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face that did its best to remain unseen behind a long fringe, a dark beard and dark glasses. He seemed to be enveloped by an aura of nervous unease, rather like BO, and Van Veeteren couldn’t help thinking about similarities with a suspect trying to pull himself together before a crucial interrogation.
    ‘Hello there,’ he said. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
    ‘I hope so,’ said the man, holding out his hand. ‘Assuming you are Van Veeteren, that is. My name is Gassel. Tomas Gassel.’
    Van Veeteren shook his hand, and confirmed that he was who he was.
    ‘Please forgive me for contacting you like this. What I have to say is a bit on the delicate side. Do you have a moment?’
    Van Veeteren checked his watch.
    ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I have an appointment at the dentist’s half an hour from now. I was just about to shut up shop for the day, in fact.’
    ‘I understand. Perhaps tomorrow would suit you better?’
    Van Veeteren shook his head.
    ‘I’m afraid not. I’m going away on holiday tomorrow. What is it you want?’
    Gassel hesitated.
    ‘I need to talk to you. But a couple of minutes won’t be enough. The fact is that I find myself in a situation that I can’t cope with. Not professionally, nor as a private person.’
    ‘What do you mean by “professionally”?’
    Gassel looked at him in surprise for a moment. Then he stretched his neck and brushed his beard to one side. Van Veeteren saw the man’s dog collar.
    ‘Oh, I see.’
    ‘Please excuse me. I forget that my status isn’t obvious. I’m a curate in the parish of Leimaar here in Maardam.’
    ‘I see,’ said Van Veeteren, waiting for what came next.
    Gassel adjusted his beard and cleared his throat.
    ‘The fact is that I need somebody to talk to. To consult, if you prefer. I find myself in a situation in which . . . in which my vow of silence is in conflict with what my moral conscience tells me I ought to do. To put it in simple terms. Time has passed, and I’m afraid that something very unpleasant might happen if I don’t do something about it. Something very nasty and . . . criminal.’
    Van Veeteren searched around for a toothpick in his breast pocket, but then remembered that he’d given them up eighteen months ago.
    ‘But why are you turning to me? Surely you must have a vicar in Leimaar who must be better placed to help you than somebody like me?’
    Gassel shook his head.
    ‘You might think so. But we’re not exactly on the same wavelength on matters like this, Pastor Brunner and I. Unfortunately. Obviously, I’ve thought about it a lot, and . . . No, it’s not possible to handle it in that way. You’ve got to believe me.’
    ‘But why should I be able to handle it any better? As far as I recall we’ve never met before.’
    ‘Forgive me,’ said Gassel, somewhat awkwardly. ‘I’d better explain how it is that I know about you. I know that you’ve resigned from the police force – that’s the key fact. I’ve given her a sacrosanct promise not to go to the police with the information I have at my disposal. If I hadn’t promised her that, I’d never have found out anything about what was going on – even, of course, if I’d been able to work out that something very nasty was afoot. Very nasty indeed. I got your name from Sister Marianne in Groenstadt – I don’t know if you remember her. She’s only met you once, but she remembers you very well and recommended that I should try to talk to you . . . Marianne is an aunt of mine. My mother’s elder sister.’
    Van Veeteren frowned. Transported himself rapidly back six years in time, and suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the spartan whitewashed room where he had sat for an hour, talking to the old woman. Sister Marianne . . . The Roman Catholic Sister of Mercy and the newly operated-on Detective Chief Inspector who between them, very slowly – and filled with deep, mutual respect – resolved the final unanswered questions in the Leopold Verhaven case. The