The letter arrived in the afternoon mail.
Without giving it a second thought he put it in his pocket; he had a number of things to do that couldn’t wait, and he might just as well read it when he got home. He might have wondered in passing what it could be: he didn’t often receive mail at work, and this letter seemed to be private.
He then forgot all about it, of course, and it wasn’t until he was feeling around in his jacket pockets for laundry tokens that he discovered it. He used a mechanical pencil to split it open and took out a sheet of paper folded twice.
It was only one single line. But it was clear enough.
The first few seconds, his mind was a complete blank. He stood there motionless, leaning over the desk, his eyes nailed to the words.
Then his brain started working. Slowly and methodically.
Yet again he was surprised by how he could be so worked up and yet so calm at the same time. How he could simultane-ously feel his blood seething and also let his thoughts coldly and objectively glean the reality behind this letter.
He examined the postmark. Yesterday’s date.
Looked more closely. A few letters were illegible, but it must be Willemsburg.
That fitted. That’s where he was incarcerated. Everybody knew that. A few had even been to visit him.
He stretched out on the bed and switched off the light. Felt the prickling sensation in his gut, but was able to keep it under control without difficulty. The question was. .?
The question was so easy to formulate that it was almost embarrassing.
Were there any more letters?
Were there any more letters?
He went to the kitchen and opened a beer. Sat by the window. Drank a few long swigs and blinked away the tears that beer always gave him.
With the certainty of a sleepwalker he produced the answer.
No, there were no more letters.
He had been at home for three hours. Nobody had
phoned. A delay of that length would have been inconceiv-able. No, there were no other letters.
He drummed his fingers on the bottle.
There was just one other possibility. . His brain was working lightning-fast now. . The possibility that it took longer for letters to be delivered to police headquarters. They might receive a letter tomorrow. That was a possibility. It had to be faced up to.
He took another swig. Jackdaws were cawing outside the window. His mind wandered to Hitchcock and The Birds, and there was something attractive about that memory, something that appealed to him-but perhaps now wasn’t the right time to be thinking about that.
But if. . if there was another letter, already written and posted. . irrevocably. . it must arrive by tomorrow. Tomorrow at the latest.
Tomorrow. If he hadn’t heard anything by noon tomorrow, he was safe.
That was the answer. He raised the bottle to his mouth and emptied it. Looked up at the sky over the rooftops. Darkness was falling fast; no doubt there would be another star-filled sky tonight. He wondered vaguely if that would be an advantage or a disadvantage.
But the final answer was still in the offing even so. He had waited and been patient. Bided his time.
He took a deep breath. The prickling sensation in his gut was strong and pleasant now. Almost erotic.
It was time.