The Return

26

Van Veeteren folded up the Allgemenje and dropped it on the concrete floor. Then he inserted the cassette, adjusted the earphones and leaned back against the pillow.

Elgar’s cello concerto. The sun in his face and a warm breeze. Could be worse.

It wasn’t exactly normal routine to allow patients to lie out on the balcony and enjoy themselves, he had realized that. On the other hand, it was hardly the only rule the hospital staff had broken during the five days he’d been in their care. The hospital rules left a great deal to be desired in every respect, but at least the staff had begun to grasp who they were dealing with. Modified rapture.

“But no more than half an hour at most,” Sister Terhovian had insisted, and for some reason held up four fingers close to his face.

“We’ll see about that,” he’d responded.

Getting on for three quarters of an hour must have passed by now. Presumably they’d discovered that it was less trouble to let him be outside.

He called up from his memory the stuff he’d just been reading. There wasn’t a lot to say about it, in fact. Bold headlines on the front page, of course, and two columns summarizing the case on an inside page, but surprisingly little in the way of speculation. Nothing at all, to be honest.

So this was the fourth time. No getting away from it. Since Verhaven had launched his career as an athlete in his early twenties, he’d taken over the headlines on four different occasions.

As king of the middle distances at the end of the fifties. King, and then cheat.

As a murderer at the beginning of the sixties.

As a murderer once again about twenty years later.

And now, in the middle of the nineties, as a victim. The last time, it seemed reasonable to assume.

Was this a logical development and an expected conclusion? Van Veeteren wondered as he turned up the volume to exclude the noise of the buses in Palitzerlaan down below.

The logical conclusion of a wasted life?

Hard to say.

What pattern could be applied to Leopold Verhaven’s time on earth? Was there any pattern behind this bizarre and complicated human destiny?

Would it be possible, Van Veeteren asked himself, to make a film about his life, and thereby say something fundamental about his existence? About everybody’s existence? That was a good question, in any case. A good yardstick.

Or was it just a matter of unfortunate circumstances piling up, one on top of the other? A dismal and ill-starred destiny of an unusual person under pressure, whose mutilated end was just as pointless as the rest of his days in this world?

Not the sort of life to make a film about?

He bit a toothpick and continued his line of thought.

Shouldn’t it be possible to re-create any given life in some artistic form or other, if a big enough effort was made? Perhaps there was a specific genre for every individual. What about his own life, for instance? What could be made of that? A sinfonietta, perhaps? A concrete sculpture? Could Strindberg have turned it into half a sheet of paper?

Who knows, he thought.

And now here he was, lying on the balcony, asking these pointless questions again. Pretentious and incomprehensible questions that seemed to be whirring around inside his head only in order to mount a vain and idiotic struggle with the aggressive cello.

Much better would be a beer and a cigarette, he thought, and pressed the white button. A damn sight better.

But instead of Sister Terhovian, it was Münster who appeared in the doorway. Van Veeteren switched off the cassette and removed the earphones.

“Everything OK?” asked Münster.

“What the devil do you mean? Isn’t it obvious that everything isn’t OK? I’m lying here miles from civilization, and I can’t do anything about it. Have you made any progress?”

“Not really,” said Münster. “It seems pretty good out here in the sunshine, no matter what.”

“Hot and sweaty,” said Van Veeteren. “I could do with a beer. Well?”

“What do you mean by ‘well’?”

“Have you brought the cassettes, for instance?”

“Of course. Both of them. I had a bit of trouble in finding the Gossec, needless to say, but they had it at Laudener’s.”

He produced the two cassettes from a plastic carrier bag and handed them to the chief inspector.

“The red one is from our update meeting.”

“Are you suggesting that I can’t tell the difference between a requiem and a gang of cops droning on and on?”

“No, I take it for granted that you can.”

“I’ve read what the Allgemenje has to say. What’s in the other rags?”

“The same, more or less,” said Münster.

“No speculation about motives?”

“No, not in the ones I’ve read, in any case.”

“Odd,” said Van Veeteren.

“Why?” said Münster.

“Ah well, it’ll come, no doubt. Anyway, I’m quite clear about the matter now. I read through the Marlene papers last night. I’ll wager he’s innocent on both accounts. Do you disagree?”

“No,” said Münster. “We’ve been coming round to that view as well. We’re just a bit doubtful about what to do next….”

“Of course you are, damn it,” growled Van Veeteren. “I haven’t issued any orders yet. Wheel me back into the ward, and we can get down to business. It’s disgraceful that they send patients into exile on the balcony and just leave them lying there. It’s like an oven here….”

Münster opened the doors as wide as they would go and started to shove the steel-framed bed back into the ward.

“Where shall we start?” he asked when Van Veeteren was back in his usual place.

“How the hell do I know?” said the chief inspector. “Let me listen to the tapes, and come back two hours from now. I’ll be able to give you clear instructions then.”

“All right,” said Münster.

“Meanwhile, you can try to locate this person.”

He handed over a sheet of paper folded twice.

“Leonore Conchis,” Münster read. “Who’s she?”

“A woman Verhaven had a relationship with in the seventies,” said Van Veeteren.

“Is she still alive?” Münster asked automatically.

“You can start off by finding the answer to that question,” said Van Veeteren.