The Stranglers Honeymoon

13

It was Detective Inspectors Jung and Rooth who were delegated to supervise the first few hours at Moerckstraat 16, and neither of them would write anything about the experience in their diaries.

Or at least, wouldn’t have done even if they had kept a diary. It was just too depressing. Too grim, too macabre. They wandered about in the cramped little flat, kept their eyes skinned for anything of importance worth noting down, tried to keep out of the way of the scene-of-crime team — and to breathe with their mouths wide open in order to avoid the smell.

‘What a lot of bloody crap,’ said Rooth. ‘I find it hard to cope with this sort of thing.’

‘You get paid to cope with this sort of thing,’ said Jung.

It was a few minutes after half past nine before Chief Inspector Reinhart turned up, just in time to hear a preliminary assessment from the medical team and an even more preliminary assessment from the technical specialists.

Martina Kammerle — assuming it really was her in the rubbish bags under the bed (there was no obvious reason to suspect that it might be somebody else, but because of the advanced state of decomposition of the body and his own indisposition at the time, Egon Traut had been unable to make a definitive identification) — had apparently died quite a long time ago. At least three weeks, it seemed, but in order to make a more precise judgement it was necessary to analyse more data, such as textile tests, blood status, average daily temperatures in the flat, and so on.

It was not possible to establish the cause of death at this early stage, but because it seemed likely that the woman hadn’t died of natural causes in two plastic sacks under her bed, Jung at least concluded that, as it was stated officially, she had been killed by a person or several persons unknown.

And there was nothing to suggest that anybody had been in the flat for at least three or four weeks. Whether or not Martina Kammerle had managed to collect fragments of her murderer’s skin under her fingernails, or possibly even drawn his blood — and hence, with a large dose of luck, enabled a DNA analysis — remained to be seen, after the National Laboratories for Forensic Chemistry and Forensic Medicine had played their part. In any case, no obvious clues had been discovered; but needless to say the flat would be cordoned off for as long as it was considered necessary, so that high-ranking detective officers would have the right to wander around and search for clues — always assuming that it was concluded that there was anything worth searching for.

That was more or less the attitude behind the statement issued by Inspector le Houde, who was in charge of the scene-of-crime group — and who had been summoned from a cup match in the Richter Stadium ten minutes before half time, and two minutes before the home side equalized — a goal that, according to all sensible spectators, had been dream-like, and executed by a recently bought Dane: the ovation had been echoing inside le Houde’s head ever since he was about to enter the patrol car.

‘Ah well, we’ll have to wait and see,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’m sorry you missed the match. Personally I couldn’t care less about football, but we won five-two, I gather. Not a bad performance,’

‘Shut up,’ said le Houde.

Reinhart spent five minutes inspecting the room and the flat. Then he decided to return to the police station together with Egon Traut, but he instructed Jung and Rooth to stay at the scene and begin interviewing the neighbours.

‘It’s a quarter to ten,’ Rooth pointed out.

‘Keep going until twelve,’ said Reinhart. ‘Nobody’s going to bed after this palaver. I’ll send you some back-up as soon as I find anybody,’

‘All right,’ said Rooth. ‘We’ll start by a trip to the pizzeria — it’s just round the corner. No point in working on an empty stomach, you just don’t function properly.’

Reinhart glared at him, then left with Traut. Jung declared that in the circumstances, he wasn’t all that hungry, and instead went to the neighbouring flat to talk to the woman from Yugoslavia who he had already exchanged a few words with.

And who seemed to have some idea of who the victim really was.

But only a bit of an idea. If this Kammerle woman had been lying here dead for a month or more, the idea of good neighbours couldn’t very well have been all that effective.

Thought Inspector Jung, as he dug out a pen and some paper.

‘What’s been going on?’ asked Münster, sitting down opposite Reinhart.

Reinhart pulled a face and placed his feet conveniently on a bookshelf.

‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ he said. ‘Murder. A woman who seems to be called Martina Kammerle. Lived in Moerckstraat. She was strangled, and has been lying dead under her bed for about a month.’

‘Under?’ said Münster.

‘Yes, under,’ said Reinhart. ‘The murderer had tucked her into a couple of rubbish sacks so that she didn’t have to feel too cold. Very thoughtful of him. It’s a right bugger. As usual.’

‘As usual,’ said Münster. ‘Was she raped as well?’

‘Possibly,’ said Reinhart. ‘But she was wearing a few clothes, so she might have escaped that. Knickers and a nightdress. . Or the remains of those garments, to be more precise. If a body has been lying at room temperature for a month or so, certain chemical processes take place — I presume I don’t need to go on about that.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Intendent Münster with a sigh. ‘You don’t need to. Who is she?’

Reinhart sat up straight and started scraping out his pipe.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but we have a bloke here who might know. His name is Traut — he was the one who found her. He’s a relative, it seems. Runs a business of his own. To be honest he’s not exactly my type — but being honest doesn’t really help us. .’

‘Have you interrogated him?’

‘Not yet. I thought there ought to be two of us — that’s why I rang you.’

Münster nodded.

‘Anything else before we get going?’

‘Not as far as I know at this stage,’ said Reinhart. ‘Shall we have a go at him? I think he’s been waiting for long enough now.’

‘It’s eleven o’clock now,’ said Münster. ‘High time we got started if we’re going to get any beauty sleep tonight.’

‘You’re right,’ said Reinhart, standing up. ‘There’s a time for everything. Just hang on a minute — I must have some tobacco handy: I reckon I can allow myself a bit of pleasure.’

‘What a depressing area this is,’ said Rooth after a while. ‘Thank God we don’t have to live here.’

Jung, who had grown up less than three hundred metres away from Moerckstraat, had no comment to make. He suggested instead that they should call it a day and sum up their impressions in the car. Rooth had no objections: they said goodnight to le Houde and his team of officers, and hoped they would have a fruitful night.

Le Houde was so tired that he didn’t even have the strength to swear at them, and when Rooth offered him half a bar of chocolate he simply turned his back on them.

‘Good to know that we have such well-brought-up colleagues,’ said Rooth, putting the chocolate into his own mouth. ‘Well, how did you get on? Have you found a strangler?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Jung. ‘But then, I’ve only managed two flats so far.’

‘I did three,’ said Rooth. ‘They don’t seem to know much about anybody else around here. But I expect fru Paraskevi must have had plenty to say for herself?’

Jung shrugged.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘She was there when they went into the flat, and she said she’d been feeling that something was wrong for quite some time. She’s on a disability pension, and is at home all day — presumably she notices things, as you might say. Her husband’s a Serb, incidentally: she’s a Croat. She thinks he’s living somewhere in the Balkans, but she hasn’t heard from him for five years.’

‘Great,’ said Rooth.

‘Yes, terrific. They have a daughter as well. She last saw her father when she was eight: she’s sixteen now. Martina Kammerle also had a daughter, according to Paraskevi. About as old as her own. Where the hell is she? you have to ask. It seems that nobody has seen her for a month either.’

‘Could she be the one who’s done it?’ wondered Rooth. ‘Strangled her mother then done a runner?’

Jung pulled a face.

‘That sounds a bit steep, but you never know. Surely there must be quite a lot of people who knew the Kammerles — relatives and friends, and suchlike. Not to mention enemies. Fru Paraskevi says fru Kammerle had a gentleman friend for a while in August-September. She never saw him, but she heard them talking.’

‘A gentleman friend?’ said Rooth. ‘Does that mean there wasn’t what you might call a steady relationship, then?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘Nothing that we’ve heard about so far, at least. Did your interviews produce anything of interest?’

‘Nothing more than a bit of heartburn,’ said Rooth with a sigh. ‘I must stop drinking coffee this late at night. No, nobody seems to know anything at all. None of the people I’ve spoken to were even quite sure of her name. That of the dead woman, I mean. Despite the fact that they’ve been living here for. . er, for how long? Two years, was it?’

‘One-and-a-half, I think,’ said Jung.

‘But no doubt this Traut bloke will be able to clarify a few things. There doesn’t seem to be much point in our running around and disturbing people when we haven’t got a clue about the background. For Christ’s sake, all we know so far is her name. Not much more than that, in any case.’

‘Very true,’ said Jung. ‘So what do you reckon we should do?’

‘Go home and get some sleep,’ said Rooth, after a split second’s thought. ‘I expect we’ll be spending all tomorrow knocking on doors around here, so no doubt we’ll get to know the place pretty well.’

Inspector Jung realized that for once, he was in full agreement with his colleague, and after having emptied his bladder of all that coffee and tea and more coffee — plus a tiny little glass of plum brandy fru Paraskevi had insisted on — in a well-hidden corner of the courtyard, they went back to the car.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Reinhart. ‘But as I’m sure you realize, this business has created an awful lot of work for us.’

‘No problem,’ said Egon Traut accommodatingly. ‘I’ve rung the missus and told her I’ll be coming home tomorrow instead.’

He tapped the breast pocket of his jacket, where the top part of a mobile telephone was sticking up. Münster and Reinhart sat down at the table opposite him, and Reinhart lit his pipe.

‘She’s pretty shaken, my wife is,’ said Traut. ‘But that’s understandable. They weren’t all that close, but a sister is a sister, let’s face it.’

‘Are there any other siblings?’ wondered Münster.

‘Were,’ said Traut. ‘A brother. He died. . Committed suicide, to be honest.’

‘There is every reason to be honest in this situation,’ stressed Reinhart. ‘Your sister-in-law has been brutally murdered, there’s no doubt about that, and we must catch whoever did it.’

‘Of course, obviously,’ Traut hastened to say. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help you get on the right track. .’

He broke off and raised the palms of his hands towards the ceiling, a gesture presumably meant to demonstrate the genuineness of his intentions. Münster regarded him with a feeling of mild distaste. Traut was about the same age as he was, around forty-five, but he looked heavy and bloated. The passage of time had taken its toll on him, but it was hardly as a result of work and hard effort, Münster suspected. More like living the good life. Sitting around doing nothing. Creamy sauces and strong booze. And a minimum of exercise. His red-coloured hair was sparse and lifeless, and combed in an odd sort of way from below his ears and upwards, apparently in a vain and rather pathetic attempt to conceal a well-developed bald patch.

Ah well, Münster thought, it’s not outward appearance that matters.

‘So you live up in Chadow,’ said Reinhart. ‘What brought you down here to Maardam?’

Traut cleared his throat and began to explain.

‘I was just passing through,’ he said. ‘On business. I usually make a little trip to Groenstadt and Bissenhof and other places around there at this time of year. Usually two or three days — it’s important to be in personal contact with your customers, that’s something I’ve never doubted. There are those who think that-’

‘What exactly is your business?’ interrupted Münster.

‘Optical display stands,’ said Traut with a professional half-smile. ‘I sell them to opticians and spectacle shop chains all over the country. My firm is called GROTTENAU, and it’s doing pretty well, though I say so myself. . Anyway, I went by car as usual, and I’d promised my old lady that on the way home I’d call in on her sister. She was a bit worried because she hasn’t heard anything from her for over a month. I did so, of course — blood is thicker than water after all — and when I realized that there didn’t seem to be anybody at home in the flat in Moerckstraat today either, I began to suspect that there was something wrong. .’

‘Why?’ wondered Reinhart. ‘They might have been at the cinema, or somewhere else.’

‘True enough,’ said Traut, digging out a cigarette. ‘Of course. But as she hadn’t answered the phone for such a long time and wasn’t at home this evening, I thought I ought to look into the situation. Try to get to the bottom of it while I was on the spot anyway. And the rest you know.’

He lit the cigarette and leaned back.

‘Tell us about Martina Kammerle,’ said Reinhart.

Traut inhaled deeply, coughed and looked worried.

‘Huh, what can one say?’ he said. ‘We didn’t have a lot of contact, as I said. None at all, really. I don’t think I’ve met her more than four or five times, ever, even though I’ve been married to her sister for twenty-three years. . Time passes, that’s one thing there’s no doubt about. She was a bit odd, Martina. Ill, in fact — you ought to be clear about that.’

‘Ill in what way?’ asked Münster.

‘Her psyche,’ said Traut, making a vague gesture in the direction of his own head as if to indicate where in the body the psyche was to be found. ‘Manic depressive, as it’s called. She’s suffered from it all her life. Spent time in care homes a few times, although that was quite a long time ago. .’

‘But she had a daughter, we gather,’ said Münster. ‘Who lived with her, is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ said Traut. ‘Mar. . Monica.’

‘Monica Kammerle?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old?’

Traut flung out his arms.

‘I don’t really know. In her teens. About fifteen or sixteen, I’d guess.’

‘And presumably you had no contact with her either?’

‘None at all.’

‘And who was Monica’s dad?’

Traut frowned and tried to think.

‘I can’t remember his name. Apart from Kammerle, of course. Yes, they were married, Martina and him, but he died. Four or five years ago, I’d say, but time passes so quickly. Car accident. He fell asleep at the wheel — that’s what they say, at least. I only met him once, briefly. . Ah yes, his name was Klaus of course, I remember now. I think things have gone downhill for Martina since she’s been on her own. Hasn’t been able to hold down a proper job and so on, that’s what my old lady says in any case. No, she didn’t exactly lead a happy life — but that it should end like this is. . well, a bit much, don’t you think?’

He looked at Reinhart and Münster in turn a few times, as if he was expecting them to enlighten him on how things really stood.

‘Do you know if she had a job at the moment?’ asked Münster.

‘Keine Ahnung, as they say in France,’ said Traut. ‘I think it would be better if you talked to my old lady about this. She’s taken it pretty hard, but of course she’d be pleased to give you any help she could. What kind of a loony could do something like this? I mean, you read about it in the papers and see it on the telly, but you don’t believe-’

‘We’ll talk to your wife in the next few days,’ interrupted Reinhart. ‘Possibly even tomorrow. Do you know if there’s anybody else who might be able to give us information? Anybody who knew Martina Kammerle or knows a bit more about her?’

Traut shook his head.

‘Or her daughter?’

‘No, no, I’m sorry. It’s as I said, we haven’t been in touch very much at all. There were six years between the sisters as well, and Martina was never easy to handle, you must be clear about that.’

‘How do you know that if you’ve hardly ever been in contact with her?’ wondered Münster.

Traut seemed to be thinking that one over.

‘The old lady told me,’ he said. ‘She keeps ringing her, although all she gets back is nearly always a lot of shit. . Or used to get a lot of shit, I should say. We’ve lent her money a few times, by the way, but we’ve never received anything back. Not even any shit. A pretty crappy investment, I must say. .’

‘When was that?’ Reinhart asked. ‘When you lent her money.’

‘Ages ago,’ said Traut. ‘Before she got married. Twenty years ago, something like that. . She’d just come out of a home, and we lent her some money so that she could get a flat. Not the kind of sum to make a fuss about, of course, and we didn’t do so.’

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart, looking at the clock. ‘It’s getting a bit late. I gather you have a hotel room for tonight, and intend driving up to Chadow tomorrow morning, is that right?’

‘Exactly,’ said Traut. ‘The Palace in Rejmer Plejn. If you need me for anything else I’ll be there until about eleven tomorrow morning.’

‘Excellent,’ said Reinhart. ‘I think we can leave it at that for now. I suppose there’s no point in asking you what you think might have happened — who might have murdered your sister-in-law, that is?’

‘No,’ said Traut, displaying the palms of his hands again. ‘How the devil would I know?’

‘Two questions,’ said Reinhart when Traut had left them alone. ‘If you can answer them, maybe we can get somewhere.’

‘Only two?’ said Münster. ‘I have a hundred. And we haven’t even started yet.’

‘No,’ said Reinhart. ‘We haven’t. But I can’t help wondering about the daughter. Where the hell is she? A fifteen-or sixteen-year-old girl can’t simply disappear into thin air. Did you notice that Traut didn’t even seem to be able to remember her name?’

Münster stood up and wriggled his way into his jacket.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I noted that. But even if people have forgotten about you, it’s a bit hard simply to go up in smoke. Do you think she’s lying in another rubbish bag somewhere? Or do you think she strangled her mother after a row over pocket money?’

Reinhart snorted, but didn’t answer.

‘What was your other question?’ asked Münster. ‘You said you had two.’

‘Traut,’ said Reinhart. ‘I have the feeling he’s keeping something from us, but I can’t work out what.’

Münster nodded.

‘I had the same impression, in fact. Anyway, I don’t suppose we’ve seen him for the last time. Shall we say goodnight now? It’s past midnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Reinhart. ‘I expect to see you here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. As clear in the head as a chess computer.’

‘I’ve always thought that Monday mornings have a special shimmer about them,’ said Münster. ‘Especially at this time of year. Was it half past nine you said?’