from a dying desert fire.
Shut the door so that you don’t have to look at me, he thought, and tried to do something with his face. To smile, or something of that sort. It hurt.
Now she apologized again. Wasn’t he supposed to be checking out today? she wondered. Before eleven o’clock – that was the set time. Not just in this hotel, but in each one in the chain, as explained in the information leaflet.
It was twelve noon now.
He understood now. Bitch, he thought, and felt the iron band tightening around his head once more. You were just an illusion, you as well.
‘Ten minutes,’ he managed to croak. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
She nodded and left. Verlangen took a deep breath. Uneasy squeaking sounds emerged from his bronchial tubes. He rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom.
He had a simple brunch at a cafe by the name of Henry’s. Two cups of black coffee, a beer and a small bottle of Vichy water. The fog inside his head slowly dispersed, and when he managed to smoke a cigarette as well, he began to realize at last that he was probably going to survive today.
Whatever good that would do him.
Thanks to the blessed return of nicotine into his veins, he found himself able to recall what had happened the previous day – certain parts of it, at least – and the role he had to play in this hellish dump of a town.
Linden, for Christ’s sake, he thought. I’ve never felt so awful as I do here.
He left Henry’s after half an hour, managed to find his Toyota in the hotel car park, flung his bag onto the back seat and walked past Aldemarckt to Landemaarstraat and Hennan’s office. It was a little cooler today, thank God: clouds had started to build up from the south-west, and if he hadn’t misjudged all the signs it would start raining before this evening.
He stopped at his usual place and contemplated the characterless windows above the row of shops. Checked his watch: a quarter to two. One could hardly claim that he had fulfilled his guard duties all that efficiently or enthusiastically today.
He remembered that he had promised to give Barbara Hennan some kind of report, and spent some time wondering how he was going to present it.
What the hell could he say?
That he had sat for a few hours fraternizing with his quarry? Drunk whisky after whisky after whisky with him in that confounded restaurant, whatever it was called? Eventually collapsed into bed as drunk as a lord at God only knows what time. Always assuming that God had been awake then to notice.
It was hardly the sort of thing one expected of a serious private detective – even Maarten Verlangen could see that.
At least he hadn’t given himself away, he was sure of that. Despite everything he’d had the presence of mind not to tell Hennan that his precious wife had hired him as a private dick in order to find out what her husband was up to when she was unable to keep an eye on him herself. It was crucial that he shouldn’t give himself away on that score, and he hadn’t done so.
So all was well in that respect. But what would he be able to say about the current situation?
That he had spent half the day in bed with a third-degree hangover that unfortunately prevented him from working as usual? That he didn’t have the slightest idea where his quarry was at the moment?
Would Barbara Hennan really be interested in continuing to employ him after such obvious negligence? And pay him for his efforts? Hardly.
So what should he do?
The car, he thought! Hennan’s blue Saab.
Of course. Verlangen lit a cigarette and began walking optimistically around the block. If Hennan was in his office, the car would be parked somewhere close by. As sure as amen in church and the whores in Zwille.
After quite some time walking around the central parts of Linden, Verlangen was able to state with confidence that Hennan’s car was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere was there a well-polished blue Saab – two other Saabs, but neither of them blue and
Shut the door so that you don’t have to look at me, he thought, and tried to do something with his face. To smile, or something of that sort. It hurt.
Now she apologized again. Wasn’t he supposed to be checking out today? she wondered. Before eleven o’clock – that was the set time. Not just in this hotel, but in each one in the chain, as explained in the information leaflet.
It was twelve noon now.
He understood now. Bitch, he thought, and felt the iron band tightening around his head once more. You were just an illusion, you as well.
‘Ten minutes,’ he managed to croak. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
She nodded and left. Verlangen took a deep breath. Uneasy squeaking sounds emerged from his bronchial tubes. He rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom.
He had a simple brunch at a cafe by the name of Henry’s. Two cups of black coffee, a beer and a small bottle of Vichy water. The fog inside his head slowly dispersed, and when he managed to smoke a cigarette as well, he began to realize at last that he was probably going to survive today.
Whatever good that would do him.
Thanks to the blessed return of nicotine into his veins, he found himself able to recall what had happened the previous day – certain parts of it, at least – and the role he had to play in this hellish dump of a town.
Linden, for Christ’s sake, he thought. I’ve never felt so awful as I do here.
He left Henry’s after half an hour, managed to find his Toyota in the hotel car park, flung his bag onto the back seat and walked past Aldemarckt to Landemaarstraat and Hennan’s office. It was a little cooler today, thank God: clouds had started to build up from the south-west, and if he hadn’t misjudged all the signs it would start raining before this evening.
He stopped at his usual place and contemplated the characterless windows above the row of shops. Checked his watch: a quarter to two. One could hardly claim that he had fulfilled his guard duties all that efficiently or enthusiastically today.
He remembered that he had promised to give Barbara Hennan some kind of report, and spent some time wondering how he was going to present it.
What the hell could he say?
That he had sat for a few hours fraternizing with his quarry? Drunk whisky after whisky after whisky with him in that confounded restaurant, whatever it was called? Eventually collapsed into bed as drunk as a lord at God only knows what time. Always assuming that God had been awake then to notice.
It was hardly the sort of thing one expected of a serious private detective – even Maarten Verlangen could see that.
At least he hadn’t given himself away, he was sure of that. Despite everything he’d had the presence of mind not to tell Hennan that his precious wife had hired him as a private dick in order to find out what her husband was up to when she was unable to keep an eye on him herself. It was crucial that he shouldn’t give himself away on that score, and he hadn’t done so.
So all was well in that respect. But what would he be able to say about the current situation?
That he had spent half the day in bed with a third-degree hangover that unfortunately prevented him from working as usual? That he didn’t have the slightest idea where his quarry was at the moment?
Would Barbara Hennan really be interested in continuing to employ him after such obvious negligence? And pay him for his efforts? Hardly.
So what should he do?
The car, he thought! Hennan’s blue Saab.
Of course. Verlangen lit a cigarette and began walking optimistically around the block. If Hennan was in his office, the car would be parked somewhere close by. As sure as amen in church and the whores in Zwille.
After quite some time walking around the central parts of Linden, Verlangen was able to state with confidence that Hennan’s car was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere was there a well-polished blue Saab – two other Saabs, but neither of them blue and
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