The Stranglers Honeymoon

18

After the brief run-through in Reinhart’s office on Tuesday afternoon, Inspector Rooth paid a visit to the gym in the basement of the police station.

He pumped iron and pedalled away for almost twenty minutes, then showered and loitered in the sauna for forty. Sweated himself dry, rested and got dressed — almost another hour’s effort.

When he emerged into Wejmarstraat it was still only half past seven, and he had plenty of time. His table at Kraus was reserved for half past eight, and since for some incomprehensible reason it wasn’t raining, he went for a long and invigorating walk along Wejmargraacht and back — as far as the allotments next to the Richter Stadium.

Why not, now that the fitness gremlin had sneaked its way into his being?

As he was walking, he tried to imagine how the evening would turn out. He had no difficulty in conjuring up the face of Jasmina Teuwers in his mind’s eye. No difficulty at all. Her high cheekbones. Her long neck and blonde hair. Her blue-green eyes that were so bright, he had been tongue-tied the first time he gazed into them. Her smile, that was like sunrise over the sea.

Che bella donna! Rooth thought — they had first met when they both attended a course in Italian. That was no coincidence, of course: last summer he had phoned his good friend Maarten Hoeght, whose job involved organizing evening courses, and asked which beginners’ courses attracted the most eligible young ladies. French and Italian, Hoeght had declared without a moment’s hesitation: and since Rooth had studied French at grammar school and achieved less than satisfactory grades, he had chosen Italian.

Italiano! The language of Dante and Boccaccio. And Corleone. One evening a week. Thursdays, between eight and ten o’clock. At the very first class it had struck him that choosing this course was a stroke of genius. Twenty-two women, three men: one of the other men was a Greek Orthodox priest in his sixties; the other was a cripple, but had nevertheless done a runner after only two sessions.

Easy meat, polyglot Rooth had thought: and he still thought so two months later.

Like the experienced if somewhat wounded courtesan he was, he had proceeded with caution. He had restricted himself to non-alcoholic drinks, and chatted urbanely with three different women on three different Thursday evenings: but in the end nature and fate had asserted themselves, and he had selected Jasmina Teuwers.

It was after the latest class the previous week that he had eventually plucked up enough courage to ask — without any beating about the bush — if she might be prepared to have dinner with him: nothing special. When, after an exceedingly brief hesitation (which wasn’t really a hesitation at all, Rooth decided, but merely a perfectly understandable palpitation), she said yes, he had felt once again like the awkwardly blushing fifteen-year-old he had been at school dances.

Incredible, Rooth thought. The wings of love will transport you through fire and water. He wondered what such thoughts might be in Italian. Perhaps that was a question they could discuss while eating their dessert?

Amore. . acqua. . fue. .?

He arrived at Kraus a quarter of an hour early, but the table was free and so he sat down and waited.

As he sat there he recalled the little distinction he and Jung had discussed that morning. Facing up to facts of life and death, or waving two fingers at them.

What was his own approach, in fact? Did he want to face up to the facts of his own life? Did he dare to?

He ordered a beer, and thought about it.

Forty-two is old. Unmarried, not engaged. Detective inspector with prospects of promotion to intendent in three or four years’ time.

What difference did it make, for God’s sake? Inspector or intendent?

A few hundred a month more. What would he do with the extra money? Buy a bigger aquarium?

Not much more is going to happen in my life, he thought in a moment of grim insight. Unless I’m shot in the course of duty, that is. That’s always a possibility.

And nothing much has really happened thus far either, he added. Nothing to speak of, that is. Why don’t I have a wife and children and a context, like Münster and Reinhart?

Even Jung seemed to have solid ground under his feet, since he moved in with Maureen. Why was it only Inspector Rooth who chased after women without success, year after year?

But then again, he thought philosophically and took a swig of beer, then again it’s not a hundred per cent clear that such aspirations are worth bothering about. Just look at my poor sisters!

Rooth had four sisters. They were younger than he was, and had all been in such a rush to find a man and a house and children that you could be forgiven for thinking it was some sort of competition. At the last Christmas dinner at his seventy-odd-year-old parents’ place out at Penderdixte, if he remembered and had counted correctly, the number of nephews and nieces amounted to nine. And at least two of the sisters had been pregnant. His father had commented that the situation was very Icelandic — with a meaningful look at Rooth’s mother, who had come over from Rejkjavik shortly after the war. Or maybe he had gone there to fetch her: there were several uncertainties in the family history.

Anyway, thought Rooth laconically, whatever the circumstances I’ll never be able to survive without relations. But I prefer women of my own to networks of relatives.

At that point the image of Jasmina Teuwers floated up into his consciousness again, and he forgot all about that business of facing up to facts or waving two fingers.

But it was already five minutes after half past. Why hadn’t she arrived?

A quarter of an hour later she still hadn’t turned up, and he had sent the waitress away twice without having ordered.

What the hell had happened? Rooth began to think that it was embarrassing to sit there alone at the table. All around him were diners chatting away merrily, devouring their main courses and draining bottles of wine: it was only at his corner table, set for two, that there was a lonely, middle-aged detective inspector with shattered hopes and a receding hairline.

Bugger this for a lark, he thought. I’ll wait for another five minutes, then I’ll phone her.

In fact he held out for ten minutes; and then when he furtively took his mobile out of his briefcase, he realized that he didn’t have her number.

‘Sacramento diabolo basta,’ Rooth muttered silently to himself. ‘Madre mia, what the hell should I do? Something must have happened to her. No doubt she’s been run over by a tram on the way here. Or been mugged. Or been arrested by the police.’

After a little more thought that last possibility seemed to be somewhat unlikely — and it suddenly occurred to him that he had given her his telephone number. Yes indeed: he hadn’t received hers, but she’d got his. For some reason or other.

Has something cropped up? he wondered, and rang his own home number in order to listen to his answering machine.

There was only one message, and it was from her. Recorded at 18.21. Round about the time he was in the sauna.

She was terribly sorry, she said, but there was a problem. A colleague had suddenly been taken ill, and she’d been forced to work over. She probably wouldn’t get home until about eleven, but she left her number so that he could ring her.

Rooth switched off his mobile and stared at it for a while.

Sorry, she had said. Terribly sorry.

And she had left her number and asked him to ring her.

Hmm, he thought. Maybe that’s not a bad sign after all. He’d just have to be patient.

He beckoned to the waitress, ordered another beer plus a salad and a large steak.

It wasn’t that he particularly felt like working, but sitting there drinking coffee and cognac with nothing to look at apart from the china and his own hands did not seem especially satisfactory.

That was why he took the list of names out of his briefcase.

That was why he started studying those forty-six names rather more closely.

That was why he suddenly reacted to one of them.

Just because he’d been reading casually through the list in a typically two-fingered sort of way. His brain switched off, but nevertheless receptive in that remarkable way he remembered from talking to Van Veeteren on some occasion or other.

There was a D in brackets after the name. D as in daughter. It was Jung who’d found it. He remembered it now. Monica Kammerle’s little notebook, to be precise: it hadn’t meant a thing when he first wrote it down together with all the other names, but now it rang a bell. Surely that was the man’s name? Surely it was?. .

He checked his watch. Five past ten. The night was yet young. He took out his address book and dialled Ewa Moreno’s number.

‘Good evening,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s your favourite colleague.’

‘So I hear,’ said Moreno.

‘I hope you hadn’t gone to bed?’

‘At ten o’clock? Who do you think I am?’

‘We’d better not go into that,’ said Rooth. ‘Anyway, have you looked at the list?’

‘What list?’

‘What list! For Christ’s sake! We work our guts out and produce a very instructive list of names, and then discover that our sisters and brothers in the force haven’t even-’

‘Oh,’ said Moreno, ‘that list. No, I haven’t had time yet. Why do you ask?’

‘Huh,’ said Rooth. ‘There’s a name on it that it’s suddenly occurred to me that I recognize.’

‘Suddenly?’

‘Yes. I didn’t think about it when we were slaving away and writing down all the names, Jung and I; but now I’m sitting here at Kraus with the list in my hand, and it jumps off the page at me. .’

‘Eh?’ said Moreno.

He broke off, and the line was silent for a few seconds.

‘Are you telling me that you’re sitting at Kraus and working?’

‘Not really, but a girl I was supposed to have dinner with didn’t turn up, and so — but bollocks to that. Are you going to get your list out or aren’t you?’

‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘Just a minute.’

Rooth waited and drank the rest of his cognac.

‘Number eleven,’ he said when Moreno returned. ‘Tomas Gassel. Does that ring a bell?’

Moreno said nothing, and for a moment he wondered if there was a fault on the line.

‘Hello. Are you still there?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Moreno. ‘Of course I’m still here. It’s just that I was a bit surprised. You’re absolutely right. Tomas Gassel must be that priest. . the one who fell under the train. There surely can’t be anybody else with that name. What the hell does he have to do with all this?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering,’ said Rooth. ‘What happened to that investigation? It was you who was in charge of it, I seem to remember.’

‘Shelved,’ said Moreno. ‘It will be closed down altogether shortly, I assume. There’s nothing to suggest a crime.’

‘Until now,’ said Rooth.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Until now,’ said Rooth again.

‘Okay,’ said Moreno.

She thought for a moment.

‘Hmm, maybe there was a bit more than we thought earlier as well,’ she said. ‘With regard to Gassel. To be honest. . Yes, to be honest I think this changes the whole situation. It might be pure coincidence, of course, but I have the feeling that it isn’t. It would be much too. . too improbable.’

‘Really?’ said Rooth. ‘Would you kindly stop talking in riddles, woman. What the hell are you saying?’

But Moreno evidently had no desire to fill him in on that point.

‘Gassel?’ she mumbled instead. ‘What the hell’s going on? Anyway, we must look into this in more detail tomorrow — and obviously, I must get in touch with the Chief Inspector again.’

‘The Chief Inspector?’ wondered Rooth. ‘Do you mean. .?’

‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘I mean him. I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Thank you for ringing — I shan’t sleep a wink now all night.’

Rooth thought for a moment.

‘Would you like me to pop over?’ he said: but Ewa Moreno only laughed and hung up.

He put his mobile away, and looked around the almost full, buzzing restaurant.

Checked his watch.

Saw that it was still only a quarter past ten, and decided to round off with a dark beer.

Then he would go home and phone Jasmina Teuwers.

The Chief Inspector? he thought, when his drink had been served. What the hell has he got to do with this?

WALLBURG

JUNE 1999