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It would be in the evening papers, naturally. A photo on the
billboards, perhaps. Like when a government minister had been
murdered a few years ago.
He couldn t help smiling. When did the first edition gener-
ally hit the streets?
Two? Half past?
Before then he needed to have become somebody else.
It was as easy as that. He must get to a decent-sized town
2 5 1
as soon as possible, and fix some kind of disguise. A pity that
he d dumped the wig although they d know about that, no
doubt. What else?
The car.
Get rid of it and hire another?
He didn t like that idea. It would involve obvious risks. He
decided to take a chance and carry on in the Fiat. As long as he
was careful to park somewhere out of the way, he should be
okay. Spread a lot of shit over the number plates, perhaps.
There must be thousands of blue Fiats all over the country.
But then what?
The question grabbed hold of him, and kept him trapped
in its iron grip for several seconds. Threatened to choke him.
What the hell should he do after that?
This evening? Tonight? Tomorrow?
He swallowed and stepped even harder on the gas. Sup-
pressed the question. He needed to take things one at a time.
First his appearance, then he could make decisions as things
developed. That was his strength, after all. His instinctive abil-
ity to make the right decision at the critical moment. Money,
for instance. He d emptied his account as early as the previous
Saturday. They d have frozen it by now, of course, but so
what? He had enough to last him for a few weeks, at least.
Don t do anything rash. Everything was under control.
They wouldn t catch him this time, either, the bastards. The
thought of lounging around in some obscure little hotel for a
few days made him smile again. Reading about the hunt in the
newspapers, sitting in the communal television room every
evening, hearing about how the hunt for him was going . . .
Next exit Malbork, 1,000 meters, he read on the signs.
Excellent.
He signaled he was about to turn off, and drummed his fin-
gers on the steering wheel.
41
What s the time? growled Van Veeteren. What the hell is
that great detective the general public playing about at? Why
haven t they found him?
Half past eight, said Münster. I expect he s gone into
hiding.
You don t say?
He can hardly have avoided discovering that the police are
after him. There ll be another appeal on the TV at nine, inci-
dentally.
I m not an idiot, said Van Veeteren. But why has
nobody replied to our faxes? Could you kindly explain that as
well, Inspector?
The immigration office s computers have been down, but
they were running again this morning. The other lot are in a
different time zone, of course. Their reply could come as late
as midnight, even one in the morning.
Van Veeteren contemplated his toothpick.
Can I ask you something? Münster ventured.
Fire away, said Van Veeteren. But I don t promise to
answer it.
Who exactly is this Carl Ferger?
Haven t you caught on yet, Münster?
Münster blushed and cleared his throat.
How could I when I m not given all the information? he
2 5 3
asked. To be honest, I can t see the point of you withholding
important details, sir. Information vital to the case, that is.
He blushed again, this time at his own audacity. But the
chief inspector didn t react. Merely sat motionless on his desk
chair, resting his chin on his hands. Narrowed his eyes to form
two slits as he stared at Münster. Making no attempt to
respond quickly.
Münster, he said eventually. Your sense of timing is
hopeless. If you listen to me, I shall explain a few things for
your benefit. I don t suppose you ll understand much of what
I m talking about, but even so, I m prepared to spare you a
couple of minutes.
Thank you, said Münster. That s very kind of you.
You must understand, Münster, that things are inter-
linked. There are certain laws that apply, and certain patterns.
We are swimming around inside those patterns, we move
about, we think, we live in accordance with those rules. It
boils down to the subtleties they are not easy to identify, but
we have to listen for them, look for them, we have to be wide
awake and keep our eyes skinned for the right turnings. Do
you know what the determinant is?
The determinant?
Yes.
No idea, said Münster.
Nor have I, said Van Veeteren. But I m on its heels.
That s what is telling us where to go, Münster; that s what is
pointing out the path we have to follow, what to do next,
which turnings to take. I take it you agree that there has to be
a plot in a novel?
Yes, of course.
That there has to be a story, or at the very least a sort of
connecting thread that runs through a film or a play and links
all the episodes together?
Yes . . .
m i n d s e y e
A novel, a film, or a play, Münster they are nothing but
stuffed life. Life that has been captured and stuffed like a taxi-
dermist stuffs a dead animal. They are created so that we can
reasonably easily examine it. Clamber out of current reality
and look at it from a distance. Are you with me?
Yes, said Münster. I think so . . .
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