The husband moved his foot. The plaster was heavy and awkward; a chair wobbled. The bar was half full. Lots of couples with their heads close together, the men with beers in front of them, the women mostly with glasses of Coke. A plastic Christmas tree in one corner, pine branches and fairy lights over the bar.
‘How’d you do it?’ the policeman asked.
‘Box of books.’
They drank their beers.
‘I found out something that made me want to track her down after all.’
‘What?’
‘Ach.’ The husband raised his glass to his lips.
‘The police can’t help you,’ the policeman said. ‘She left of her own free will. There aren’t any signs of coercion.’
‘What should I do then?’
‘Hire a private investigator.’
‘A private eye? Do they really exist?’
‘Do you have any idea how often people use services like that?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Look on the Web sometime.’
‘Can you recommend one?’
‘Nope. And if I could, I wouldn’t be allowed to.’
‘Is it expensive?’
‘Quite. But they often get quick results.’
The husband pointed at the policeman’s empty glass.
‘I’ll get them. You can hardly walk.’ The policeman stood up and went over to the bar for two more beers. He said something to the barman, they laughed, then he slalomed back to the table.
‘Are you married?’ the husband asked.
‘No. I’m in a relationship though. With another officer.’
‘Have you ever…Do you ever have someone else?’
‘Of course. That’s dead normal for us.’ The policeman looked him straight in the eye. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious. Man talk, you know.’
‘That’s a disappointment. So you had girlfriends?’
‘A girlfriend. Just one. But she did it too.’
‘What’s the big deal? You lot always make it so difficult.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Women are different from men.’
‘No, they’re not. How?’
‘When they’re unfaithful, there has to be an underlying problem.’
‘So your wife had an underlying problem?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want something to eat with this?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll get some bitterballen.’
‘What are we doing here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do you associate with me?’
‘Aart! One portion of bitterballen!’ the policeman called.
The barman nodded. More and more people came into the bar, bringing in the damp. The windows misted over.
The husband drained his glass.
‘Why do you associate with me? I could ask you the same,’ the policeman said.
‘I thought you were a nice guy.’
‘I am. Have you tried to get hold of that student?’
‘No. I don’t have any contacts at the university. What’s the point? I’d guess he’s not attending lectures any more.’
‘Travelling maybe. Somewhere in Asia. India, probably. To find himself and find enlightenment.’
‘Oh, one of them. Ending up on a mattress on the floor of some filthy hovel with all his Imodium gone. And a kid screaming day and night in the room next door.’
‘Yes. Maybe. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘My mother-in-law thinks it’s strange me going out for a beer with you. She thinks you should have put me in jail. Is the barman one too?’
‘Yep.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Aart! Two more beers!’
‘There’s a side of her I’ve never understood. A part that was always out of reach. It’s like, it doesn’t really surprise me, her being gone.’
‘What did you find out? To make you suddenly want to register her as missing?’
‘She’s ill.’
‘Ill?’
‘Maybe very, very ill.’
‘And now she’s gone away, like a cat crawling off?’
‘Yes, maybe. She’s gone away anyway. From me. And from her parents.’
The barman put two glasses of beer down on the table. ‘The bitterballen are coming,’ he said, laying a hand on the policeman’s shoulder for a second.
‘That’s awful.’
‘At the end of the last academic year she started something with this student.’ He looked around. ‘Maybe because she was ill.’
‘The one whose dick you wanted to cut off.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. You already knew that. We were just talking about him.’
‘I said it wasn’t allowed.’
The husband looked at the policeman. ‘It’s only now that I realise it must have been funny. For you.’
‘It wasn’t the least bit funny.’
‘No, of course not. But I was angry.’
‘Even though you weren’t much better yourself?’
‘No. I’m not angry any more. And I want to understand why she did it.’
A woman put a plate of bitterballen down between them. ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Hot.’
‘Thanks,’ the policeman said.
‘It’s not even what she did,’ the husband said. ‘But her having done it. Someone doing things, secret things, things from which you – me in this case – are completely excluded.’
They both ate a bitterball.
‘Go online when you get home,’ the policeman said. ‘Find one and give them a call.’
‘Yes.’
‘You really have no idea where she’s gone?’
‘No. Abroad, I think.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘How long can you stay in hiding here?’
‘For all we know she could be round the corner. The closer you are, the further away.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So your mother-in-law wanted you in jail.’
‘Yeah. She thinks it’s all my fault.’
‘And your father-in-law?’
‘He says “no”, “yes” and “ach, woman”. He takes it all in his stride.’
They ate the rest of the bitterballen in silence, washing the heat off their tongues with beer.
‘Shall we take in a disco?’ the policeman asked.
‘Jesus, man.’
‘How much longer?’
The husband looked down at the cast on his foot. ‘Three weeks or so. It was her books.’
The policeman laughed.
The bar grew busier, noisier. The barman gestured at the policeman in a way the husband didn’t understand. He stood up, grabbing his crutches. ‘I’m off before it’s too crowded for me to get through.’
‘Keep me up to date.’
‘I will.’
They shook hands. The husband paid the tab on the way out and when he turned back at the door, he saw the policeman sitting at the bar. The barman watched him go. It was raining. He hobbled to the tram stop, trying to imagine what a real-life private investigator would be like. In the glass hoarding there was a poster of a skater in a vest, advertising bread. A taxi sped by in the tram lane, splashing water up over the plaster cast.