The Return

35

“Tell me about your illness,” he said.

She lifted the snotty-nosed girl onto her knee and looked somewhat doubtfully at him.

No wonder. His cover story was hardly a masterstroke—a fifty-seven-year-old university lecturer busy writing a dissertation on certain types of hip injuries contracted at birth! What a likely story! He hadn’t even bothered to check any details in advance, just tried to give the impression that his method was statistical. A sociomedical approach, he’d explained. He had equipped himself with a form that wouldn’t have withstood a close examination, of course, but even so—provided he kept it concealed inside the folder he had in front of him—it ought to give the suggestion of professionalism.

Or so he tried to convince himself. Who cares if she was confused, anyway? The main thing was that she answered his questions; she could have as many suspicions as she liked afterward.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“When did it start?”

“When I was born, of course.”

He ticked a box on the form.

“In which year was she confined to bed?”

She thought that one over.

“Nineteen eighty-two, I think. Completely, that is. She spent most of her time in bed before that as well, but I don’t remember her ever walking, or even standing up, after Christmas 1981. I left home in June 1982.”

“Did she ever use a stick?”

She shook her head.

“Never.”

“Did you have much contact with her after you’d moved out?”

“No. What does that have to do with your research?”

He bit his tongue.

“I just want to get a few things about the relationship between you pinned down,” he explained and ticked another box. “So you are saying that she was a total invalid from 1982 until her death?”

“Yes.”

“Where did she spend her last years?”

“In Wappingen. Together with a Sister of Mercy in a little apartment. She had divorced my father—I don’t think she wanted to be a burden on him any longer. Or something of that sort.”

“Did you visit her there?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

She thought for a moment. The girl started whimpering again. Slid down onto the floor and hid away from his gaze.

“Three,” she said. “It’s a long way.”

“And her state?”

“What do you mean?”

“How was she?”

She shrugged.

“The same as usual. A bit happier, perhaps.”

“But confined to bed?”

“Yes, of course.”

Damn, Van Veeteren thought. There’s something that doesn’t add up.

When he emerged into the bright sunshine, he had a short but intense dizzy spell. Was forced to hang on to the iron railing that surrounded the row of houses while he closed his eyes and recovered.

I need a beer, he thought. A beer and a cigarette.

Ten minutes later he had found a table under what looked like a plane tree outside a café. He emptied the tall glass in two swigs and ordered another. Lit a cigarette and leaned back.

Damn! he thought again. What the hell is it that doesn’t add up?

How far could it be to Wappingen?

A hundred and fifty miles? At least.

But if he went to bed early, surely he could raise the strength to drive 150 miles? With stops and rests and all that. It wouldn’t matter if he had to spend the night there. It wasn’t time he was short of nowadays. On the contrary.

He checked the address in his folder.

I’d better ring and arrange a meeting.

Why change my cover story when it seems to be working so well?

Beer number two arrived, and he sucked the froth off it.

What a damned awful story this is, he thought. Have I ever followed a thinner thread?

Just as well that nobody else is involved, thank God for that.