The Return

8

It was true that Münster won all three sets, but there was no doubt that this was the closest match they had played for many a long year. The final scores were 15–10, 15–13, 15–12—not that anybody bothered to record them—and Van Veeteren had been leading for much of the time, in both the second and the final set. In the latter by as much as 12–8.

“If I hadn’t mishit that crappy serve, you’d have bitten the dust,” he maintained as they strolled back to the changing rooms. “I want you to be quite clear about that.”

“An unusually good game,” said Münster. “You seem to be on song.”

“On song!” snorted Van Veeteren. “I’m just going through the death throes. I shall be under the surgeon’s knife tomorrow, let me remind you.”

“Oh yes, so you will,” said Münster, as if it wasn’t a fact that everybody at the police station knew all about it. “When exactly will it happen?”

“I’ll go in this evening. The operation is set for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Ah well, it happens to all of us sooner or later.”

“An uncle of mine has had cancer of the intestine,” said Münster. “They’ve operated on him twice. He’s fighting fit now.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventy, I think,” said Münster.

Van Veeteren muttered something and flopped down on the bench.

“Let’s have a glass at Adenaar’s when we’ve been in the shower,” he said. “I want to hear about how you’re getting on.”

“OK,” said Münster. “I’ll have to ring Synn first, though.”

“By all means,” said Van Veeteren. “Give her my regards.”

He doesn’t think he’s going to pull through, Münster thought, and it occurred to him that he felt sorry for his boss. This was very definitely the first time ever, and it was a surprising feeling. He ducked under the shower and allowed the hot water to rinse away the smile it brought on.

But at Adenaar’s the detective chief inspector was his usual self again. He complained peevishly that there was water in his beer, and had his glass changed twice. Sent Münster to buy him some cigarettes. Knocked ash into the flowerpots.

“As I said, you’d better make the most of it while I’m still available. You’re not getting anywhere, I gather?”

Münster sighed, took a deep drink and started to explain the position.

No, he had to admit that Van Veeteren was quite right in his assumption. The unidentified body in Behren was still just as unidentified as ever. Two weeks had gone by, and they had made no progress.

Not that the effort being put in by everybody left anything to be desired; it was simply that it wasn’t producing any results. They had made several appeals, in the press, on the radio and on television. There was no doubt that the case fascinated the whole country, even if the interest of the mass media had waned after the first week. Every missing-person case nationwide (males between forty and seventy, just to cover the unlikely possibility that Meusse had made a mistake) had been investigated, but none of them tallied: If it wasn’t the testicle business, it was something else. Rooth had contacted several hospitals and established that between nine thousand and ten thousand men in that age group were missing one testicle, for one reason or another. Considerably more than one might have guessed, but it was virtually impossible to follow all of them up via case notes and similar data, not least because of the secrecy oath applying to the medical profession. Münster had also been in touch with three or four prison governors, but found that checks on prisoners’ genitalia was regrettably not a priority as far as looking after criminals was concerned.

“It seems pretty pointless bothering about prisons,” Münster said. “That business of fingerprints was only a guess, after all.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“What about the carpet?” he asked.

“Well,” said Münster, “we know quite a lot about it, of course. Do you want to hear it all?”

“In outline, please.”

“A cow-hair carpet. Fairly low quality, blue and green once upon a time. Five foot six by six foot six. Between thirty and forty years old, apparently. No manufacturers’ labels or similar stuff, quite worn even before it was used as a…shroud.”

“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren.

“There are traces of dog hair and about fifty other things you find in every household. Brown paper string as well. Used to tie around the bundle, of course. A double strand wound around several times. The commonest kind. They sell about 250,000 yards of it every year. Nationwide, that is.”

Van Veeteren lit a cigarette.

“Anything more from Meusse?”

“Oh yes,” said Münster. “They’ve done a DNA analysis and produced the full genetic code, if I understand it rightly. The problem is that we don’t have anything to compare it with. No registers.”

“Thank God,” said Van Veeteren.

“I agree,” said Münster. “Anyway, we know more or less everything there is to know about this damned body….”

“Apart from who it belonged to,” said Van Veeteren.

“Apart from that, yes,” sighed Münster.

“Have you tried floating the testicle story in the media? I haven’t seen anything.”

“No,” said Münster. “We thought it best to keep quiet about that. So that we can be sure when the right identification turns up, but I think that a whisper has been going around.”

Van Veeteren pondered for a while.

“He must have been a lonely bastard,” he said eventually. “Incredibly lonely.”

“I’ve read about people lying dead for two or three years without being missed,” said Münster.

Van Veeteren nodded gloomily. Beckoned to the waitress and ordered two more beers.

“I don’t know if I should…,” Münster began.

“I’ll pay,” said Van Veeteren, and the matter was closed. “Do you really think he’s been reported as missing? Anywhere?”

Münster gazed out of the window and thought it over.

“No,” he said. “I have been thinking about that, and I don’t think he has.”

“He could be a foreigner, of course,” Van Veeteren pointed out. “The borders are so open nowadays that anybody can drive into the country with a dead body in the trunk.”

Münster agreed.

“What are you planning to do next, then?”

Münster hesitated.

“I don’t know, put it on ice, I suppose. Rooth has already started working on something else. I suspect Hiller wants me to join Reinhart’s group from the day after tomorrow onward. Our body will probably have to lie in the deep freeze waiting for the next coincidence, I guess.”

Van Veeteren nodded in appreciation.

“Good, Münster,” he said. “I couldn’t have put it better myself! Lie in the deep freeze waiting for the next coincidence—I don’t think that’s what they had in mind, though, that business of life after death. But cheers in any case!”

“Cheers,” said Münster.

“So you don’t have any good advice to offer?” he asked as they were on their way out.

Van Veeteren scratched the back of his head.

“No,” he said. “You’ve said all there is to say. You have to be able to show a bit of patience after all. Hens don’t lay eggs any quicker if you stand watching them.”

“Where do you get all your expressions from?”

“No idea,” Van Veeteren said, feeling quite pleased with himself. “That’s the way it is with us poets. They just come.”