“In outline, please.”
“A cow-hair carpet. Fairly low quality, blue and green once upon a time. Five foot six by six foot six. Between thirty and forty years old, apparently. No manufacturers’ labels or similar stuff, quite worn even before it was used as a…shroud.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren.
“There are traces of dog hair and about fifty other things you find in every household. Brown paper string as well. Used to tie around the bundle, of course. A double strand wound around several times. The commonest kind. They sell about 250,000 yards of it every year. Nationwide, that is.”
Van Veeteren lit a cigarette.
“Anything more from Meusse?”
“Oh yes,” said Münster. “They’ve done a DNA analysis and produced the full genetic code, if I understand it rightly. The problem is that we don’t have anything to compare it with. No registers.”
“Thank God,” said Van Veeteren.
“I agree,” said Münster. “Anyway, we know more or less everything there is to know about this damned body….”
“Apart from who it belonged to,” said Van Veeteren.
“Apart from that, yes,” sighed Münster.
“Have you tried floating the testicle story in the media? I haven’t seen anything.”
“No,” said Münster. “We thought it best to keep quiet about that. So that we can be sure when the right identification turns up, but I think that a whisper has been going around.”
Van Veeteren pondered for a while.
“He must have been a lonely bastard,” he said eventually. “Incredibly lonely.”
“I’ve read about people lying dead for two or three years without being missed,” said Münster.
Van Veeteren nodded gloomily. Beckoned to the waitress and ordered two more beers.
“I don’t know if I should…,” Münster began.
“I’ll pay,” said Van Veeteren, and the matter was closed. “Do you really think he’s been reported as missing? Anywhere?”
Münster gazed out of the window and thought it over.
“No,” he said. “I have been thinking about that, and I don’t think he has.”
“He could be a foreigner, of course,” Van Veeteren pointed out. “The borders are so open nowadays that anybody can drive into the country with a dead body in the trunk.”
Münster agreed.
“What are you planning to do next, then?”
Münster hesitated.
“I don’t know, put it on ice, I suppose. Rooth has already started working on something else. I suspect Hiller wants me to join Reinhart’s group from the day after tomorrow onward. Our body will probably have to lie in the deep freeze waiting for the next coincidence, I guess.”
Van Veeteren nodded in appreciation.
“Good, Münster,” he said. “I couldn’t have put it better myself! Lie in the deep freeze waiting for the next coincidence—I don’t think that’s what they had in mind, though, that business of life after death. But cheers in any case!”
“Cheers,” said Münster.
“So you don’t have any good advice to offer?” he asked as they were on their way out.
Van Veeteren scratched the back of his head.
“No,” he said. “You’ve said all there is to say. You have to be able to show a bit of patience after all. Hens don’t lay eggs any quicker if you stand watching them.”
“Where do you get all your expressions from?”
“No idea,” Van Veeteren said, feeling quite pleased with himself. “That’s the way it is with us poets. They just come.”
9
She’d failed to catch on from the first indication. A few lines she’d read in one of the evening papers while traveling from the airport in a taxi. Anybody might have overlooked it.
Then it became more worrying. When she’d finished unpacking and taken her two tablets, she turned her attention to the daily papers that Mrs. Pudecka had left in two neat piles on the kitchen table, as usual. She lay back in the Biedermeier armchair in front of the fire and started to work her way slowly through them, one by one; that was when the suspicion began to nag at her. Of course, it was pure fantasy at the moment—a whimsical idea, something of that sort, prompted and set in motion by her bad conscience, no doubt. The vague feeling of guilt that naturally had no justification but was nevertheless always with her, deep down, more or less insistent, but never totally absent. She wished it had been otherwise. That it could have made up its mind to be completely—absolutely and very definitely—absent. Once and for all.
But that was not how it was, of course.
She went to the kitchen. Made another cup of tea, took some of the newspapers to the bedroom and started working through them more systematically. Stretched herself out under the blanket and read, letting her mind wander back through time as she tried to recall dates and events. Dozed off for a few minutes when dusk crept up on her, but was thrust out of a dream in which his face had suddenly appeared before her, in sharp detail.
His totally silent and expressionless face with those unfathomable eyes.
She stretched out a hand and switched on the lamp.
Could it be him?
She looked at the clock. Half past six. In any event it was too late to set off in the car this evening. The flight had tired her out, as usual. Nobody could expect her to sort things out immediately, but she was also aware that it was not something she could sweep under the carpet and hope it would stay there. There were some things you simply couldn’t skirt around. There was such a thing as duty.
She took a shower and spent a few hours in front of the television. Phoned Liesen to tell her that she was back home, but didn’t say a word about her misgivings. Of course not. Liesen was one of the people who knew nothing about it; there had never been any reason to tell her.
No compelling reason.
They didn’t mention a word about it on the news. That wasn’t so odd, when you came to think about it; over two weeks had passed, and of course there were other more important things to keep citizens informed about. Presumably it had all begun to fade away and disappear from people’s minds, and she suspected that if she didn’t intervene, the whole business would soon be forgotten.
She sighed uneasily. Wouldn’t that be best? For it to be forgotten? Surely there was no rhyme or reason why the past should be raked over again? Think of the unpleasantness that might be stirred up. Would he never tire of following her like a…like a, what is it they say nowadays? A poltergeist? Something like that, in any case.
But there was that vague stirring of conscience. That slight, nagging feeling of guilt. That is what it was really about, and would she ever be rid of it if she kept out of it this time as well? A good question, to be sure. Even if she looked on the positive side she could hardly have more than ten or twelve years left, and sooner or later she would find herself standing in front of that wall.
Facing her maker, that is. In which case it might be a good idea to be on solid ground.
Yes, indeed. She sighed, stood up and switched off the television. She would have to follow this up.
But there again, there was nothing, nothing at all, in fact, to suggest that it really might be him. Not the slightest detail.
No doubt it was just her nerves getting the better of her.
She set off early the next morning. She had woken up at half past five, another of those inevitable curses that old age brings with it. Got up, had breakfast and driven the car out of the garage before seven.
There was not much traffic; once she had wriggled her way out of town and reached the hills, she was more or less alone on the road. It was a lovely morning, with a thin layer of mist that slowly dispersed as the sun broke through. She stopped at the picturesque inn between Geerlach and Würpatz and drank a cup of coffee. Pulled herself together and tried to keep her thoughts and the nagging worry under control as she leafed through the morning papers. There wasn’t a word. Not in any of them.