Strike Out Where Not Applicable by Nicolas Freeling

painter. He had heard rumours, it would seem, for he looked curiously, then dropped his eyes and picked his cup up with indifference and a faint knowing grin. Van der Valk stared back with big peaceful cowlike eyes and went on out leaving him to go on being knowing.
    Ten past eleven; Doctor Maartens should have finished his morning surgery. The house, a pleasant trim villa with clipped privet hedges, gnomes on the lawn busy with scarlet amanitas, and a brass plate less highly polished only than the windows, looked attractive in the sunlight that had struggled through ragged cloud. The privet gleamed with diamond raindrops; Consulting Room Round to the Side, said a pointing finger painted on a wooden board, so he pealed the front door bell. A slim woman, pretty in a mousy way, opened after a long pause and said, ‘Surely it’s not too difficult to follow clearly printed notices – it’s too late for surgery hours anyway.’ She had a harassed look and a piece of paper in her hand with medical scribbles on it.
    He stayed silent, which made her look at him; she became confused and said, ‘I’m so sorry, I took you for a patient, and my husband told me to expect you. They will come too late and peal away happily here.’
    Maartens was in his surgery with the phone tucked into his collarbone, having a luxurious cigarette.
    â€˜Come in, come in – I’m sorry, a ridiculous tangle – schoolchildren’s polio vaccinations,’ apologetically. ‘The town hall has made a nonsense.… What?’ into the phone, swinging his revolving chair nervously to and fro ‘ … I’ve said and I repeat – that list is the one for February.… That’s ridiculous; you’ve mislaid it somewhere in the wrong file.… Quite so, but giving vaccinations is my job, and sending out notifications to parents is yours.… I know it’s a great deal of trouble, but you must realize there’s little point in calling up over fifty children that already had their top-up shots in February.… I’m sorry, I’m very busy, goodbye.… Oof!’ stabbing the cigarette into an ashtray that matched the kind of desk pen-set doctors get from pharmaceutical companies as a friendly hint after passing their finals. Doctor Maartens’ had a little calendar built in, so that he would be grateful to be reminded daily that Rosenblatt and Sohn in Stuttgart make the best pill.
    â€˜Delighted to see you – no, not a bit – just my round as usual this afternoon.’
    â€˜I have to tell you that the man was clonked all right. Haversma – you know Haversma?’
    â€˜Very slightly.’
    â€˜I had confidence in you, naturally – you won’t feel injured by my saying that Haversma has had a lot of legal – medico-legal – experience.’
    â€˜Of course I’m not injured – the unsupported opinion of a country hick isn’t Spilsbury. What did he think it was hit him?’
    â€˜A curved metal thing with a blunted edge – but you wouldn’t need to do anything elaborate like tying sticks to horseshoes – twenty simple household tools or garden implements. An old billhook – a stirrup …’
    â€˜Something that could have been picked up on the spur of the moment.’
    â€˜Quite, but you’re going too fast. All I have to do is know why.’
    â€˜I’d be fascinated to know how you thought of going about that. Anything but simple, I’d have thought.’
    Van der Valk had to go cautiously – he didn’t want a young idealistic doctor rearing up and worrying about his professional oath.
    â€˜Might be very simple – people do just up and hit suddenly, quite often, and then you quite often find them standing there with the poker in their hand, wondering what came over them. Or they go themselves to the police. That hasn’t happened. It’s not going to happen. Somebody