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head. He spoke softly. ‘This is not a long time. It is not enough time to really know someone, is it?’

    It was eight when Max got back from the police station. He rushed up to the room, hoping. Still she had not returned. Max tried to work out if she had taken anything apart from her purse and shoulder bag. One of Erica’s suitcases lay open on the coffee table, the other was on the floor. Her raincoat was still hanging up in the closet. Max walked down to breakfast. There was no-one else there, so he helped himself to the buffet of cheese and cold meats. A plump blonde waitress brought coffee. She had served them yesterday lunchtime.
    â€˜Your wife is coming soon? Breakfast is finished in five minutes.’
    â€˜She’s not well. It’s just me this morning.’
    â€˜Ah, too much wine last night,’ the waitress nodded.
    Max looked up, unsure whether this was the famous Dutch directness or something more. ‘Excuse me?’
    â€˜I said she maybe drank too much.’ The waitress started clearing plates from another table on to a tray.
    â€˜I know that’s what you said. Are you saying you saw her last night?’
    â€˜Of course. In the little café here on the corner. Did you not know?’
    â€˜No, I didn’t. What time was this?’
    â€˜My husband and I arrived about midnight and she was already there, with a bottle of wine half empty. My husband wondered why such a lovely
meisje
should be drinking alone.’
    â€˜Alone.’ Max sighed the word with relief.
    â€˜For a while yes. A man came and sat with her.’
    â€˜Someone picked her up?’
    â€˜Nee, no. They knew each other. They kiss on the cheek and he held both her hands.’ The waitress looked at Max then added hurriedly: ‘Just old friends, I think. Did she not say?’
    Max shook his head.
    â€˜I hope I’m not making trouble for her,’ the waitress said.
    â€˜No, you are helping me to save her from trouble. She isn’t ill. She just didn’t come home. Not yet, anyhow.’
    â€˜Ah.’ The waitress appraised him thoughtfully, wiped her hands on a napkin and sat. ‘So I suppose you want to know all about the man?’
    â€˜Well, I guess I better.’
    â€˜He was middle age, middle size, spectacles. Nothing to look at,’ she reached out and tapped Max’s hand. ‘Nothing special at all.’
    Max wasn’t sure whether that was a comfort or not. The tang of jealousy soured his mouth. ‘Do you think he was Dutch?’
    â€˜No. They spoke English together, and his accent was not Dutch. Perhaps foreign.’
    â€˜Ah. Did he have a limp, or short cropped hair? Are you sure he wasn’t old?’ Professor Friederikson’s powerful presence was etched into Max’s memory.
    â€˜No. Not old, less than fifty years. I didn’t notice a limp.’
    â€˜Did they leave together?’
    â€˜I didn’t notice them go, but when I next looked they were gone.’
    â€˜I see.’ Max tapped the table thoughtfully.
    â€˜She will be back soon, I’m sure of it. Then you can ask her yourself all these details. I am sure they were not lovers.’
    â€˜Thanks for your insight,’ Max said dubiously. He returned to the room, sat down on the bed and tried to think straight.
    Max flung her two suitcases onto the bed and unzipped them. Carefully, he lifted up the corners of blouses and suits, looking for something, anything that would remove the pain of not knowing. He imagined a stack of old love letters or perhaps a note of an innocent meeting with an old colleague. In the zip compartments in the suitcase lids he found back-up discs, a stack of scientific articles and magazines, her own printed out notes and her passport. Nowhere had he seen her laptop computer. Could she have taken it with her? Or was it still in the car?
    In the second suitcase Max found three thick desk diaries, their hard backs softened,