The Return

40

As he stood outside the door, his watch said 11:59, and he decided to wait for that one last minute. He had written noon, and perhaps there was a point in being precise with details. Not neglecting the apparently insignificant.

He rang the bell.

Waited for a few seconds, listening for sounds from inside. Put his finger on the button and pressed again. A long, angry ring. Then he leaned forward, listening with his ear pressed against the cool wooden door.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No human sounds.

He stood upright. Composed himself for a moment. Took a deep breath and tried the door handle.

Open.

He crossed the threshold. Left the door slightly ajar. It was the first time he had entered an apartment where he might expect to find a dead body—it was not a certainty, but there was something else this time. Something that felt both worrying and predictable at the same time.

The air was heavy in the dark, cramped hall. The kitchen was straight ahead. Sun could have been streaming in, but the blinds were drawn. On the right, a door to what looked as if it ought to be a bedroom was half open. On the left was a bathroom and double doors to the living room.

Two rooms and a kitchen, that was all. It was no bigger than that, as Münster has said.

He took the bedroom first. The bed ought to be the obvious place; that’s where he’d have chosen himself, if he’d found himself in this situation.

He carefully opened the door wide.

Empty. Bed made, everything neat and tidy. Blinds drawn here as well. As if he had gone away somewhere.

Then the living room. Just as tidy and boring. An ugly suite in some sort of grayish brown, durable synthetic material. A large television set, a bookcase with ornaments. Seascapes on the walls.

The same dreary cooped-up feeling in the kitchen. A calendar and garish landscapes on the walls. Washed dishes in the drying rack, covered with a tea towel. Refrigerator almost empty. A withered potted plant on the table.

Only the bathroom left. A possibility Van Veeteren might also have chosen. Slowly fading away in hot water. Like Seneca. Not Morat.

He switched on the light.

He could almost imagine the murderer’s smile, a lingering, half-ironic reflection in the shiny, dark blue tiles. As if he’d known that Van Veeteren would save this until last. As if he’d played with the idea of writing a message to this interfering cop and leaving it here, but then decided not to because it was so obvious who would draw the longest straw in this pointless duel.

Van Veeteren sighed and briefly studied his face in the mirror over the sink. It was not a particularly uplifting sight—something midway between Quasimodo and a mournful bloodhound. As usual, in other words; possibly even a bit worse.

He switched off the light and went back into the hall. Paused for a moment, checking that the letter basket on the inside of the door was empty. That had to suggest that he’d left not very long ago. Abandoned this gloomy but well-looked-after apartment about an hour ago, most likely.

It seemed impossible that he had just slipped out for a few minutes. Everything suggested that he had gone away. For a few days at the very least.

Forever? Perhaps that was a good sign, when all was said and done. A glimmer of hope twinkled once more. Why should he do it inside his home?

No reason at all, as far as Van Veeteren could see.

He left the apartment and closed the door behind him.

Why had he left it open?

So that Van Veeteren would be able to examine the apartment? If so, what was the point?

Or had he simply forgotten to lock it?

“Mr. Van Veeteren?”

He gave a start. He hadn’t noticed that one of the neighboring doors had been cautiously opened. A woman with red frizzy hair peeked out.

“You are Mr. Van Veeteren, aren’t you? He said you’d come at about this time.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“He asked me to tell you that he couldn’t meet you here, unfortunately, because he’d gone to the seaside.”

“To the seaside?”

“Yes. He left you a message as well. Here you are.”

She held out an envelope.

“Thank you very much,” said Van Veeteren. “Did he say anything else?”

She shook her head.

“No, what else was there for him to say? Excuse me, but I’ve got a cake in the oven.”

She closed the door.

Ah well, thought Van Veeteren, staring at the envelope.

He didn’t open it until he’d found a table at the outdoor café a bit farther down the same street. As he sat with it in his hand, waiting for the waitress, he thought back to what Mahler had said the previous evening.

Doing something at the right time is more important than what you actually do.

A bit exaggerated, of course, but perhaps it was true that timing was the most important part of all patterns? Of all actions, of every life. In any case, it wasn’t an idea to be sneered at, that was clear.

The beer arrived. He drank deeply then opened the envelope. Took out a sheet of paper folded twice and read:

Florian’s Guesthouse

Behrensee.

He took another swig.

The sea? he thought. Yes, that was a possibility, of course.