It had been a special song, composed by Grijpstra and the constables had practiced it many times, for Grijpstra believed in doing things as well as possible. At least three of the constables were trained singers and their voices had made de Gier's spine tingle. The tune was baroque and allowed for solos and choir. It had lasted about ten minutes, and for ten minutes de Gier had felt silly and thrilled simultaneously. But Grijpstra hadn't wanted to destroy his friend and colleague completely, and the sergeant had been given a heavy air pistol and told to shoot at the balloons so that he could release his rage as they popped one by one.

And now the scene had changed again. It seemed Grijpstra and he were back in business, after several weeks of sitting around, reading files and thinking of ways of making others pay for their coffee. Miss Andrews thought that something had happened to her boyfriend, the man who had promised to marry her. He had disappeared, she said. De Gier raised his shoulder again; the pain wasn't so bad now. Maybe the muscle wasn't torn after all. He sighed and studied his visitor. The girl was staring at him but she didn't see the handsome sergeant in his tailor-made blue denim suit, adorned with a silk scarf tucked loosely into his open shirt, and she didn't notice his thick brown hair, immaculately cut by the fat old homosexual hairdresser on the next canal, who charged top rates to his clientele of actors and artists. She didn't even notice the strong tanned hands that were playing with the ballpoint and the notebook. All Joanne Andrews saw was her own fear: the crumpled dead body of her boyfriend.

Grijpstra stirred in his chair. He had stopped looking at the crack in the ceiling and was changing his position, making the springs of his revolving chair squeak. His heavy body came forward a little and his hand rubbed the short gray bristly hairs on his large skull.