The Corpse on the Dike by Janwillem van de Wetering Page B

times—drives you crazy—every country is different and if you make a slight mistake you get the lot back and have to start all over again. Officials hate businessmen; it’s the old story. Jealousy.”
    “Yes,” said the commissaris.
    “Sorry. You are an official too, I forgot. But the police are different; they have a sense of adventure too. I didn’t mean the police. Tom Wernekink. Yes. His father died and left him a lot of money and all that furniture and paintings and stuff. I think he planned never to work again. I saw him in the evening once; it was a mistake. He just sat and watched TV and drank beer. It was better during the day, for he would be in his garden. We used to sit under that big chestnut tree and drink tea and talk; he didn’t drink alcohol during the day.”
    “A man without ambition,” the commissaris said.
    The Cat got up, stretched and sat down again. “Yes, no ambition. Worse perhaps. I think he suffered. A very morose man, not the sort of man who complains all day. Tom had passed that stage. He wanted nothing to do with anything; he thought life was absolutely ridiculous, absurd. A joke. A bad joke.”
    “Don’t you think the same?’
    “Yes, but I laugh a lot; Tom didn’t laugh. I told him to use some of his money to travel and he went to England a couple of times but I don’t think he enjoyed the trips. He didn’t like leaving his garden. He fished but when he caught anything he would throw it back. He caught a big pike once—gave him a good fight—but the pike is back in the river; he wouldn’t even show it to boast. I happened to see him catch it or I would never have known. If anyone catches a big fish on the dike there is a party, but Tom didn’t want anybody around him.”
    “But he watched TV?’
    “Not really. He saw objects and shapes move but I don’t think he knew what was going on. He didn’t care.”
    “And you don’t know whether he had enemies?”
    “No enemies,” the Cat said, “I am sure of it. Who would want to harm him? Nobody even knew him except me, and perhaps the girl next door, Evelien.”
    “What about her?”
    The Cat made a wide gesture. “Just a girl. Nice girl. Pretty girl. She liked him, or loved him, or I don’t-know-whated him. Wanted to have him, I think. Women always want to have things, and keep them.”
    “Ursula,” de Gier said suddenly.
    The Cat turned round and de Gier felt the impact of the large brown eyes again. “Yes, sergeant, Ursula is an exception, but she is sick; she is under psychiatric treatment. Did she tell you?”

    “No.”
    The Cat laughed. “Don’t worry; she isn’t dangerous. She switches off sometimes and sits and stares and doesn’t function. I have to feed and bathe her; it’s a job I tell you, for she is a big woman. The psychiatrist is helping but it takes time. She is much better now. She wants more out of life than life is prepared to give just now. She has to grow up and create something that will hold wisdom; so far she is still a foolish little girl.”
    “She plays the flute very well,” de Gier said.
    “Did she play for you?”
    “We played together.”
    The Cat jumped up and clapped his hands. “Boy,” he shouted, “I would like to hear that. Crazy Russian Ursula playing with a police sergeant. What did you play?”
    “Something we made up.”
    “Better and better. Promise me you’ll come one evening and play with her. What do you play?”
    De Gier took the flute out of his inside pocket and showed it to the Cat, who treated the instrument with respect.
    “Nice flute. They cost a lot of money—nine hundred I think. I wanted to buy one for her but I didn’t have that much cash on me. Isn’t the sound rather shrill?”
    “Very,” the commissaris said. “If he plays in his office I can hear him, and his office is a long way from mine.”
    The Cat was shaking his head.
    The commissaris smiled.
    “Not a bad day today,” the Cat said. “I’m discovering things. So the police