‘You can thank your lucky stars I happened to be passing,’ were Malijsen’s first words.
They had spent several hours together on subsequent evenings, and the lasting impression Van Veeteren had of his rescuer was that he was a rather untalented crackpot holding a series of – more or less seriously meant – ideas and principles about practically everything. Unfortunately. A middle-aged boy scout, as Reinhart would no doubt have called him: weird, overweening, and a warmonger. Van Veeteren was sick and fed up of his company after only half an hour, but as the fact was that this podgy policeman had saved his life, he had no alternative but to treat him to an occasional beer.
During the rest of the conference there had been a great deal of discussion about competence and the scope for individual initiatives in advanced police work, and only a few months after the incident in Lejnice Van Veeteren had read in the police journal that Inspector Wilfred Malijsen had just been appointed chief of police in Sorbinowo.
It was not outside the bounds of possibility that there could be a connection.
Malijsen? Van Veeteren thought as he took two olives. Time to pay off an old debt?
Then he turned his mind to other things. First to Crete, and then to a variation of the Scandinavian Defence he had read about, and that might be worth trying in his next match.
The club’s premises in Styckargrand were almost deserted, as they often were in summer, and the air felt pleasantly cool under the domed ceiling when the chief inspector walked through the door. As usual, Mahler was sitting right at the back, under the Durer print. For once he was looking gloomy, and Van Veeteren recalled that he had just returned from Chadow where he had attended the funeral of an aunt.
‘Do you miss her?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I thought you said she had a personality like a verruca.’
‘They’re squabbling about her inheritance,’ Mahler explained. ‘A depressing business. If those are the bastards I’m related to, there’s not much hope for me either.’
‘I’ve never held out much hope for you,’ said the chief inspector, sitting down. ‘But I’ll get the first beer in if you set up the pieces. I’m intending to murder you tonight with a new opening gambit.’
Mahler brightened up slightly.
‘He who murders last murders best,’ he said, adjusting the board.
The first game took an hour and a half, and they agreed on a draw after nearly eighty moves.
‘That early bishop was a good move,’ said Mahler, scratching at his beard. ‘Very nearly caught me on the hop.’
‘You were lucky,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I regard myself as the moral victor. Speaking of morals, what do you know about the Pure Life?’
‘The Pure Life?’ Mahler looked bewildered for a few seconds. ‘Oh, you don’t mean that blasted sect, do you?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Van Veeteren.
Mahler thought for a moment.
‘Why do you ask? In the name of duty, I hope? Or are you thinking of joining?’
Van Veeteren didn’t respond.
‘Nasty,’ said Mahler after another moment’s thought. ‘Not that I know all that much about them, but I wouldn’t want to pick my friends from that lot. A smart leader, sucks in emotionally unstable and scared people, turns them into robots, and presumably gets up to no good. Mind you, to the casual observer they’re meek and mild, as soft as sugary angel-drops, needless to say. Especially after what happened.’
‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You’re taking the words from my lips.’
‘What’s it all about?’
The chief inspector shrugged.
‘I don’t know yet. It might be just a false alarm. I’ll be leaving town for a few days, in any case. Off to Sorbinowo.’
‘Aha,’ said Mahler. ‘That could be very pleasant at this time of year. All those lakes and so on.’
I’ll be there on duty, of course,’ Van Veeteren pointed out.
‘Of course you will,’ said Mahler with a smile. ‘But I expect you’ll have half an hour off now and then… I remember a very good writer from those parts, by the way.’
‘Really?’
‘He wrote about my first poetry collections. Positive and intelligent. Seems to have a good grasp of what this damned life is all about. He’s still editor-in-chief there, I think.’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘What’s his name? In case I need to talk to somebody with a clear head.’
‘Przebuda. Andrej Przebuda. He must be getting on for seventy by now, but I’m sure he’ll be continuing to man the cultural barricades until they scatter his ashes in the winds.’
Van Veeteren made a note of the name and emptied his glass.
‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘I suppose it might be fun to get away for a bit.’
‘Of course,’ said Mahler. ‘But steer well clear of funerals.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Van Veeteren promised. ‘Have we time for another one?’
Mahler checked his watch.
‘I think we can fit another one in,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you due for a holiday soon, by the way? Or have they withdrawn perks like that?’
‘First of August,’ the chief inspector said, turning the board round. ‘I’m off to Crete, and I have a few hopes of that.’
‘Well I’ll be damned!’ Mahler exclaimed. ‘What hopes?’
But the chief inspector simply contemplated his black queen, an inscrutable expression on his face.
‘Mind you, I have misgivings,’ he admitted after a while.
‘About Crete?’
‘No, about Sorbinowo. There seems to be a child missing. I don’t like that sort of stuff.’
Mahler emptied his glass.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Children ought not to go missing. Especially if they die. As long as Our Good Lord can’t take care of that detail, I shall refuse to believe in him.’
‘Same here,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Anyway it’s your move.’
THREE
19-23 JULY
7
Elgar’s cello concerto came to an end a hundred metres before the road sign at the entrance to the town. He switched off the CD and drove into a parking area with a tourist information board and an excellent view over the countryside below. Groped around in the glove pocket and produced the half-full pack of West he had been thinking about for the last half-hour. Lit a cigarette and got out of the car.
He stretched his back and performed a few cautious physical jerks while taking in the panorama spread out before him. The water course – basically the River Meusel that three or four times expanded to form long and narrow dark lakes – flowed towards the south-west through a flat, cultivated valley. The town of Sorbinowo was scattered around and between lakes number two and three from where he was standing, and he counted half a dozen bridges before the river disappeared from sight among wooded hills some six kilometres or so further on. Yachts, canoes and every kind of boat you could think of were bobbing up and down in the water, rocked by the gentle breeze. Directly below him several anglers were fishing from an old stone bridge, and about three kilometres to the west hordes of children were laughing and shouting and splashing around in an area designated a bathing beach.
This really was an idyll; Hiller and Mahler had been right. Dark, glittering waters. Fields of ripe corn. A scattering of deciduous woods and occasional villages in a half-open landscape. The whole area encircled by silent coniferous forests. The armies of silence.
A quivering summer heat made the rippling water enticing, even for a bather as hesitant as Chief Inspector Van Veeteren.
An idyll – yes, okay, he thought and drew deeply on his cigarette. Seen from a distance, before you’ve had a chance to scrape the surface, most things could seem pretty and well-organized. That was a reliable old truth.