Strike Out Where Not Applicable (7 page)

And how she had worked, after they married without a penny, and her father, a skilful collector of unemployment benefit, threw her out in a rage. A stupid bicycle maniac, and from Brabant at that! He had quite believed in the second Bardot, and had indeed counted on being kept in comfort by his grateful daughter, the moment she ‘arrived'.

She had worked as a chambermaid, as a waitress, her hair pinned up, as a hairdressers' assistant, as salesgirl in a dress shop, as everything … everything honest, Janine would add, hotly. She wasn't going to end as any stinking prostitute in the docks, thank you. She would never admit even to herself that she might have done … something – to keep Rob going after his first world championship – he was twenty-fourth, and starting offers were very thin on the ground.

Her loyalty to him was total – it struck him now that he had forgotten that, lately. He put down his magazine and went to sit on the sofa awkwardly, squashing a corner of
Elle
, Poor Janine, who so hated her growing-up years that now she would only talk French, only read French – the language of her success. He wanted to show affection for her; awkwardly he started to play with the silky nape of her neck – her power.… She shook her hair irritably but did not stop him. Affection – as it does – turned into desire; he unzipped her frock. Her spine was slightly bony, but that peachlike back, cut horizontally by the black brassiere.… He fumbled a long while with the cunning hook-and-eye system and for a
wonder she still did not stop him. In the end, she just had to do it for him …

Monday morning, and Van der Valk in his cavalry get-up – flannel shirt, with little red lines forming squares, a tie of different shades of green woven into each other. He paraded towards the office, manoeuvring the stick and contemplating horse-chestnut shoes under the twenty-and-a-half centimetre wide trousers. This morning he wore his short overcoat, a nice fawn thing with a furry lining and elaborate pockets that gave him much pleasure: April is a damned cold month in Holland. He had a rich sombre scarf too; midnight-blue silk … bought by Arlette in Paris the first day he walked without crutches.

In the office he ran through his reports, which included this morning one from the hospital Pathology Department, signed by Doctor Haversma. He brooded some time: life was fairly easy at the moment.… He had three criminal-brigade inspectors, or Adjunct Officers of Police as they are called nowadays, as well as a specialized technical squad. He went round to the Palace of Justice, where he had a tactful wary chat with the Officer, and came back thoughtfully, rubbing his nose. Back in the office he stroked his carefully shaved jaw – he was getting pompous nowadays, and had had a very super German razor from the two boys for Christmas.

He felt contented with his staff: good boys. That oriental-carpet warehouse that had been broken open last week – they had cleared that up in a clean, decisive manner with no loose fringes left for him to trip over, and he had an agreeable free-handed sensation. He left his duty inspector to hold whatever forts needed holding, went and borrowed Arlette's deux-chevaux, and drove out towards Lisse.

The restaurant of the White Horse seemed to be doing business as usual – a girl was laying tables which had been freshly polished that morning, there was a good smell of veal stew with mushrooms, and a slim woman of indeterminate age in an almond-green skirt and jumper was writing out menus behind the bar counter.

‘Good morning. A table for lunch? Or was it just coffee?' briskly.

‘Have you such a thing as a glass of cold white wine?'

‘Certainly – Rhine, Moselle or Alsace?' pronouncing it Elzass in the German fashion.

‘The dryest, if you please. Is Mevrouw Fischer here this morning?'

‘I'm afraid not. Have you some business with her?' dubiously – he did not look like a traveller in ice-cream wafers somehow.

‘Van der Valk is my name – I am the district commissaire of police.'

‘Has Mr Mije been transferred?' suspiciously; he smiled.

‘No, he's here and healthy, I'm glad to say. I am his colleague of the criminal brigade.'

‘And what does the criminal brigade need of Mevrouw Fischer?'

It didn't sound aggressive, nor even vulgar curiosity: it was politely spoken and with assurance, as though it were her business to know. As though she had a right to know, he thought.

‘Are you perhaps the manageress?'

‘I am, yes – Miss Groenveld, at your service – I am in fact part-owner; Heer Fischer and I were associated many years, so you need not hesitate to tell me your business.'

‘No business – a conversation.'

‘You can speak in confidence if that is what you wish.'

‘I see. Well, there is no need for any stiff formality. You may not know, perhaps, that when anyone dies suddenly in an accident my department is automatically notified. You doubtless do know that in Heer Fischer's case the local doctor thought fit to ask for a post-mortem, because of his overstrained health.' She didn't look as if she was swallowing this – she was watching him narrowly.

‘I'll get your wine myself – the girls are busy.'

When she came back with it – rather a mean glass, one of those deceptive green German things, but a respectable wine, with condensation forming on the outside – she had thought out her approach.

‘We were waiting for word about the funeral. I may tell you that is where Mevrouw Fischer has gone – to arrange for cards to be sent and the cemetery authorities and – uh – so forth.'

‘Yes, that is my purpose here. The funeral preparations can go forward whenever you wish – there's nothing to prevent it.'

‘Why should there have been anything to prevent it?'

‘A bureaucratic regulation – after a post-mortem the Officer of Justice signs an official release authorizing the funeral.'

‘I don't understand the word authorize – do you come round to tell us that in person?' Hm, she had detected his little subterfuge.

‘Just courtesy. And shall I confess a certain curiosity?'

‘Curiosity? – because that fool of a doctor wouldn't take the simple responsibility of signing a death certificate? I can satisfy your curiosity, Commissaris. He said that there was nothing wrong with Bernhard's health, and even encouraged him to go riding that horse. Then when poor Bernhard did have a cardiac failure he couldn't admit it, because it would have meant admitting that he hadn't made a right diagnosis – I can tell you that this postmortem shilly-shally won't do his reputation hereabouts any great good.'

Now did she genuinely believe that? Surely she must realize that his visit was a result of the post-mortem findings.

‘Shilly-shally,' he repeated as though he liked the phrase. ‘Doctor Maartens' decision was perfectly proper, and it would be most regrettable if through careless words he were exposed to criticism.' The snub was sharp enough to sting her.

‘Why is that?'

‘His interpretation was confirmed by the post-mortem. The findings have been communicated to me, and Doctor Maartens has no part in the decisions arrived at, which depend, as I have said, upon the Officer of Justice.'

She was watching him as though he held the last number for her bingo card. Greedily.

‘I will ask you to come into another room.' He had spoken in too low a tone to be overheard but he saw what she meant. He followed her up a flight of stairs into a sitting-room furnished in expensive but tasteless comfort. Limoges enamel and Venetian glass – many expensive semi-antique objects pretty enough in themselves but without coherence.

‘Sit down – you do understand that if the restaurant is open it doesn't mean that we aren't upset. We didn't know when we could arrange the funeral, everybody gave different answers, there have been rumours floating about.… We agreed completely that it was sensible to behave as normally as possible.'

‘Very sensible. I advise you to go on like that. Above all, pay no attention to rumours.'

She looked encouraged.

‘Since it might have taken several days as far as we could ascertain' – rather a grandiose word, that – ‘we just said we would
close the day of the funeral, not before.' It sounded almost appealing, as though she wanted to be approved of.

‘Perfectly proper.'

‘So we will put a notice in the local paper to that effect.'

‘Ah, the local paper – have the papers been round here?'

‘No – just a man to get a sort of obituary thing – Bernhard was very well known – and of course the
Caterers' Journal
.' One good thing – the national press seemed not to have caught on. Wouldn't either if he could help it.

She hesitated a moment, then plumped out with it.

‘You talked downstairs almost – almost as though there were something in the rumours.'

‘I haven't heard these rumours.' He was being rather mean.

‘Village gossip,' angrily. ‘But if one pays attention to it people become convinced there's something in it. They were saying that Doctor Maartens …'

‘That Doctor Maartens?'

‘Was not satisfied it was a natural death,' in a rush – she was rid of it!

‘That is perfectly true. And very properly he did not wish to commit himself to so grave an allegation, and that was why he requested an autopsy. And that leads me to ask myself questions.'

‘What questions?'

‘I haven't said I wanted to question you, Miss Groenveld.'

She was saved from embarrassment by the squeak of a handbrake being put on and the mutter of a car engine dying at the same moment.

‘Oh, there's Mevrouw Fischer now – I'll just go and tell her you're here.'

‘The girl will tell her, I've no doubt,' peacefully. She looked at him quite angrily, being used to getting her own way, but composed herself by straightening ornaments that didn't need setting straight. The door opened and a woman came in in a bustle. She would always be in a bustle.

She was as Arlette had sketched her, solidly built with a square and almost heavy face that was goodlooking because full of warmth and animation. She was neatly dressed in a black suit, a frilly batiste blouse, high-heeled shoes and black suède gloves. Seeing him she assumed an alert wide-awake expression as though he
were a bank manager who would certainly regard her as a good prospect for a mortgage.

‘That's arranged, darling – but introduce me. I am Marguerite Fischer.'

‘This is Commissaris – Van der Valk you said, didn't you? – from the town – in charge of the criminal brigade, darling,' with faint emphasis on the words, but no more.

‘Delighted to meet you,' with a firm handshake almost like a man's. ‘Do you know anything about what's holding up the funeral?' She sat with something of a thud and her knees apart, as though accustomed to wearing trousers, saw him glance, and crossed her knees at once, pointing her ankle to make her legs slimmer, arranging the tight skirt with little tugs.

‘Now that you're here, Mevrouw, I will say what I came to say. I had got as far as telling Miss Groenveld that there are no further legal formalities and that you are at liberty to go ahead with the funeral as soon as you like.'

‘Oh that's good – I was beginning to think it might take simply days.'

‘More to it than that I'm afraid, darling,' softly.

‘I prefer to explain myself, Miss Groenveld. We had not got so far in our conversation together. I speak bluntly, Mevrouw, since I see that you are a well-balanced and intelligent person. Doctor Maartens was not happy about the sudden death of your husband – that much you already know. Forgetting all scraps of rumour, his opinions were confirmed by the post-mortem, which was conducted by most experienced authorities. As a result of this confirmation, the Palace of Justice has decided to issue what is termed a commission of enquiry, of which I have been placed in charge. I dislike upsetting people with clumsy questioning and I will try to keep this to a minimum. If there is anything particular I wish to know I will come and ask. I am here to satisfy myself about this death.'

The two women looked at each other with narrowed eyes.

‘Have I understood?' she began. ‘You are convinced, are you – as far as your knowledge goes – that Bernhard's death was not an accident?'

‘I did not say that. Not natural. It could have been an accident, though this at present seems improbable.'

‘You don't think he killed himself?' shocked.

‘I don't think anything at all.'

‘Yes you do – you think it was a semi-accident – that somebody perhaps quarrelled with him, pushed him or hit him, so that he fell under the horse, and that anybody who did that would be frightened to admit it – that's it, isn't it?' She was a lot more downright than the other had been.

‘I repeat' – the cavalry colonel to subordinate; what-I-have-said-I-have-said – ‘I have no hypothetical explanations.'

‘Well – what can I say? – we will help you in any way we can, naturally. Saskia, has the Commissaris been offered some coffee or anything?'

‘He had a glass of wine.'

‘Which I haven't yet paid for.'

‘But please. Would you care for another? Or anything else? Sherry? Whisky?'

‘Nothing, thanks.'

‘Can we …?' She shrugged helplessly. ‘Is there anything we can do?'

‘Just the usual conventional questions – doubtless seeming useless and stupid – but you understand I am compelled to ask them. Who ran the financial side of the business?'

‘I did – and do. If Bernhard wanted money he wrote a cheque.'

‘He had life insurance?'

‘Yes.'

‘In your favour, naturally. Better give me the name of the company. You might be well advised to leave them out of it for the time being. Now had he had words with anyone recently? A quarrel?'