung. Van Veeteren read what it said on the card.

André Melgarves? he thought with a frown.

Then he contacted the switchboard and asked them to phone him. Ten minutes later he had Melgarves on the line.

“My name is Van Veeteren. I'm in charge of this case. You've said that you have information to give us.”

“I don't really know if it's significant,” Melgarves said, and his doubt seemed more obvious on the crackly line than the words themselves.

“Let's hear it,” said Van Veeteren. “It would help if you could speak a bit louder, I think we have a bad line.”

“Ireland,” explained Melgarves. “The tax is advantageous, but everything else is rubbish.”

“I see,” said Van Veeteren, pulling a face.

“Anyway something occurred to me. I've received your letters and instructions. And I spoke on the phone to somebody. I've got some idea of what's been going on, despite being miles away. My sister has sent me some newspapers and cuttings. And, well, if I can be of any help, then obviously, I'm at your disposal. It's an awful business.”

“It certainly is,” said Van Veeteren.

“What struck me,” said Melgarves, “is only a minor detail, but it's something that Malik, Maasleitner, and Innings were mixed up in. It might be irrelevant, but if I understand the situation aright, you've had trouble in finding a link between them.”

“We have had certain problems,” admitted Van Veeteren.

“Well, it was in connection with our demob party,” said Melgarves.

“Demob party?”

“Yes, we had a big farewell do in Maardam. Arno's Cellar—I don't think it exists any longer….”

“No, it's closed down,” said Van Veeteren.

“Just two days before we were released. Yes, it was a party that everybody attended—and some of the officers and lecturers as well. No women, men only. We'd rented the whole place and … well, there was quite a lot of drinking going on, obviously.”