Strike Out Where Not Applicable (17 page)

The tea of course was ordinary hotel-tea, in a bag.

It struck Van der Valk as he waded happily through these absurd goodies that Rob and Janine were like the tea – ill at ease in pretentious frames – and likely to taste better out of a cracked pot on the kitchen table, made from a homely barrel of rainwater in the yard of a Brabant farmhouse.

Rob ate sparingly. One mustard-and-cress sandwich, one macaroon, one napolitaine, one cup of tea. His eating was slow and careful, without spitting, talking or crumb-dropping, with a large white linen handkerchief handy: paper napkins are nasty things. When he had finished he just looked meditative. He did not smoke, though he pushed his silver box forward. When he did speak his voice was soft. His French was good, slow and a bit awkward, without Janine's vulgar argot. Van der Valk liked him.

He liked Janine too, who was eating everything in sight, hungry after her ride, from the buttered toast to the whipped cream – she ate all three of these, explaining that she was too thin. She ate, too, all the pretty little pictures, since the men were only competing for bitter chocolate. She put lemon in her tea, blew on the cup to cool it, and drank it in an aggressive, noisy manner. She dripped a spot of butter on her frock, said ‘merde', and scrubbed at it with a lace hanky. She even ate the little meatballs.

‘I love these,' laughing. ‘When I was little, getting one of these out of the automat was the biggest luxury I knew. They never taste as good now as those used to, but I hope each time I'll get the old feeling back.' Rob looked bored; he had probably heard this remark several times.

She talked a lot, and very sweepingly – perhaps she had made up her mind to show Van der Valk that she was not alarmed by him, even that she could confide in him.

‘Those women, who even wear a corset under riding breeches, trying to hide their big soft bottoms rolling around the saddle – they're the ones who get on my tits.' Rob looked sharply, but Van der Valk had to laugh, and that was reassuring.

‘Bernhard – the tub of tripe. I'm not surprised the horse gave him a crafty kick – I'd do the same, if I was a horse.'

Rob was looking indifferent, perhaps even a long way away in thought, as though there were no use frowning at Janine or kicking her under the table. One had to take her as she was – Van der Valk could not be sure he was listening. She chattered on – had she really not heard that he was enquiring into something not-quite-catholic about that death? Or was she acting?

‘He thought himself a hell of a chap, you know, owning that restaurant. Why, it's not worth a quarter of what this is, now. But because his father had it before him he forgot that he was just a big cowboy from Bavaria. And his breath – always stinking of stale drink.'

He would have liked to ask how she knew, but Rob came out of the woods in front of him.

‘You shouldn't talk like that – the fellow's dead, after all.' She shrank a little, though the tone was not snubbing.

‘Do you know his wife at all?' asked Van der Valk smoothly, as though just being tactful.

‘A bit. She's all right really, even if she puts on airs. She laughs and she's natural and she makes jokes. That one that lives with her gets on my nerves – sour bitch. And talk about an old hen with its chick – “Aren't you cold, darling? Hadn't you better put on your cardigan? – I've got it here for you” ' – in an absurd prissy, thinlipped voice that was not at all the calm softspoken tones of the maligned Saskia.

Janine was not prissy. Her mouth in the little triangular face was wide, curly, and her lipstick was all over her teacup, a thing
Van der Valk loathed in women. But he still found her sympathetic – she had been snubbed so heavily and often. Even had Arlette not told him it was clear to see in all these over-loud, over-crude gestures and phrases. A nice girl. And Rob was a nice boy. He put his teacup down in a leave-taking way.

‘I must be getting back.'

Rob dropped the sleepy look and said, ‘Janine drove you over, if I understood. I'll drive you back.' There was no protest made about this; he had wanted to get Rob to himself awhile. And had Rob any inkling of that?

‘I shall hope to see some more of you,' politely to Janine. She smiled quite confidently, as though this was not such a disagreeable notion any longer. Rob was looking from one to the other, his head cocked a scrap in a birdy way. He was jingling something in his trouser pocket, thinking: he brought it out and twirled it on his finger – a keyring on a leather tab. He seemed not quite satisfied, as though surprised that the conversation should finish so soon. After all these banalities – was there then no further purpose in this visit? But Van der Valk seemed quite content.

‘Thank you for a wonderful tea.'

‘Give my love to Lette.'

‘Of course.'

The Ferrari was black with black leather: austere, with no superfluous accessories. Rob handled it as though it were a silk glove; it backed up without a jolt, turned lightly with no lurch or grind, and flashed out on to the road with a low growl, slipping through the gears with a noise like a little girl swallowing icecream. Inside there was warmth, fresh air, and no draught; it was a hardtop model and he commented on this.

‘Cabriolets are all right for the look of things,' gently. ‘Janine wanted one so I gave it her. But however good they are there's always something that doesn't work.' Silence, behind which the motor could be heard faintly. ‘I take it,' slowly, ‘that what you're really doing is enquiring into Fischer's death.' It wasn't a question.

‘You think I'm not satisfied with it? Or just that I shouldn't be?'

‘I've no idea. I heard that someone wasn't satisfied. I thought maybe that was gossip, but police commissaires in my experience don't just stroll about and drop in for cups of tea with no purpose
but to pass time. I simply put two and two together – was that wrong?'

‘No. It's true. I'm not satisfied.'

Rob didn't ask what this could possibly have to do with him. In a voice as relaxed as his driving style he said, ‘I knew him slightly. And his wife.'

‘How was that?'

‘He was in the same business, not very far away – that kind of nodding acquaintance one has. I've met him at markets, Restaurant Association meetings, that kind of thing.'

‘Not a bad place – have you been there perhaps?'

‘No, never, though one does go to other places occasionally – window-shopping, and sometimes good ideas can be picked up – but his place was off my circuit – not on the way to anywhere particularly. I've heard about it naturally, and I've seen photos. Janine's been there once or twice I believe with the horse. Well-run place by all accounts, but Fischer knew his job.'

‘Some people have given me the impression that he did nothing much but leave it to his wife.'

‘I don't know either of them that well.'

‘She's a good business woman, judging on what I see and hear – I've only met her once.'

‘More to a restaurant than that – it's a personal business. I'd say that it showed his individuality, his character if you like. Janine told me he was always there talking to everyone, and I've heard the same from other people. I don't do that myself – I show myself as little as possible, because that buttering up the customer is something you can't stop once you start, but I dare say he enjoyed it – matter of taste.'

‘I had lunch there yesterday – her efficiency certainly impressed me.'

‘I've no doubt. She's an automatic, professional glad-hander.'

‘You don't like her?'

‘From what I've seen of her, no.' Van der Valk, with his little silver pick held in Rob's mouth, breathed on his little looking-glass and polished it on his overall. But Rob stayed perfectly relaxed.

‘You liked him better?'

‘If you like – you knew where you stood with him,' with composure. The car speeded up, held delicately by strong brown hands –
heavy coarse hands, but very clean, with square shiny nails and a narrow wedding ring. It was slipping now through the streets of the town, flexible and muscular as a trout in a stream.

‘Second to the right. The house with the green shutters – you can leave the car here.'

‘I must be getting back.'

Van der Valk smiled. ‘Come on in. I came to make your acquaintance, not to drink tea.'

Rob got out without any useless words, and allowed himself to be shown into the living-room with no protest. Van der Valk went into the kitchen, got some ice-cubes, made two powerful Pernods in tumblers. Arlette was not back yet, seemingly. When he brought them in Rob was looking at an eighteenth-century print – the old walled town, with little men throwing things on the heads of assaulting Spaniards: he was not looking wistful, though, as if wishing he had some boiling oil handy himself.

‘Nice thing.'

‘You like pictures?'

‘Very much.' He smiled a bit bleakly when he saw the drink. ‘I hardly drink, but I'll take that.'

‘A hot, dusty summer's day in Béziers.'

Rob appeared to like this idea, drank, and some of the armoured look went out of his face.

‘It's all off the record,' comfortably. ‘You're in my house – we're just chatting idly. I didn't want your wife to feel embarrassed at my asking a lot of nosy questions.'

‘Fair enough,' Rob shrugged. ‘But what would I know likely to be of any use to the police?'

‘Ach, it's these legends about the police. Facts, we're only interested in facts, yap all the little doggies. There's nothing duller than facts and there aren't enough of them anyway. It's not gossip I want, it's ideas. Ideas are stronger than dollars, as they say in Moscow. I want your opinions, biased or not, I don't care. That's why I wanted to see you alone, so that you didn't feel bound to be guarded. Tell me what you really thought of Bernhard – you might not think it but it's of value.'

Another shrug, another little drink, some more thought.

‘Well for what it's worth … I thought him a parasite, always sucking from anything and anyone around him. I wasn't friendly with him, didn't even know him well, but he had this trick of being
your greatest pal for just as long as you were there. Moment he saw you he'd come scuttling over, all thick and warm and matey, full of malicious gossip. You never met him?'

‘Never even saw him, alas,' with regret.

‘He'd the kind of eyes that are for ever in the corners of the room scavenging, while he's talking to you. Octopus.'

‘And her? I've met her briefly, but what interested me was that everybody likes her or seems to, and I got the impression that you don't.'

Rob's face said clearly that all this liking or not-liking was stupid and pointless – what did liking a person mean?

‘She's very charming – in fact she was just the opposite. You know what the trick is? She fixes you with big eyes, and gives you a notion that everything you say and do is of enormous importance. She simply can't take her eyes off you, you're so interesting and fascinating – it's a clever technique.'

‘You're a good judge of terrain,' smiling.

‘On the road,' gently, ‘they give the riders these little maps. So many kilometres, such a hill so long with such a percentage of climb. It doesn't do to put too much trust in those little maps. One rule I learned the hard way – always reconnoitre beforehand the road you're going to ride on. These women – phoney as an Italian route chart. All that crowd are – they're not natural. Even physically – work out how much they spend on arranging their faces and figures, all that complicated machinery – paint and varnish – keep a family of four in comfort – even their hair is phoney.' The voice stayed soft and unexcited. It was just a fact of life, like finding a road surface with sharp gravel after you had been led to expect blacktop.

‘I see that the atmosphere of riding-schools doesn't appeal to you greatly.'

‘I can understand a cowboy: I've had some myself. Sweat and dust, callouses even through your gloves and the seat of your pants, leg muscles so you can't walk any more and get along like a duck. But riding-schools …' He gave a brief laugh and drank some more Pernod. ‘Good, this.' Van der Valk offered him a French cigarette, which he looked at a minute carefully to see if it wore a wig, then put in his mouth. ‘Yes, I will if I may.'

‘What you have to say may seem unimportant, and for all I know is unimportant – but it interests me.'

‘You seem a straight enough chap' – the grey eyes were fixed on him. ‘And Janine likes your wife – I know that. I don't have the pleasure of knowing her – but it makes a difference. You know what she says? – that your wife is kind to her! Sounds daft, doesn't it? – like a kiddy at school.'

‘You've met some of these riding-school types?'

‘I've never been there, but don't forget I run a restaurant too. I don't go over to customers much, is-everything-all-right, that crap. I want to know it's all right – I can do that without asking them! But I know that gang all right. They come to my place, and they've loud voices.'

‘Francis too?'

Rob's sombre face – perhaps it was the Pernod – had an expression that was a bit sly, and at the same time innocent, as though it were making him boyish.

‘A rider – you get used to studying faces; they tell you a lot. Not just who's feeling the pinch, but who's going to stick no matter what, who's planning something pretty soon – who's in a conspiracy. And the managers, in the cars … La Touche does a bit of his horse-coping in my place – the food's good, and he likes it. When the wife's with him he pretends he mustn't eat because it's bad for his health. When she's not he stuffs like a hog.' He knocked ash into a clean ashtray, which he studied as though it were a glass in which Francis' face might appear. ‘Janine's told me a lot too. He's all right with her – that's because she's pretty. Men like that have a soft spot for a pretty girl. He doesn't notice human beings much, I reckon – like a picture by Stubbs.'