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through her nose, unable to disguise her contempt. “It wouldn’t kill you to be kind now and again,” she snorted.
    The word kill didn’t miss its mark. Linda knew he was about to explode, so she withdrew strategically toward the door … and not a second too soon. She was still standing in the doorway when he grabbed the plate of eggs, and just as he tossed it at her, she pulled the door closed. The plate sailed through the air like a Frisbee and smacked against the wall. The eggs slipped off in midflight, splattering on the floor like yellow-white slime.
    Linda heard him curse and shift his chair. She raced to the liquor cabinet and grabbed a half-full bottle of Elixir d’Anvers. William threw open the kitchen door and screamed that he was going to kill her. That’s what William always did when he lost his cool. Linda rummaged through the cigarette supply, stuffed two packs of Marlboros into her dressing-gown pocket, and ran upstairs. She knew the storm would die down in an hour and she could return to the kitchen. Linda locked the bedroom door and listened. This time he didn’t smash any furniture. He didn’t even come banging on the door. She uncorked the bottle of Elixir and tossed it back. William returned to the kitchen table, a photo of his mother in front of him in a frame. The mourning ribbon in the top left-hand corner reminded him of the tragedy that had visited him sixteen days earlier.
    Van In parked his VW Golf in front of the closed gate. There was no sign of a bell. Hugo Vermast was standing in the roof gully of his farmhouse sledgehammering a soot-covered chimney. His blaring transistor radio drowned out the rustle of the autumn leaves and the song of a plucky thrush.
    Van In wasn’t in the mood to hang around, so he cupped his hands to his mouth, took a deep breath, and roared at the top of his lungs. After a couple of spine-tingling hellos, the radio fell silent. Van In waved his hand in the air, the first time in an age.
    Vermast responded to the commissioner’s salute with an enthusiastic arm gesture. Next thing he’ll fall , thought Van In with a hint of malicious delight.
    Suddenly the gate opened automatically. Vermast climbed down his ladder and came toward him.
    â€œHandy, eh?” Van In pointed to the remote Vermast had used to open the gate.
    â€œThere’s no stopping technology, Commissioner. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”
    The two men crossed the property, weaving their way through piles of building material.
    â€œSuch romantic surroundings,” said Van In as they made their way into the kitchen through a rickety back door.
    â€œMy wife’s childhood dream. She’s wanted to move to the country for years. It’s a unique opportunity for the kids too. They were prepared to pay whatever it cost to get out of the city. Just like their mother.”
    Van In couldn’t bear the thought of one of his own little pains in the ass driving him out of his home. Children should follow their parents, he thought. All that liberal parenting crap was an illusion devised by a handful of crazy doctors. A couple of decades after publication of Spock’s first book, the man was forced to acknowledge the fact that he had maybe ruined the lives of millions of young families. His theory had spawned legions of pains in the ass. Doctor Spock. Jesus. For Van In there was only one Spock. And with him at least he could hope—beam them up, Scotty.
    The interior of the kitchen consisted of a colorful collection of floral pottery, dried flowers, and poorly varnished furniture. The table was covered in jam. Circular burn marks left behind by red-hot pots and pans direct from the stove gave it an authentic character.
    â€œHi, Joris.”
    Van In tried to sound friendly. The boy was still in his pajamas. He barely reacted to the stranger’s greeting, preferring to concentrate on a grid he had