The Stranglers Honeymoon

16

‘Monica Kammerle,’ said Detective Inspector Krause. ‘What can you tell me about her?’

Welfare Officer Stroop tried hard to produce a smile hinting at mutual understanding before answering, but it looked somewhat ambiguous. She raised her narrow eyebrows and looked at him as one would look at an old but not entirely reliable ally. Krause clicked his biro a couple of times and looked out of the window. It was raining.

‘Well, what can one say?’ said the welfare officer hesitantly. ‘We’re so understaffed that we simply can’t keep up. There are over nine hundred pupils in this school.’

‘Minus one,’ said Krause. ‘You were in contact with Monica Kammerle at the beginning of this term — perhaps you remember that, at least? What did she want?’

‘I’m not allowed to discuss such matters with third parties. .’ said Stroop slowly, rotating a ring with a large green stone round and round her little finger.

‘Rubbish,’ said Krause.

‘Rubbish?’

‘Her mother has been murdered and the girl has been missing for at least six weeks. If you don’t tell me what you know, I shall report you to the authorities this afternoon. No matter how busy you are, you have a duty to keep tabs on all the pupils in this school.’

Stroop blushed well into her bleached hair. She fiddled nervously with the various piles of papers on her desk, and drank something out of a china mug with blue flowers on.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘These are. . well, these are extraordinary circumstances. Yes, she came to see me. She wanted to transfer to another school, it was as simple as that.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘Yes. She told me about her situation, and said she wanted to transfer to another grammar school.’

‘Why did she want to transfer?’

‘Because of the situation in her class. She thought she was being bullied.’

‘Was she?’

The welfare officer shrugged.

‘I only saw her once. That’s what she said, in any case — but I don’t always have time to dig more deeply into every individual case. Girls at that age are very sensitive, and you have to be very careful about how you handle them. And besides, the term had only just started.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Krause.

Stroop looked down and clasped her hands.

‘Well, I decided that her situation could justify a school transfer. Especially as she had thought it through herself, and come up with a specific proposal. I contacted the Joannis Grammar School in Löhr, and arranged for her to go there for an interview. Monica was supposed to visit the school and see if she liked it.’

‘And?’

‘Well, she went there: and as she didn’t come back here we took it for granted that she had made up her mind. It was already decided which class she would join, and so on. .’

‘You assumed that she had transferred to the Joannis Grammar School?’

‘Yes.’

‘And no doubt you checked up in accordance with the official procedures?’

‘Well. . various other things cropped up that needed dealing with. You must understand the working conditions we are landed with here, and-’

‘No,’ interrupted Krause. ‘I don’t understand that at all. Did you even check that she had been there?’

‘Er. . well, I can’t really remember what we did.’

‘Remember?’ said Krause. ‘Surely you must know if you rang them and checked that she had been there?’

Stroop took another sip from her mug, and fiddled with the green stone.

‘It’s possible that it was overlooked. I had a trainee to supervise, and. . well, I assumed of course that everything had gone according to plan.’

‘What do you mean? What plan?’

‘The procedures we had drawn up. We’d all agreed that she could start out at Löhr immediately, if that’s what she wanted. . And when she didn’t turn up here any more, well. . we assumed that everything was done and dusted.’

Krause paused and made notes.

‘Do you know for sure that she actually did visit the school in Löhr?’

‘Yes, she was supposed to do that. It was a Friday. .’

‘Supposed to?’ said Krause. ‘Have you spoken to your colleague at Löhr since you sent Monica there?’

‘Yes. .’

‘When?’

‘I. . I phoned her this morning, and. . well, it’s not absolutely clear whether or not she turned up on that Friday. They are looking into it. .’

‘Not clear?’ said Krause. ‘I think it’s crystal clear. Monica Kammerle never set foot in Joannis Grammar School. She’s been missing since Thursday the twenty-first of September, and to say the very least I think it’s remarkable that nobody at the school where she is registered has reacted at all. Six weeks have passed.’

Stroop made as if to say something, but changed her mind. Krause closed his notebook and put his pen in his breast pocket.

‘I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Have you anything to add that might throw light on the girl’s disappearance? Anything at all — but let’s have no more prevarication.’

The welfare officer shook her head and looked decidedly shifty.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘My personal circumstances have been difficult. I attended my brother’s funeral yesterday. . That’s not an excuse, but. .’

Her voice broke, and Krause suddenly felt embarrassed. He stood up.

‘I’m only doing my job,’ he said, and when he had closed the door behind him he wondered why on earth he had made such an idiotic comment.

But then, you have to say something in your own defence.

As agreed, Moreno met the two girls in the Bunge Grammar School cafeteria: but after a brief discussion they decided it would be better to adjourn to a more neutral location.

They ended up at the Café Lamprecht, which was only a stone’s throw away, and at this time of day had plenty of little corners where they could talk without being overheard.

Both girls were dressed in black, both smoked like chimneys and both ordered coffee drinks called Black amp; Brown. More or less the only thing that distinguished between the two young ladies was their names: Betty Schaafens and Edwina Boekman. Moreno tried to recall what she looked like when she was sixteen, getting on for seventeen, but no really clear images came to mind. Even so, she found it hard to believe that she had ever gone through a similar phase.

But you can never be sure. .

‘As I said, it’s about your classmate Monica Kammerle,’ she began by saying. ‘We’d like some information about her.’

‘Why?’ asked Betty.

‘What kind of information?’ wondered Edwina.

‘I’m afraid I can’t go into that at the moment,’ said Moreno in a friendly tone. ‘Maybe I can tell you more on another occasion.’

The girls inhaled deeply and exchanged glances.

‘Okay,’ said Betty.

‘All right,’ said Edwina. ‘But she’s not in our class any more.’

‘So I gather,’ said Moreno. ‘But you were in the same class even before you started at the grammar school, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, for three years,’ said Edwina. ‘Deijkstraaskolan.’

‘Four years in my case,’ said Betty. What do you want to know?’

‘Just a few general things. What she’s like and how she gets on with the rest of the class. With her friends, and that sort of thing.’

‘We don’t socialize with her,’ said Edwina. ‘Never have done. She doesn’t like us, and has never made a secret of the fact.’

‘Really?’ said Moreno. ‘How come?’

Edwina shrugged. Betty blew out a cloud of smoke and pulled a face.

‘She’s odd,’ she said. ‘Sort of superior. Always wants to do things that nobody else does. Nobody misses her, in fact.’

‘Does she have any friends in your class? Anybody who knows her a bit better than you seem to do?’

The girls shook their black heads.

‘No, Monica doesn’t have any friends. She sort of doesn’t want to have any. It was like that in those other classes, and it’s the same now. Or was, if she really has transferred. .’

‘I see,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you seen her at all since she changed schools?’

‘No,’ said Edwina. ‘I haven’t seen a trace of her.’

‘No,’ said Betty, ‘me neither.’

‘But surely she must have had some friends in your old class?’ said Moreno. ‘Surely everybody has a friend or two? I need to talk to somebody who knows a bit about her.’

The girls sat there in silence, thinking. Exchanging doubtful glances and stubbing out their cigarettes.

‘I can’t think of anybody,’ said Betty. ‘Can you?’

Edwina shook her head.

‘No, she was very much a loner. Some people are like that, and Monica was one of them. She did mix a bit with Federica Mannen, but Federica moved away when we were in class nine.’

Moreno made a note of the name and asked where the girl had moved to, but neither Edwina nor Betty could remember.

‘Why did Monica change schools?’ she asked instead.

‘Huh,’ said Betty. ‘I suppose she didn’t like it here. Why don’t you ask her?’

Moreno didn’t respond.

‘Have you met her mother at all?’

Judging by their feeble reaction, the news of Martina Kammerle’s death hadn’t yet reached them. They shook their heads again, and Edwina said they had never seen any sign of either of Monica Kammerle’s parents. But they had heard that her mother was a bit of a weirdo. A lot of a weirdo, in fact. She hadn’t even turned up to some parents’ meetings before a school trip when they were in class nine — but Betty thought that maybe wasn’t so odd as Monica didn’t take part in the trip anyway.

‘Where did you go to?’ wondered Moreno.

The girls explained that they had gone to London, and that it was fab. All the class had been there apart from Monica and a fat slob called Dimitri.

‘A really, really fat slob,’ agreed Betty, lighting another cigarette.

Moreno had a sudden urge to snatch the cigarette out of her excessively made-up mouth, squash it in the ashtray — the cigarette, that is, not her mouth — and tell her and her friend to go to hell. Or at least to go out jogging.

Or to eat an apple. No, she thought, if I really passed through a phase like this I must have suppressed all memory of it.

And rightly so. Some things need burying.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Edwina. ‘Has something happened to her?’

‘I can’t go into that,’ said Moreno again. ‘But if you come across anybody who’s seen Monica recently, please give me a ring. Ask among your classmates if you have time.’

She took out a couple of business cards and gave them one each. The girls took them, and suddenly their heavily made-up faces took on a more serious, unforced expression.

As if a child were peeping out from behind all the makeup, Moreno thought. She guessed that it was the italicized words on the cards that had brought about the change: Detective Inspector Moreno.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Betty. ‘We’ll. . we’ll ask around. Is it. . I mean, is it serious? What’s-’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any details,’ said Moreno for the third time. ‘Thank you very much for speaking to me. I might be in touch again before long.’

‘Great,’ said Edwina Boekman.

Inspector Moreno stood up and left the Café Lamprecht. Neither of the girls showed any sign of going back to school, and when she came out into the street Moreno caught a glimpse of their black heads through the dirty window, deep in conversation. Enveloped in fresh clouds of smoke from newly lit cigarettes.

They’ll have cellulite and drooping breasts before they are twenty, she thought, sighing deeply. Serves them right.

‘I know what’s the worst aspect of this bloody job of ours,’ said Rooth.

‘Really?’ said Jung. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’

‘The constant confrontation with life and death,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s so hard to handle that you’re just not able to cope. You either have to be so damned serious and profound and gloomy all the time — and my petty brain’s not really up to that. .’

‘I know,’ said Jung. ‘Or?’

‘Don’t interrupt,’ said Rooth. ‘Or you have to back off and keep it all at arm’s length. Be cynical, or however you’d like to put it. . And my big bleeding heart can’t manage that in the long run. Do you understand what I mean?’

Jung thought for a moment.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely right, for once. You’re constantly veering from one extreme to the other. Facing up to Death, or waving two fingers at him. That’s what it’s all about.’

Rooth scratched his head.

‘Very well put, dammit!’ he said. ‘Facing up or two fingers! That’s what I shall call my schizophrenic memoirs. No wonder we grow prematurely old. If only we could look after rabbits instead, or something of that sort.’

‘That will come in the next life,’ Jung assured him. ‘Anyway, shall we go in and get going?’

‘Let’s do that,’ said Rooth. He put the key into the lock and turned it. ‘The murderer’s name is what we’re after!’

They entered Martina Kammerle’s flat. There was a sort of grey light inside, but nevertheless Jung began by walking from room to room and switching on every light he could find.

Rooth put a packet of sandwiches and two bottles of mineral water on the kitchen table, and looked around.

‘An interesting job, this,’ he said. ‘Believe it or not.’

It was Rooth himself who had proposed it, so Jung refrained from comment. Besides, he was inclined to agree: if the person who had put his hands round Martina Kammerle’s neck just over a month ago and squeezed tightly — if that person was known to his victim, no matter how slightly, was Rooth’s point — then the probability was that she had written down his name somewhere.

If not in blood on the wall under the bed where her body was discovered, then in some other place. In an address book, perhaps. A note pad. On a scrap of paper. . Anywhere at all. There were indications that the killer had cleaned up the flat and removed any traces of his presence: but he had been most concerned about fingerprints, and surely he couldn’t have checked absolutely everything?

There was nothing to suggest that Martina Kammerle or her missing daughter had had a wide circle of friends — on the contrary. If for instance they were to find fifty names — Rooth had maintained — there was a good chance that one of them would be the person they were looking for. The murderer.

To be honest, this was a routine measure that was carried out in eleven out of ten investigations: but with a bit of luck the chances of finding a vital clue were greater in this case than usual. The investigation team had been in agreement on that point.

So, it was time for Inspectors Rooth and Jung to get going. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and they had promised Reinhart to report by five in the afternoon.

Or to be pedantic, that was when Reinhart had said he expected them to report.

‘I’ll take the mother’s room, and you take the daughter’s,’ said Rooth. ‘To start with, at least. We’ll meet in the kitchen two hours from now over a sandwich.’

‘Two hours?’ wondered Jung. ‘Can you really last as long as that without food?’

‘Character,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s all a question of character and strength of mind. I’ll explain it to you in more detail some other time.’

‘I’ll look forward to that,’ said Jung, opening the door to Monica Kammerle’s teenage room.