"The deserter," the adjutant said. "A connection? Please sit down, Sergeant. Were you tipped off? I don't quite get it. Of course, I don't have to get it. But if I did get it…"
"We sometimes hear something," de Gier said. "Last night I happened to be in Leeuwarden. An irresponsible drunk mentioned your deserter. Nonsense, maybe, but then we never know. We like to follow up. I'm here anyway, so I thought I might check."
"Is our deserter suspected of having killed Scherjoen?"
"No," de Gier said. "But there might be a divergence of lines that once met. Separate causes that shared the same effect. One never knows."
"Coffee?" the adjutant asked. "Sudema?"
Sudema stood a little more at attention.
"Could I have the file on the deserter?"
Sudema marched to a cabinet and yanked open a drawer. He pulled a carton file, brought it over, and handed it to the adjutant.
The adjutant consulted the file. "Deserter. Air Force. Air- base Leeuwarden. Gone three weeks. Plays football. Champion runner. Hm. Yes. Likes to sail. Almost arrested on three occasions. In Rotterdam. On a highway in the far south and in Dingjum. Hm. Right. Didn't Scherjoen reside in Dingjum?" He looked at Sudema. "Your uncle, now. Isn't he the lieutenant in charge of the State Police station over there?"
"Lieutenant Sudema sent you the tomatoes," de Gier said.
"Private Sudema," the adjutant said softly. "Does your uncle drink?"
"He doesn't not drink, but one can't say he drinks." Private Sudema looked straight ahead. "Uncle Sjurd knows his limits."
"Where's that coffee?" the adjutant asked loudly.
Private Sudema marched off. He marched back again. "They're coming, Adjutant."
They came. Eight privates.
The private who had carried the tomatoes poured the coffee. The coffee had been waiting on the mahogany table, in a silver pot between a silver milk jug and a silver sugar bowl. The adjutant was given the first cup, de Gier the second; the others received their coffee in order of rank.
"There you are. Thank you."
"Why are all of you so tall?" de Gier asked.
"Fertile Frisian soil," the adjutant said. "Pure air. I won't say that we are a super race, but we came out better. Handsome people, handsome cows."
"Handsome sheep too?" de Gier asked.
"Yes," the adjutant said. "When sheep originate here, they come out better." His gaze shot down the length of the table. "Has everyone been served?"
"Yes, Adjutant," Private Sudema snapped.
The adjutant stirred. Everybody stirred. The adjutant took a sip. Everybody sipped.
"Scherjoen bought and sold sheep," de Gier said. "Any sheep in Ameland?"
"Yes," the adjutant said. "Ameland is a Frisian isle, so Ameland sheep are Frisian too. A murder motivated by sheep?"
"I've never been to Ameland," de Gier said.
"You'll know better," the adjutant said. "I'm only a simple guardian of frontiers, a hunter of deserters, and a protector of royalty, that's all."
"I don't know anything better," de Gier said. "I know nothing at all. I keep busy in case my superiors might be watching. And it would be nice to spend a day on one of your beautiful islands."
"Good," the adjutant said. "We all do what we have to do. Sudema."
Private Sudema replaced his cup.
"You'll be going to Ameland today."
"Yes, Adjutant."
"Or do you have something better to do?"
"Not today, Adjutant."
"Fine. The deserter is at home, we have received a report. He doesn't show himself much, but he does happen to be at home. He's been betrayed. The deserter was born in the village in the north and the informer is from the village in the south. The northerners and the southerners do not live in harmony."
"Adjutant?" said the private who had carried the tomatoes.
"Yes, my boy."
"He wasn't betrayed," the private said. "I was on the island and had a drink in the pub, and the southerners were there and had been drinking too. Southerners have a habit of raising their voices. I happened to hear that the deserter would be at his home in the north."
"You were in uniform?"
"No, Adjutant."
"But everybody knows you on the island. You're from the south, aren't you, my boy?"
"I am."
"We'll call it a coincidence," the adjutant said.
"Adjutant?"
"Now what, my boy?"
The private was quiet.
"Whatever you like. Old wives' tales. Foam on a wave. The swirl of a tea leaf. Are you busy today, my boy?"
"Yes, Adjutant, I have to fetch my motorcycle."
"You have motorcycles here?" de Gier asked. "What brand? I used to be a motorcycle cop. I rode a BMW."
"My private motorcycle," the private said. "A brand-new thousand-cc Kawasaki. The dealership is closed after our hours, so I have to pick it up during the day."
"How about you?" the adjutant asked another private. The private had to visit the doctor. The next in line had to see the dentist. The next three had to attend a party, to celebrate the transfer and simultaneous promotion of a colleague. The last two privates were available for duty.
"So you two stay here," the adjutant said, "for otherwise there'll be no one in the barracks. Sudema, you'll go alone, but keep things quiet. Two years ago we had some trouble on the island. A Marine, remember?"
"A deserter?" de Gier asked.
"Subject was on holiday," the adjutant said. "Ripped a tent while camping-his own, but we don't like boisterous behavior in a military man. Sudema, you go to the subject's house, ring the bell, and ask him to accompany you. If he's unwilling, we'll see what we'll do. Report to me first. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Adjutant."
"Call our vessel. The vessel is available? Did the skipper get over his cold?"
"The ferry?" de Gier asked.
"Our own vessel," the adjutant said. "Or, rather, lent to us, for it belongs to the Army. The Wet Engineers, to be precise. The skipper is an Army sergeant. Our name has been painted on the ship, so people may think it's ours, but that isn't really the case. The sergeant is borrowed from the Engineers, but the crew are footsoldiers. We're not really in charge, but we make use of the craft."
"Hello?" Private Sudema asked through the radio. "Barracks here. Over."
The radio coughed.
"Are you all right again, skipper?" Private Sudema asked.
"Right, right. A bit better, let's say."
"Can you take two men to Ameland?" Private Sudema asked.
"Why not? It's a nice day."
"We'll be there soon. Over and out."
"Fetch the bus," the adjutant barked. "You. Before you fetch your motorcycle."
The private drove the bus into the yard. The adjutant inspected the vehicle. The ashtray contained two butts. The private excused himself, took the ashtray inside the building, and came running back. He pushed the ashtray back into the dashboard.
"Where did Sudema go?"
The adjutant went back into the building. De Gier followed. "Can't find cartridges," Private Sudema said.
The adjutant and Sudema opened and closed cupboards.
"I emptied my last clip on the shooting range," Private Sudema said. "There should be a box here."
The adjutant locked in a file. "Ordered a thousand rounds three weeks ago. They usually take a month. Next week, maybe?"
"I have an extra clip," de Gier said. "Same caliber. You use twenty-two Magnum too."
"No," the adjutant said. "Thanks all the same. You have Municipal Police cartridges, and if Sudema lost them, we'd have a week of paperwork. I'm short on clerks too."
"Don't really need them," Private Sudema said.
"Exactly," the adjutant said. "Just imagine that, God help us, you wounded a subject. Do you have any idea what a room in the hospital would cost us per day?"