Van der Valk had to do sums quickly in his head. This soldier would not be hard to find, but it appeared that the child was either from a previous marriage or illegitimate. Possible snags there. This woman had been shot with some kind of automatic weapon. A soldier’s weapon?
One called the social assistant. Kind, brisk, experienced women. But institutions, however kind, would have one effect that was certain: the child would shut up and refuse to talk. She was ten. What might she know, and what might she be capable of telling? He made a sudden decision.
‘I’ll take her.’ He nearly smiled; relief showed on the good soul’s face like milk spilt across her clean kitchen floor.
‘Don’t think I don’t know my Christian duty, Commissaire …’
‘No no, I’ll take her. Right now – sooner the better … Mevrouw, I’ll be coming to see you again, maybe this evening. I must warn you against something. Urgently. Solemnly. Don’t talk. Not to anyone, not your neighbours and especially not the Press. Say I’ve told you not to.’ He had no particular right to tell her anything of the sort, but the tactic was good. ‘The Commissaire told me’ – it gave her importance, and an illusion that she knew splendid secrets.
Ruth was holding a doll, quite uninterested in it but with a sage obedience to what was expected of her. He had lost the habit of talking to small children. They like it better when you are brusque than when you are slimy-avuncular. Children like to know where they stand.
‘You put your coat on, Ruth – yes, take your school things, you’re coming with me.’
‘Are we going to see Mamma?’
‘Not straight away, because the doctor hasn’t given us permission. We have to take charge of you. I know a place where they look after children whose mammas are in hospital but I’m going to take you to my own house. Mevrouw Paap has been very kind, but she’s got a lot of work.’
‘What about my things, my clothes?’
‘We’ll pick them up later, don’t worry. Come on, Ruth.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Mevrouw Paap told me, otherwise I should have asked you. Miss Marks? I’m Mr Van der Valk. How do you do, Mademoiselle? I am very happy to make your acquaintance.’ She gave a little giggle. ‘We have a car with a light on top and if you like you can make it flash.’ She didn’t know what he was talking about – he was used to boys.
‘Office, chief?’
‘No, my home. You’ve had no dinner,’ to the child sitting beside him, ‘but you know something – neither have I.’
‘And neither have I,’ said the driver, with feeling.
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Ruth.
‘No more am I, come to think of it, but perhaps we can have a glass of milk. Look, this is where I live. I won’t be more than a minute, Joe. And this is my wife. Her name is Arlette. That’s a French name.’
‘I know. My name’s Ruth.’
‘Arlette, this girl’s mamma has had an accident and her papa is away, so she’s going to stay with us for a while.’
‘He’s not my papa, he’s my stepfather,’ calmly.
‘Good,’ said Arlette. ‘I need somebody to help me very badly. Let’s see – the car battery is flat and I’ve got to charge it, and I’ve got a horrible great heap of ironing, and the dinner was ruined so I’ve to make a nice supper – can you cook, Ruth?’
‘Yes. Not much, though.’
‘But you can help me and I will be very happy.’
‘Yes, but Mamma will be worried.’
‘I’m going off to fix that now,’ said Van der Valk, getting milk out of the refrigerator like Archie Goodwin in a Nero Wolfe story. ‘I’ve got to look at my orchids now but I’ll see your mamma isn’t worried.’ Arlette’s eyes were flashing light signals like a DS overtaking everybody on the autoroute. He didn’t know what it was but Arlette would certainly cope until he could tell her more.
‘I refuse to be like Archie Goodwin.’ But he drank a second glass of milk before dashing out to the car.
Chapter Three
In the office wheels were turning at a great rate and everyone was in a bustle. Probably, he thought, for the same reasons as himself: smelt publicity. Couldn’t blame the Press if they did play it up; who would have expected to find a woman assassinated by seven bullets (could it really be a machine-gun?) in a municipal housing block in provincial Holland? Nothing so glamorous had happened to him for years. There had been the girl in the white Mercedes, but she had only stabbed her lover with a mechanic’s pocketknife – though she would certainly have gone for a machine-gun had there been one handy. He grinned; dear Lucienne, whom he had himself been in love with in a half-baked sort of way. Still married to her ex-boxer? The central heating was too hot as usual; he took his jacket off.
‘Branle-bas de combat.’ The phrase pleased him. We will now advance upon Marks in skirmishing order. And behold, she is not Marks; she is Marx. A telephone call to the town hall, a flurry in their precious files, and he heard that Esther Marx was married to Joseph Egbert Zomerlust in France (in France), and that shortly afterwards a female child registered Ruth Sabine Marx had been born – in France – to said Esther. Aforesaid Marx was not classified as alien, being married to Dutch citizen. Registered as housewife with no further profession. Zomerlust was a sergeant, professional soldier, place of work Juliana Barracks within municipal boundary.
Van der Valk phoned the technical squad and got the sergeant, whose title was in fact Wachtmeester. Very proper and appropriate.
‘Anything showing?’
‘No. We’re developing prints as fast as we can, going over everything with the low-power glass. No foreign fingers. She was in the kitchen, answered a ring at the door presumably, and probably he backed her in with the gun before giving her the works. He didn’t stay long, and handled nothing. We’re making you a scale plan, of course.’
‘Keep me informed … Janet, get me Ballistics in Amsterdam … Hallo, Sam? Get my message?’
‘I got your message; it came on the telex. But not the goods yet. I’ll look after it as soon as I get it.’ Van der Valk was slightly indignant; a lot of time seemed to have passed, but no, it was barely an hour since the messenger had left, and he had fifty kilometres to go on a motorbike.
‘Ring me straight back. Something of an oddity, I suspect.’
‘Right, Mister.’ Sam called everybody Mister. He had wanted to go to Israel last year, and had been restrained with difficulty. Said he was sick of air-pistol bullets.
He had his duty inspector and two plainclothes detectives working on the building in the Van Lennepweg, but they had not rung in yet. Which meant that they had nothing to tell him.
He had Esther’s handbag on his desk. It had been lying on the coffee table, had been fingerprinted, photographed, and he had told his driver to take it. A handbag could – should – tell you a lot about its owner.
Ordinary. Neither tidy nor untidy. Imitation leather but good quality, fairly expensive, label of a large store, comparatively new, whether modish or not he didn’t know. Her clothes had told him nothing either; she had been in the kitchen and was wearing a nylon overall.
Usual women’s things – perhaps a lot of eye make-up, but he had not noticed her eyes. Ought he to have? Purse with average amount of shopping money – forty gulden or so. A diary with shopping lists; the last read ‘Beetroot, coffee, milk, R. socks’. Ruth needed socks; he must tell Arlette. No identity papers, no papers or letters at all, not even envelopes. Had she no family? A credit card from a shoeshop – ‘Mevr. Zomerlust’. The usual seawrack of soap coupons and cash-register bills, buttons and stocking suspenders. No hairgrips – she had it cut short. His telephone rang. Van Lennepweg.
‘Nothing, chief. A few vague reports of a stranger but all the descriptions differ. One woman thought she saw the husband – but from the back. Fair hair, sturdy build, fawn raincoat – and where does that get us? She couldn’t be sure. They’ve lived in this building a year and a half. Nobody has much to say. Kept h
erself to herself. Inoffensive, quiet. No close friends known. Went out a lot by herself though. Husband away a lot, natch. You know he’s a soldier?’
‘Yes. Keep at it – neighbourhood, shops, you know.’
A funny death. The assassination had been so smooth – over-smooth. When the neighbour rang after hearing the shots, the man had opened the door, hidden in the lavatory next to it, waited till the good soul got as far as the living-room, and quietly slipped out. Easy? Yes, but needing someone used to moving quietly and thinking quickly in the circumstances. Not like an emotional killing. And the husband was a soldier … Rather sadly, Van der Valk asked the switchboard for the commandant of the army camp.
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Bakker,’ said a deep stern voice suddenly in his ear.
‘Town police, Commissaire Van der Valk, Criminal Brigad.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You have a soldier there – not a conscript, a regular soldier, sergeant of some sort, name Zomerlust. You probably know him.’
‘Correct. Weapons instructor.’ Weapons instructor – it only needed that!
‘On duty at the present?’
‘I’d have to check – but you’d better tell me.’
‘His wife has died, by violence. I want to be the first with the news. That kind of word travels fast. I should like to ask you to find out where he is and keep him there an hour.’
‘Can do. I’ll ring you back.’ Mm, he would have to be a bit tactful. The military authorities liked to look after their own laundry, and were not always terribly enthusiastic when the civil police arrived with the kind of news that got into the evening paper. But it took less than five minutes.
‘Commissaire? He’s here. I’ve asked him to be at my office in half an hour. If you care, you can be here in twenty minutes or less. I would like you to speak to me first – fair enough?’
‘I’ll be with you then – don’t have any sentries asking me for the password.’
‘Very good,’ said the deep voice curtly, and rang off. Van der Valk buzzed his intercom.
‘Car and driver straight away. I’ll be away an hour to hour ’n’ half. All reports and messages on my desk.’
The usual wire fences and bricky blocks of a parsimonious military administration. Rows of lorries and half-tracks parked meticulously in line to white paint. Inside, old-maid fussiness, all cream-glossy and shiny red linoleum, corridors full of notices, over-polished boots and badges. Usual administrative sergeant-major with moustache and medals. Knock-knock. Bullshit came to a merciful end in a blindingly highly-frictioned office with an unexpectedly sympathetic-seeming officer of fifty or so, stomach kept down by much hard exercise. He lost no time in getting to the point.
‘Commissaire – good afternoon. Sad errand.’ Van der Valk, unsure of the difference between a lieutenant-colonel and a full colonel, wasn’t taking any chances.
‘Afternoon, Colonel – I’m afraid so.’
‘Our man won’t be here for ten minutes. You said violence?’
‘She was shot with an automatic weapon, this lunchtime.’
‘Shocking. You aren’t thinking …?’
‘No. But I have to be good and sure. It would be a relief to me if his movements were thoroughly accounted for.’
‘Then be relieved. He’s been here all day, and a dozen men can vouch for that. I may tell you at once, he’s a good man. Private life’s his own, no doubt, but a good man – I hope I can say it with pride: know what I’m talking about. A – how’s it put? – hypothesis of criminal designs, since his being here doesn’t or mightn’t prove anything particular one way or the other, meets, uh, or would meet a pretty rigid barrier of incredulity.’ He paused, decided he was not very good at wrapping it up, smiled with good even teeth, and said, ‘I’m trying to tell you, Commissaire, in a clumsy way, that if you entertain suspicions of this man they’d better be good, and it is certainly my duty to protect and defend his interests. You’ll forgive me, I hope, for putting my thoughts so badly.’
‘That’s quite fair. I’m glad you did. You’ll be glad if I speak as plainly? Good. I’ve no presumption whatever against your man – that he did it, or had it done. I’ve got to question him, which I’ll gladly do in your presence.’
He had decided to be very relaxed, and was slouching in a military wooden chair, his legs crossed, playing with a cigarette he didn’t want, of a kind he didn’t like, being winning.
‘It’s a bit traditional, Colonel, that the army gets touchy at the thought of a man of theirs being involved in any way with the civil arm. Someone killed this man’s wife. Why was she shot with an automatic weapon that could be of military origin? – I haven’t had the ballistics report yet.’
‘Certainly I won’t oppose your questioning him. I don’t recall,’ the colonel sounded a thought pained, ‘that the civil authorities have ever had reason to think we here have failed to cooperate – when it was called for.’
‘I’d like to look at his personal record – I don’t think that would be an infraction of Nato security, would it?’
The colonel frowned, as though he thought it would.
‘As you know, an officer of police is under oath and has to observe professional secrecy, exactly like a doctor.’
‘But once you’ve interrogated him, and satisfied yourself that he cannot have had a hand in this dreadful crime …’
‘The Officer of Justice, you know, would call for all papers before seeing the man. I prefer to see the man first, that’s all.’
The colonel picked up his phone.
‘Sarntmajor, Zomerlust’s file, please.’ The voice must have said ‘He’s here now, sir’ because he added ‘Send him in’ in an artificially jovial way. Van der Valk got up, not wanting to sit there being delphic and shrouded in importance as though he were the FBI.
A man was ushered in and stood at attention with professionally incurious respect. Van der Valk, looking at him, felt quite sure that he did not know his wife was dead. Either way, it was a beastly moment to go through. Such an honest face. Eyes level, face muscles relaxed. It was a rounded, chubby face, very Dutch, with a shiny bumpy nose and a high knobbed forehead under fair curly hair. The man might not be conspicuous for intelligence but he would be good at his job and he would be a good friend. The colonel cleared his throat.
‘Zomerlust, this is an officer of the civil police, who has come with an urgent message. I have to add that it is not a piece of news I like to bring to any soldier.’ The man’s eyes stayed steady on his officer. There was a nasty pause.
‘My wife?’ he said at last. The tone was as level and disciplined as the face, but even in those two words, thought Van der Valk, who had brought news of this kind to quite a few people, there was a sort of resignation rather than disbelief or even anxiety. It was as though the man had expected all along that sooner or later … But don’t go reading meanings now.
‘There’s been a serious accident,’ said the colonel with horrid banality.
‘She’s dead?’ Hardly any note of query.
‘I’m speaking to a soldier – she is.’
The eyes came slowly round to Van der Valk and stayed there as though committing his features to memory. A muscle showed in the jaw.
‘What happened?’
‘She got shot.’
‘Yes … I see.’ The face slid a little, and he concentrated on getting control of himself. ‘I see,’ he said again, in the voice one has when one doesn’t see, but wants to test if one’s voice is steady.
‘We have to have a talk,’ said Van der Valk. ‘Nothing formal, no provost-marshals or anything.’
The colonel hadn’t liked his man sounding so unsurprised: he got up in a jagged, worried way.
‘I’ve no objection to your presence, Colonel.’
‘Yes. But I think it as well to leave the two of you alone for just a while. You can use this office.’ But loyalty came forward again. He held his hand out. ‘My very deepest sympathy and sorrow, Zomerlust.
And I know well that you had nothing to do with this unhappy event. Don’t worry. We’ll see to everything.’ He looked back at Van der Valk without either sympathy or hostility. ‘I’ll be just outside.’ It sounded appealing; it was almost a capitulation. Going to check up on the man again, thought Van der Valk.
‘Sergeant Zomerlust, your wife has been killed, by someone who shot her at your home. She was killed instantly, and I would say totally unexpectedly. She did not suffer at all. There was no struggle, and no argument as far as we can judge. This is homicide. You can help me very much, and I intend to get the fishbone out of the throat straight away. Can you establish past question where you were – all today?’
‘Why here – working.’
‘People see you all that time? I’m not talking about five minutes for a cigarette?’
‘My whole section.’
‘So you could prove, you feel sure, forwards backwards and sideways where you were, the whole day?’
The man did not protest at all. ‘Yes,’ he said, very calmly, and Van der Valk heaved an uninhibited sigh of content.
‘Nobody’s thinking of wholesale perjury in your section,’ he said dryly. ‘You aren’t under suspicion. But it’s very important to me to have you clear. I have a lot of questions, you know, that it will give you no joy to answer.’
‘That’s your job, after all,’ said Zomerlust with sad patience. Something was worrying Van der Valk, though; he knew what it was.
‘Your little girl’s all right, you’ll be glad to know. I’m looking after her for the present. She’s at home, with my wife.’
The man flushed; his open Dutch face was the kind that flushes easily.
‘You hadn’t mentioned anything happening to her. I didn’t think she could have been there.’
‘It happened in the lunch break – but I hadn’t told you that.’
Zomerlust did not protest that he hadn’t known it. ‘I’m very fond of her,’ he said awkwardly. ‘She’s my sort of step-child, you know.’
‘There wasn’t any secret about that, I think. She carried your wife’s name.’
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