The Inspector and Silence

SEVEN
10 AUGUST
41

When he woke up. the dream was lingering on inside his head.

The image with the pale girls in the background, at the very edge of the water. Slim figures in groups of three or four – and a strange, shimmering light over the lake and over the outline of the forest to the east. Morning. Yes, definitely morning.

The two dead bodies in the foreground.

Naked and strangely twisted. Covered in wounds and swellings, and big black holes instead of eyes – but even so they seem to be staring at him, accusingly.

Girls’ bodies. Dead and violated girls’ bodies.

Then the fire. Tongues of flame spurting out of the water, and soon the whole image is consumed by flames. A sea of fire. He can feel the heat in his face. Then he turns his back on it all and hurries away.

The same short dream. No more than one sequence, or a tableau. The third night now.

And when the image of Wim Fingher crops up, he is already awake. Inexorably awake. The murderer. Throughout the whole of the investigation he has been a mere stone’s throw away from the crime scene, and on two occasions Van Veeteren has been face to face with him without reacting.

Unforgivable.

The ultimate signal.

He got out of bed. Opened the balcony door: pale sky, a warm, barely noticeable breeze.

A few half-hearted back exercises in front of the mirror.

Then breakfast and the Allgemejne. That took an hour; the mate-in-three chess problem another half – it all depended on the knight, the most difficult of all the pieces to master.

He showered, dressed and went out. Another of those friction-free days, he noted. Blank and unspecified, and a temperature that ensured the air had no effect on the skin. Not many people about on the streets. Holiday time – more crowded in the centre, no doubt, around Keymer Plejn and Grote Square where the tourists generally gathered. But that wasn’t where he was going.

Instead he headed down towards Zwille. Crossed over Langgraacht and turned into Kellnerstraat from the opposite direction this time. It was only eleven o’clock, and he indulged in a glass of beer at Yorrick’s first.

Sat outside under one of the lime trees, and took his time. Observed what was happening around him. The few passers-by. The Art Nouveau facades. The green crowns of the trees and the pale sky. Listened out for any whispers and doubts inside himself, but there weren’t any.

So, let it come to pass, he thought. Emptied his glass and crossed over the road.

Pressed down the handle and walked in. A bell over the door announced his arrival. An elderly man – almost white-haired and with a full beard in the same shade – had been studying a map with the aid of a magnifying glass. He looked up. Gave him a nod and seemed to be slightly drowsy.

‘Good morning,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’m here in connection with that sign in the window.’

‘Welcome,’ said the man.