something odd about him.’
Van Veeteren turned his head and looked out through the passenger window for a while before answering. Tapped his fingertips against one another.
‘Münster,’ he said in the end. ‘Let’s keep this to ourselves for the time being, but I reckon Jaan G. Hennan is the most unpleasant bastard I have ever met in the whole of my life.’
‘What?’ said Münster.
‘You heard me.’
‘Of course. It was as if . . . I mean, what does that imply in this context? It can’t be completely irrelevant, surely? If you—’
‘How are things with you and the family?’ said Van Veeteren, interrupting him. ‘Still as idyllic as ever?’
The family? wondered Münster and increased his speed. Typical. If you’ve said A, under no circumstances must you say B.
‘As a man sows, so shall he reap,’ he said, and to his great surprise the Chief Inspector produced a noise faintly reminiscent of a laugh.
Brief and half-swallowed, but still . . .
‘Bravo, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a bit more about G on some later occasion, I promise you that. But I don’t want to rob you of the possibility of your forming an independent impression of him first. Is that okay with you?’
Münster shrugged.
‘That’s okay with me,’ he said. ‘And that business of him being the biggest arsehole the world has ever seen, well, I’ve forgotten all about that already.’
‘Of course,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘No preconceived ideas – that is our credo in the police force. In any case, we’ll have a word with Chief of Police Sachs first. Whatever you do, don’t recall the fact that he recently had a cerebral haemorrhage when we meet him.’
‘Of course not,’ said Münster. ‘An interesting call-out, this, no doubt about that.’
‘No doubt at all,’ agreed Van Veeteren.
7
On Friday Verlangen was woken up by a firework.
It went off inside his own head, and its scintillations were somewhat monotonous – a non-stop battery of glowing white explosions. Let me die, he thought. Please God, let me die here and now.
His prayers went unanswered. He carefully opened one eye in an attempt to pin down those two coordinates: here and now.
Here
turned out to be an unfamiliar room. Presumably in a hotel. He was lying in a bed amidst a mass of crumpled sheets and blankets, and didn’t recognize the location. The room looked comparatively neat and tidy, and warm morning sun was pouring in through the windows.
Now
was 09.01. There was an alarm clock on the bedside table, peeping away. He recognized it: it was his own travelling clock, bought at the Merckx supermarket a few months ago. Not that he did a lot of travelling, but you never know . . . Cost: 12.50.
He thought for a moment. There was presumably a little button cunningly concealed at the back of the clock that could be used to switch the bloody thing off. He lashed out with his right fist and the clock fell on the floor and was silent. The effort increased the intensity of the explosions inside his head.
Bloody hell, he thought. Here we go again. Where am I? What day is it?
Three hours later he had accomplished a great deal.
He had staggered to the bathroom, thrown up, had a pee and drunk a litre of water.
And somehow swallowed three headache tablets.
Found his way back to bed and fallen asleep again.
This time it wasn’t the alarm clock that woke him up. It was a small, dark-skinned chambermaid who stood in the doorway, apologizing profusely.
She was young and pretty, and he decided to make an effort to tell her so.
You mustn’t apologize, he wanted to say. You are young and as fresh as a dew-covered lily . . . You are looking at a seventh-rate swine. Learn the lesson.
But all he could produce was a hoarse whisper. His tongue was as supple as chicken wire; and the air coming from his tobacco-laden lungs, which was intended to create an attractive resonance in his dried-out vocal cords, was not much more than a hot puff
Van Veeteren turned his head and looked out through the passenger window for a while before answering. Tapped his fingertips against one another.
‘Münster,’ he said in the end. ‘Let’s keep this to ourselves for the time being, but I reckon Jaan G. Hennan is the most unpleasant bastard I have ever met in the whole of my life.’
‘What?’ said Münster.
‘You heard me.’
‘Of course. It was as if . . . I mean, what does that imply in this context? It can’t be completely irrelevant, surely? If you—’
‘How are things with you and the family?’ said Van Veeteren, interrupting him. ‘Still as idyllic as ever?’
The family? wondered Münster and increased his speed. Typical. If you’ve said A, under no circumstances must you say B.
‘As a man sows, so shall he reap,’ he said, and to his great surprise the Chief Inspector produced a noise faintly reminiscent of a laugh.
Brief and half-swallowed, but still . . .
‘Bravo, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a bit more about G on some later occasion, I promise you that. But I don’t want to rob you of the possibility of your forming an independent impression of him first. Is that okay with you?’
Münster shrugged.
‘That’s okay with me,’ he said. ‘And that business of him being the biggest arsehole the world has ever seen, well, I’ve forgotten all about that already.’
‘Of course,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘No preconceived ideas – that is our credo in the police force. In any case, we’ll have a word with Chief of Police Sachs first. Whatever you do, don’t recall the fact that he recently had a cerebral haemorrhage when we meet him.’
‘Of course not,’ said Münster. ‘An interesting call-out, this, no doubt about that.’
‘No doubt at all,’ agreed Van Veeteren.
7
On Friday Verlangen was woken up by a firework.
It went off inside his own head, and its scintillations were somewhat monotonous – a non-stop battery of glowing white explosions. Let me die, he thought. Please God, let me die here and now.
His prayers went unanswered. He carefully opened one eye in an attempt to pin down those two coordinates: here and now.
Here
turned out to be an unfamiliar room. Presumably in a hotel. He was lying in a bed amidst a mass of crumpled sheets and blankets, and didn’t recognize the location. The room looked comparatively neat and tidy, and warm morning sun was pouring in through the windows.
Now
was 09.01. There was an alarm clock on the bedside table, peeping away. He recognized it: it was his own travelling clock, bought at the Merckx supermarket a few months ago. Not that he did a lot of travelling, but you never know . . . Cost: 12.50.
He thought for a moment. There was presumably a little button cunningly concealed at the back of the clock that could be used to switch the bloody thing off. He lashed out with his right fist and the clock fell on the floor and was silent. The effort increased the intensity of the explosions inside his head.
Bloody hell, he thought. Here we go again. Where am I? What day is it?
Three hours later he had accomplished a great deal.
He had staggered to the bathroom, thrown up, had a pee and drunk a litre of water.
And somehow swallowed three headache tablets.
Found his way back to bed and fallen asleep again.
This time it wasn’t the alarm clock that woke him up. It was a small, dark-skinned chambermaid who stood in the doorway, apologizing profusely.
She was young and pretty, and he decided to make an effort to tell her so.
You mustn’t apologize, he wanted to say. You are young and as fresh as a dew-covered lily . . . You are looking at a seventh-rate swine. Learn the lesson.
But all he could produce was a hoarse whisper. His tongue was as supple as chicken wire; and the air coming from his tobacco-laden lungs, which was intended to create an attractive resonance in his dried-out vocal cords, was not much more than a hot puff
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