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doubt.
    ‘Anything else?’ asked the chief inspector.
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Age?’
    ‘Hard to say. Somewhere between forty and fifty but I’m not sure . . . Could be older. Voices are not my strong point.’
    ‘What did she sound like?’
    ‘Like I said. She spoke quietly, especially the first time . . . Sounded very serious anyway, as if she really meant what she was saying. That’s why I concluded that I ought to call the chief inspector.’
    ‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Have you got any more information about that sect?’
    Kluuge scratched nervously at his neck.
    ‘I’ve spoken to colleagues in Stamberg. They promised to gather together a bit of information and fax it over, but nothing’s come yet.’
    Van Veeteren nodded.
    ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go back to my hotel – you can let me know if anything turns up. I’ll be staying on here for a few more days, no matter what.’
    ‘Good,’ said Kluuge, looking a bit self-conscious. ‘I’m grateful, as I said.’
    ‘You don’t need to keep on being grateful all the time,’ said the chief inspector, rising to his feet. ‘I suspect there’s something rotten going on here – I’ve paid, by the way.’
    ‘I understand,’ said Kluuge.
    By the time Van Veeteren had returned to his room at Grimm’s, it was half past two in the afternoon and the sun was shining diagonally through the open window. He closed the curtains and took a long, cool shower, this time not paying any attention to the colour scheme.
    When he had cooled down sufficiently, he stretched himself out on the bed and called the police station in Maardam. He eventually got hold of Münster.
    ‘How’s it going?’ Van Veeteren asked.
    ‘How’s what going?’ Münster wondered.
    ‘How the hell do I know? The trigger-happy lunatic, for instance.’
    ‘We caught him this morning. Don’t you listen to the radio?’
    ‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ Van Veeteren explained.
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Münster.
    ‘So I might be able to get a bit of help?’ asked Van Veeteren rhetorically. ‘Now that you’ve got your man.’
    Münster coughed and sounded worried – and the chief inspector recalled that Münster was about to go on holiday. He explained what he wanted, and Münster promised to do whatever he could – to find out all there was to know about the Pure Life, and to fax it without delay to Grimm’s Hotel in Sorbinowo.
    ‘The quicker, the better,’ said Van Veeteren, and hung up.
    No harm in casting out a few more lines, he thought, and started to get dressed.
    In case Kluuge might have rung the wrong number, or something.
    A quarter of an hour later he was back in the car, armed with a new pack of cigarettes and a few fugues. He wasn’t heading anywhere in particular – unless an hour’s unhurried drive round the lakes and through the aromatic forests could be defined as somewhere in particular.
    And a trip through Bach’s unfailingly logical variations.
    He was back by five o’clock. Took another shower, and before going out to choose a suitable eating place, he enquired at reception if there were any messages for him.
    There were not.
    Nothing from Kluuge.
    Nothing from Münster.
    Ah well, he thought. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
    And as he wandered towards the town centre, he wondered what on earth he meant by that.

9
     
    Despite the massive influx of tourists seeking fresh air and good walking country – at this time of year the town probably housed twice as many people as during the winter, Van Veeteren would have thought – Sorbinowo had it limits. The number of respectable eating places (to qualify as such in his opinion you needed to be able to sit down and eat at a proper table, and be spared having to listen to canned music at more or less unbearable sound levels) was precisely five. Including Florian’s, where he had taken lunch with Kluuge, and Grimm’s Hotel, where he was staying.
    This second evening the chief inspector