Black Ice (21 page)

Then Scholten said he would sing a song from his native land. “From home,
Heimat
, you
verstaan
?” The Dutch nodded. “
Ja, ja, over thuis!
”

Scholten sang a folk song from Cologne. When he let the last note die away, the Dutch clapped like mad. A woman at Scholten's side shook her head; her eyes were wet. Scholten took out his handkerchief, wiped his own eyes first then offered it to the woman. She took it, wiped her eyes, gave Scholten a hearty hug and kissed him on both cheeks.

By two in the morning Scholten was hoarse and very drunk. He cried, “Dear friends! Dear friends, my cat and I must go home. We have a long day ahead tomorrow, we go sleep now,
verstaan
?” He put both hands together and laid his head sideways on them. With his head on one side, he overbalanced. The woman and one of the Dutchmen caught him.

The Dutchman asked where he was staying, said he would take him back. Scholten cried: “No, no. We're staying just round the corner, we can do it, easy.” At the second attempt he managed to get the cat in the basket. He almost fell out of the door with the basket, caught himself and steered a course to his hotel over the uneven cobblestones. The Dutch who had come outside watched him go. He twice came dangerously close to the canal, but he found his way and reached the hotel without falling over.

He was in bed at two-fifteen. The cat jumped up on the end of the bed, padded around over his feet for a little while and then curled up. Scholten snored noisily.

23

On Saturday morning Scholten woke at eight. He scratched his head at length, eyes closed, then picked up his trousers, took his wallet out of his pocket and counted his money. He got out of bed, put his head under the tap, rubbed it dry, combed his hair with his hands. He put the cat in the basket and left the hotel.

He looked for his car, located it and put a few coins in the parking meter. He took the carton of milk and the cup out of the glove compartment, put the cup down on the road surface and gave the cat milk. Then he went into a café and had breakfast. He ordered an extra portion of sausage and fed it to the cat.

Before leaving the café he put the cat on its leash and then took it for a walk for half an hour.

It was a fresh sparkling morning. The streets were not very crowded yet. Now and then a tram rattled past. Scholten stopped on the bridge over a canal. He heard one of the round-trip tourist boats hooting beyond the canal that flowed into it. He watched as the broad flat boat turned into the main canal, and he waved to the tourists. When the boat had passed under the bridge where he was standing he sighed contentedly.

He put the cat in its basket and looked for a barber's. He had himself shaved and got a haircut. In the warm sweetish air of the shop he fell into a drowsy half-sleep.

He got up feeling pleasantly relaxed.

He went out of the shop, enjoyed the view of the old,
carefully painted and plastered houses. Their windowpanes shone. He felt the cool air on his shaved cheeks. His scalp was warm, he could still feel the effects of the massage right down to the nape of his neck.

Scholten went into a tobacconist's and bought a black cigar, lit it from the gas flame. He walked a little way down the road, looked in shop windows, stopped here and there, puffing out little blue clouds of smoke.

He looked at the time. Not even ten yet. He didn't have to leave before two or three in the afternoon. Wallmann had been back at the house just before six that Saturday evening in March. It wouldn't take him more than three and a half hours to drive back.

Suddenly he felt something coming towards him, something unpleasant, irksome, oppressive. Something sinister. Something terrible. He tried to push it out of his mind. He straightened his shoulders, involuntarily swung his arms. But it kept coming closer. He looked in the shop windows, trying to make out his reflection. Other reflections overlaid it. He saw the outline of his figure, his head, the cigar in the corner of his mouth, the basket in his hand. He couldn't see what was behind him.

He turned and went hastily on. He looked at his watch again, stopped. He had plenty of time. He could go out to the sea. He could go for a walk, on the beach, in the woods on the dunes. He would eat lunch at the beach restaurant and leave at two or three. He could easily be back at the weekend house by six.

He hurried back to his car. When he had reached the canal and saw the car on the other side, he realized that however much of a hurry he was in, however fast he drove, the thing that was behind him would still catch up. He stopped, rubbed his face. “Bloody hell.” He looked for a phone box.

He put the basket down under the phone. “Yes, Manny, we'll be off in a moment, you can have a walk on the beach in a moment.” With trembling fingers he took coins out of his wallet. He held them on the palm of his hand, looked at them. He wouldn't need that many.

He put a gulden into the slot, slowly dialled the number of the weekend house. He got through at once. He stood there, looking out at the narrow uneven quay, the canal, the shining windowpanes beyond the humpbacked bridge and listened to the ringing tone. He was expecting that music again, but he heard only the ringing tone. A girl came over the top of the bridge on her bike, the top of her body swaying slowly back and forth.

After a minute the connection was automatically cut and switched to the engaged tone. Scholten replaced the receiver. He and his basket were already halfway out of the phone box – he had forgotten the gulden – when he hesitated.

He forced himself to go back into the phone box. He was about to look for another gulden, shook his head, retrieved the first, put it in the slot again, dialled the number once more.

When the connection was automatically cut for the second time, Scholten immediately picked up the basket and went to his car. He put the basket in it. “There, Manny, off we go now, it won't take long, three-quarters of an hour maybe, and then you'll see how nice it is at the seaside in Holland. You're really going to like it!”

At eleven Scholten reached the beach promenade. He carried the cat down to the beach, put it on the leash and took it for a walk. The cat retreated from the surf, stopped, crouched down, the tip of its tail
twitched. When the water flowed back it stood up again, stretched its head, raised one paw. It retreated again when the surf next rolled in.

After a few hundred yards Scholten took off his shoes and socks, tied the shoes together by their laces, stuffed his socks in them, hung the shoes over his shoulder. He rolled up his trouser-legs. The sand was cold, but after he had run a little way, with the cat leaping about after him, his feet warmed up. He walked quite a long way north up the beach.

He met only a few people. They laughed, stopped, pointed at the cat. Once Scholten stopped too and let a little boy play with the cat for a while, until the child's parents called him and walked on with him. The boy kept turning round to look back.

The sky was cloudless, the foam of the waves coming in white as snow, sparkling as they broke and then flowed back. Scholten saw a steamer and three cutters out at sea. Now and then he carried the cat for a while, holding it in both arms and keeping it warm. “Well, little Manny, how about this, then? Did I promise you too much?” He sang now and then. “If all the water in the Rhine, if only it was golden wine”. He broke off. He sang “Where the North Sea waves break, break upon the sand”.

Halfway to the nearest village he climbed the wooden steps up the dunes. They set off pale horrible ideas in his mind, ideas that he immediately suppressed. His face twisted, but only for a moment. He went back through the wood on the dunes. He walked slowly, stopping often, letting the cat explore the rough grass by the side of the path.

At quarter to one he was sitting on the glazed veranda of a café on the beach promenade. He ordered a beer and a genever. He liked the waitress very much.
She spoke good German. She was medium height and sturdy, perhaps in her mid-forties. Could be a bit younger. Thick brown hair cut short. It clustered close to her head, as if it had been painted on. Brown eyes, quite large. He looked at her throat when she put the beer and genever down in front of him. A little lined already, like her chin. But she wasn't skinny.

Scholten ordered the soup of the day, sole with all the trimmings and an ice cream with chocolate sauce. When the waitress walked away he watched her go. My word, he thought, what legs.

She came back and brought the cat some raw meat cut up small on a plate and a cup of milk. Scholten said that wasn't necessary. She said oh, it was only leftovers. And she loved animals, particularly cats. Scholten asked if she had a cat herself. No, she'd had a cat once, but not now.

She asked if he was on holiday.

Scholten said yes.

She said well, he'd chosen a good time. It was dreadful here in summer, such crowds of people. Scholten said ah yes, the Germans. She said she had nothing against Germans. Far from it.

Scholten felt pleasantly touched but didn't know just what to reply. He smiled and said: “Ah, well.” Then he said he was in luck, then.

She laughed and asked how long he was staying.

Scholten said he didn't know yet.

She said: “Oh.” Then she asked if he was a
rentenier
. Scholten didn't quite understand, he was afraid she took him for an old age pensioner: in German a
Rentner
. She explained that she didn't know what the word was in German, but in Dutch it meant someone living on his own income. Oh, now he understood, said Scholten; he laughed, no, no, he hadn't reached
those dizzy heights yet, he was afraid he still had to work.

He was in civil engineering, said Scholten. Road building and so on. Road building, she said, that must be a profitable business. Scholten said yes, but unfortunately not so profitable these days. The national debt, she'd understand, they were making economies everywhere, and firms like his bore the brunt of it. The waitress nodded.

When she brought his main course he asked her name. She said she was Frau Pattenier. Anna Pattenier. Scholten rose and said: “My name is Jupp Scholten.” She smiled at him, opening her full lips and showing her teeth, a bright gold tooth among them, and said: “Pleased to meet you, Herr Scholten. Enjoy your lunch.”

When Scholten had finished his ice cream and hot chocolate sauce he felt like an afternoon nap. He looked for the waitress. My goodness, if only I could take her to bed now. And then get up late in the afternoon, go for a little walk along the beach and through the woods then find a bar, have a couple of beers and something good to eat.

He looked at the time. Hell, past two already.

He took out his wallet, counted the notes. He called: “Frau Pattenier!” He stroked the cat. The banks were closed, but he knew that you could pay by Eurocheque anywhere in Holland.

He ordered a coffee and a black cigar and gave her a large tip. She said: “Oh!” and “Thank you very much!” He asked if she would be here this evening. She sighed, nodded and said yes, she was afraid so. And tomorrow too, right through Sunday. He asked if her husband didn't mind. She laughed and said it was nothing to do with him. Scholten said: “Oh
ho!” She stroked the cat and told him she was divorced.

Scholten got into his car. He put the cigar between his lips and puffed at it. He opened the window slightly and looked at the glazed veranda of the café. He couldn't see anything; the glass threw reflections back.

He started the car and drove off, but not out on the country road. He drove aimlessly through the village. At the northern end, where the last houses gave way to the dunes, he stopped. The mini-golf course lay deserted, its little flags blowing in the wind. The weather was warm and sunny.

Two-thirty. He could easily do it. Well, not exactly easily. He felt tired. Four beers and three genevers. So what? It was a long time since he'd been able to indulge himself like that. The booze tastes particularly good at lunch.

He wound the window down. It was very quiet. The wind blew over the dunes, the grasses moved soundlessly. Scholten looked up at the blue sky. He could really do with an afternoon nap.

An image took powerful hold of him: to stretch out between cool white sheets, one of those Dutch woollen blankets over him, a little window partly open, its two halves folding out and fastened to hooks, the curtain swaying in the wind now and then. And then Anna Pattenier comes in, gets undressed, stands there barefoot, moves, the floorboards creak, she pulls her panties down over her white buttocks, gets into bed, the mattress sags.

Scholten said: “Bloody hell.” He took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, knocked the ash out of the window.

Who said he had to imitate Wallmann in every detail? Why did he necessarily have to be back at the
house at six, just like Wallmann? And everything had gone all right. It didn't matter whether they began the search tomorrow morning or not until Monday. He had his alibi, and it wouldn't do any harm if he could prove it for an extra day either.

But suppose they asked how he could have stayed away so long without at least telling Hilde?

Well, what about it? He'd kept trying to call. The first time at the filling station on Friday. When she didn't answer he had thought she'd gone out and was looking for him down by the boat. Later, at the border crossing, he had thought she must already be asleep. And on Saturday morning he'd thought she simply wasn't answering the phone out of pure rage and venom. Was that so improbable? You don't know my wife, Superintendent. You don't know what she's like.

But staying away for two days just because of a quarrel? A quarrel? You must be joking! She'd made his life hell for him. Pure hell, all the time. And she'd hit the cat with a shoe on Friday evening. He was at his wit's end. Grandmontagne will bear me out, Superintendent.