Free Death of a Hawker by Janwillem van de Wetering

clear."
    "Shouldn't she be in a home for the elderly?"
    "No, the jokers would make fun of her. Old people are like children sometimes. We'll leave her here as long as possible."
    "And you visit her regularly?" De Gier's voice was still unnaturally high.
    "Of course. I like her. I like walking about this part of town and she makes a good cup of coffee."
    "But he, she's mad!"
    "Nonsense," the commissaris said gruffly. "Don't bandy that word about, de Gier."
    They walked a while in silence.
    "How's your rheuma, sir? You have been in bed for a while, they tell me."
    "Incurable," the commissaris said pleasantly. "Drugs help a bit but not much. I don't like the medicines anyway. Horrible little pills, chemicals, that's all they are. Lying in a hot bath helps but who wants to be in a hot bath all day, like a frog in the tropics?"
    "Yes," de Gier said, trying to think of a more helpful remark.
    "And she isn't mad," the commissaris said.
    "I can't understand it," de Gier said slowly. "The person is unnatural, absolutely, and you go to see her. Aren't you frightened or disgusted?"
    "No. She is different, but that's all really. Some invalids look gruesome when you meet them for the first time but you get used to their deformity, especially when they are lovely people, just as Elizabeth is lovely. She is a kind and intelligent person so why would you be frightened of her? You are frightened of your own dreams, it seems to me. You do dream, don't you?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Any nightmares?"
    "Yes."
    "What happens when you have a nightmare?''
    "If it goes wrong I wake up in a sweat and I scream but usually it doesn't come to that. I can control the dreams somehow, get out of the most gruesome parts anyway. I find a weapon in my hand and I kill whoever is chasing me, or there's a car in the right spot and I jump into it and they can't catch up with me."
    "Very good," the commissaris said, and laughed.
    "But you don't always get away, and then you suffer."
    "Yes," de Gier said reluctantly.
    "But why? The dream is part of you, isn't it? It's your own mind. Why should your own mind frighten you?"
    De Gier stopped. They had reached the narrow footbridge again and de Gier was ahead of the commissaris, so the commissaris had to stop as well.
    "But I can't avoid my dreams, can I, sir? I can avoid mat... well, apparition in the houseboat. It scares me.
    I don't have to go there."
    "Shouldn't I have taken you, sergeant?" the commissaris asked quietly.
    "Well, yes, sir. Maybe it can help us with our investigation. It lives in the area and it has police training. May be useful. Yes, you should have taken me."
    "So?"
    "But you can't ask me to enjoy the experience."
    "I am not aware that I am asking you to enjoy Elizabeth's company." The commissaris was smiling.
    "No. Yes. Perhaps you are not. But you won't let me..."
    "Let you what?"
    De Gier raised his hands helplessly and walked on, slowly, so that the commissaris could keep up with him.
    "We are all connected," the commissaris said softly. "Elizabeth is part of you, and you are part of her. Better face up to it."
    * * *
    They were passing the Rogges' house and Grijpstra was waiting at the door.
    "Nothing, sir," Grijpstra reported. "The house on this side is a warehouse and it belongs to Abe Rogge. It's full of merchandise, wool and various types of cloth. Esther Rogge opened the door for me. Nothing here. The neighbors on the other side saw nothing special but they claim that quite a few people walked about this afternoon. The constables on duty let anybody through who lived here, without asking for any identification."
    "Did you check the houseboat, Grijpstra?"
    "Yes, sir. It's a wreck as you can see. Windows broken and everything. I found nothing extraordinary. A lot of rubbish, a broken fish knife and a plastic bucket and some rusted fishhooks and the usual collection of used condoms. I checked the roof as well but I had to be careful; the roof is rotten too, full of holes."
    "Nobody fired a musket from