The Stranglers Honeymoon

30

Inspector Baasteuwel looked for a suitable place to put his wet raincoat. As he didn’t find anywhere, he simply dropped it on the floor just inside the door.

Reinhart looked up and nodded.

‘Welcome to headquarters. Take a seat.’

‘Thank you,’ said Baasteuwel, lighting a cigarette. ‘I happened to be passing, as I said, so I thought I’d pop in and see how things are going. I see you’ve been starring on the telly. . A happy New Year, by the way.’

‘Thank you, and the same to you,’ said Reinhart. ‘As for the telly, well, it was worth a try.’

‘I actually watched the programme,’ Baasteuwel admitted. ‘And very informative it was, I must say. But I gather you haven’t had much of a response?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘But a bit, even so?’

Reinhart scratched his head while wondering what to say.

‘Chickenfeed,’ he said, examining his fingernails. ‘We had confirmation of what we already knew. That the priest was in fact pushed under the train, for instance. And that the Kammerle girl had met him — at least once. A young lad from her school had seen them together in a cafe.’

‘A cafe?’

‘Yes. You might think that was a somewhat unorthodox location for a confession, but maybe it wasn’t really a confession.’

Baasteuwel nodded.

‘So we can be pretty confident that it was the same killer in all three cases,’ said Reinhart. ‘A pretty meticulous type, it seems: he’s wiped away more or less every single fingerprint in the flat where the woman was murdered, not just his own.’

‘What does that indicate?’ wondered Baasteuwel.

‘Nothing in particular; but it could be that he’d been there quite often, and wanted to be on the safe side. .’

‘It must have taken him a hell of a time,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Even if it’s only a small flat it must have been a devil of a job.’

‘He had plenty of time,’ said Reinhart, starting to fill his pipe with elaborate care. ‘Don’t forget that it was over a month before we came into the picture. He’d have had time to repaper the walls and install a new kitchen if that had been necessary.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Baasteuwel. ‘I reckon it’s the same bastard as in my case, no matter what. He didn’t leave any fingerprints in Wallburg either — but he didn’t need to be so careful there. He’d presumably only had time to wrap his fingers round the odd door handle and glass. .’

‘Plus her neck,’ said Reinhart.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘We mustn’t forget that. So you agree that we’re both looking for the same bastard, do you?’

‘Why not?’ said Reinhart. ‘It’s always an advantage to be looking for just one loony rather than two.’

Baasteuwel nodded again.

‘What was that name you mentioned? Kerran or something like that?’

‘Benjamin Kerran,’ said Reinhart, with a deep sigh of disgust. ‘Yes, it’s possible that’s what he called himself — but it’s no more than a guess.’

‘The name means nothing to me,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘You’ll have to fill me in a bit, I’m afraid.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘Benjamin Kerran is a fictional murderer in an obscure English crime novel from the thirties. The Kammerle girl had written down his name in a notebook. That’s all, really — we haven’t managed to track down a real, living person of that name.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Baasteuwel.

‘Very,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, as I said it’s only a shot in the dark — but the swine we’re looking for seems to be a pretty unusual type, and it’s as well we bear that in mind. Why did he saw the girl’s legs off, for instance? Can you tell me that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Baasteuwel.

‘Why did he hide the mother under the bed, but bury the girl on the sea shore? Any ideas about that?’

‘Remarkable,’ said Baasteuwel again. ‘So they were murdered at the same time, were they?’

‘More or less, as far as we can establish. It’s not possible to be absolutely precise. But surely it’s a bit odd if he murdered both of them in their home and then hid just the daughter away somewhere else.’

‘Was he having an affair with the mother?’

‘I expect so.’

‘What about the daughter?”

‘What do you mean?’ said Reinhart.

‘Nothing,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I don’t mean any bloody thing.’

‘I know what you’re getting at, of course,’ said Reinhart.

He inhaled deeply, and breathed out a cloud of smoke over his desk.

‘Thank God you allow me to smoke in your office,’ said Baasteuwel. He stubbed out his cigarette and produced another one. Reinhart raised an eyebrow in surprise.

‘Are you saying that you’re not allowed to smoke in the station up at Wallburg?’

‘I certainly am,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘The whole place has been a smoke-free zone for the last couple of years.’

‘What a bloody scandal,’ said Reinhart sympathetically. ‘How do you manage?’

‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I smoke despite everything.’

‘Good for you,’ said Reinhart.

Irene Sammelmerk contemplated the woman who had just sat down on the other side of her desk.

Between sixty and sixty-five, she thought. Not badly off. Platinum-blonde hair cut pageboy style (or was it a wig?), fur-trimmed coat and brown medium-high boots that must be calf-leather if not even more expensive. Handbag in similar style on her knee. Clear-cut features and restrained make-up.

If she hadn’t been shrouded in a cloud of uncertainty, she could well have passed for a president’s wife at a formal photo-shoot, Sammelmerk thought. Or a former film star.

‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘Would you like anything to drink?’

The woman shook her head.

‘Let’s start from the beginning. My name’s Irene Sammelmerk, I’m a detective chief inspector. Your name is Clara Peerenkaas: would you be so good as to tell me why you’ve come here?’

Peerenkaas licked her lips and adjusted her handbag.

‘It’s about my daughter, she’s the one I’m worried about. . I told another policeman all about it on the phone earlier on — I can’t remember his name, but maybe you know. .’

‘I’d be grateful if you could tell me all about it again,’ said Sammelmerk, ‘so that we can have a proper record of all the details. I’ll be recording this conversation, so it’s important that we don’t miss anything. It’s about your daughter, you said?. .’

Fru Peerenkaas nodded.

‘Ester, yes. Our daughter. She lives here in Maardam. In Meijkstraat. My husband and I still live in Willby. Ester has disappeared, that’s why I’m here. We haven’t been able to make contact with her for a whole week — for God’s sake, you’ve got to help us to find her. .’

She broke off and clasped her hands over her handbag. Her narrow nose was trembling non-stop. It seemed obvious to Sammelmerk that panic was lurking just below the surface.

‘When did you last speak to her?’ she asked.

‘On Monday. Monday last week. We spoke on the telephone, and she was going to give us a ring on Wednesday — it was about a Christmas present that Ester had promised to try and change in a shop here in Maardam. . It was a soup tureen: my husband and I are trying to collect a whole set, but the one we got for Christmas wasn’t right, and we were — or rather, Ester was — going to go to Messerling’s and try to swap it for the right design. And she was going to phone me about it on Wednesday.’

‘I see,’ said Sammelmerk, making notes. ‘What’s your daughter’s job?’

‘She’s an administrator at Gemejnte Hospital — finance and all that sort of thing. She’s good. She’s been there for nearly five years now. . I’ve rung and spoken to them, of course. But she hasn’t been seen since last Tuesday.’

‘And they don’t know where she is?’

‘No. She hasn’t turned up for five working days without getting in touch with them. Nothing like that has ever happened before. Not for five years.’

‘Who else have you been in contact with?’

‘Nobody else,’ said fru Peerenkaas in a low voice. ‘Ester lives on her own, we don’t know much about her circle of friends. She was married, but that was a pretty awful business — maybe we don’t need to go into that?’

Sammelmerk thought for a moment.

‘That’s up to you,’ she said. ‘If you are sure that it doesn’t have anything to do with the present state of affairs, then of course we don’t need to poke our noses into that.’

Fru Peerenkaas seemed to hesitate, but decided not to go any further into it.

‘Have you been to examine her flat?’ Sammelmerk asked.

Peerenkaas took a deep, somewhat worried breath.

‘No,’ she said. ‘We called in and rang the doorbell, my husband and I, but she wasn’t at home. We don’t have a key to her flat. There were no lights on, we could see that from the street.’

‘When was this?’ asked Sammelmerk. ‘What time were you there?’

‘About two hours ago.’

‘Where’s your husband now?’

‘At his doctor’s. For various tests. We’d planned to come to Maardam today in any case. We’ll be having lunch at Kraus unless. .’

The rest of the sentence remained hanging in the air. Inspector Sammelmerk said nothing for a while, studying the rough notes she had made. Ah well, she thought, this is why the tape recorder is running.

‘You’ve no idea what might have happened?’

Fru Peerenkaas shook her head.

‘None at all?’

‘No. We saw Ester at Christmas, and everything seemed to be the same as usual — she was happy and positive, just as she always is. Then she went off to the Canary Isles, and came back home last Sunday.’

‘And nothing like this has ever happened before? She’s never cut herself off like this, for some reason or other?’

‘Never. Not even when she was getting divorced. It’s not like Ester at all.’

‘Is there a man in her life?’

Fru Peerenkaas blinked a few times before answering.

‘Probably. But she doesn’t have a steady relationship — I’d have known if she did. Her marriage left her scarred, so she’s been a bit more careful than most when it comes to committing herself. Nowadays, I mean.’

‘I understand,’ said Sammelmerk. ‘Do you have any photographs of your daughter you could let us have for a few days? It’s probably a bit soon to send out a Wanted notice, but if we need to do that eventually we shall need a photograph, of course.’

Fru Peerenkaas produced an envelope from her handbag, and handed it over.

‘It’s a few years old,’ she said. ‘But it’s the only one we could find, and it’s a very good likeness.’

Sammelmerk took out the photograph and examined it for a moment. That was quite long enough to establish that Ester Peerenkaas was her mother’s daughter. The same clean-cut, delicate features, the same finely drawn mouth. Dark, straight hair, a generous smile.

About thirty, Sammelmerk guessed — and so a few years older than that now. Pretty. She wouldn’t have had any trouble in finding herself a man, if she had wanted one. She wondered about the trauma evidently connected with the woman’s marriage: it seemed to be more than just the divorce in any case.

She put the photograph back in the envelope.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ll do all we can to throw light on this matter. If you just give me her address and tell me how we can get in touch with you, I’ll get back to you — will tomorrow be all right?’

Fru Peerenkaas produced a card from her handbag.

‘You’re welcome to call this evening, even if you don’t know anything by then. We’ll be driving back home this afternoon. Our mobile number is on the card as well. Ester’s address and so on is on the back of it.’

Sammelmerk promised to ring by seven o’clock at the latest. Fru Peerenkaas stood up, shook hands and left the room.

Inspector Sammelmerk switched off the tape recorder and leaned back.

A pretty woman has gone missing, she thought.

Not for the first time in the history of the world, and these things rarely end up happily. Rarely or never.

She started to think about what measures they ought to take.

Her first act was to pick up the telephone and call Inspector Moreno.

When Chief Inspector Reinhart got home, he noticed that his soul was itching.

His copper’s soul, that is, not his private one. Although it wasn’t always easy to keep them apart.

His wife and daughter were not at home, but there was a note on the kitchen table: they were three floors below, with Julek and Napoleon.

Julek was Reinhart’s daughter’s fiancé — both of them were aged three. Napoleon was a tortoise, and considerably older.

Julek also had a mother, but unfortunately she had to attend a meeting: which was why Winnifred and Joanna had gone downstairs to step into the breech.

They would be back at nine or thereabouts, it said on the note. Reinhart was welcome to go down and join them if he felt like it; otherwise there was a pie in the fridge. It just needed heating up.

He looked at the clock: only a few minutes to seven.

He hesitated for a moment, then took out the pie and put it into the oven. Sat down at the table and started scratching his soul.

It was that confounded case, of course. Yet again. It would soon be four months: that was a hell of a long time.

And hardly a feather in the police force’s cap. He’d gone in to work over the New Year as well: it was always worrying to be lumbered with unsolved cases at this time of year, he’d noticed that before. It was as if the Christmas and New Year holidays exerted some mysterious kind of malevolent infection on all criminal cases, and in January all the loose ends seemed to feel sticky and smelly, as if officers were dealing with some kind of archaeological work rather than criminological tasks.

But of course the main reason for his copper’s soul being irritated was the visit by Inspector Baasteuwel and the conversation they had had. It had persisted all afternoon, not surprisingly.

They had eaten lunch together, and if Reinhart had not noticed it earlier, he certainly became aware then that Baasteuwel was not just any old detective inspector.

He was intelligent. That in itself was unusual. He was utterly lacking in respect for his superiors, indifferent to prestige. And evidently afflicted by the same vulnerability to an itch in the soul as Reinhart himself.

There was a murderer on the loose, that was the crux of the matter.

The whole point of a detective officer’s work was to ensure that there were no murderers on the loose. There were other aspects of the job as well, of course, but to be lumbered with three — or even four if one included Baasteuwel’s — unsolved murders, well, that was certainly nothing to boast about.

If one were to compare the situation with that of other professions, it was more or less on a par with a taxi driver who could never find his way to the correct address (or at least went to the wrong place four times in a row).

Or a locksmith who was never able to open a door, or a farmer who forgot to sow his seeds.

Shit, shit, shit, Reinhart thought and took the pie out of the oven even though it was only lukewarm: we really must make sure we get somewhere with this bloody strangler.

It’s by no means impossible that he might strike again.

Not impossible at all.