The Stranglers Honeymoon

41

‘I drank an American beer once,’ admitted Van Veeteren. ‘Only once — please note that. But apart from that error, this must be the weakest brew I’ve ever come across.’

He eyed his two former colleagues with an expression of restrained displeasure.

‘The Chief Inspector’s imagery has not deteriorated since he became a bookseller,’ said Münster drily. ‘It certainly is a bit on the thin side, but the implications are quite clear even so, I think.’

‘I agree,’ said Moreno. ‘It might be a little wishy-washy, but there’s no denying the taste.’

‘Ah, well,’ muttered Van Veeteren, taking a swig of Adenaar’s significantly more full-bodied ale. ‘I understand what you’re getting at. We’re looking for an academic, I gather. Somebody employed in some capacity or other by Maardam University. A professor or a reader, presumably, and a member of the Succulents. I actually know of them, but only by name. Anyway, forgive my teasing: there clearly is a pattern. But let’s face it, anybody at all could have dropped that little lapel badge in Wallburg.’

‘Of course,’ said Moreno.

‘But the suggestions of a literary murderer fit in well with what we’ve concluded already,’ said Münster. ‘Benjamin Kerran and Amos Brugger. We’ve thought all the time that the killer must be quite well educated.’

‘You don’t need to be well educated to read a tenth-rate English crime novel,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘It links all the murders together,’ insisted Moreno. ‘The priest, Monica and Martina Kammerle have been connected from the start, but now it’s pretty sure that he has Kristine Kortsmaa and Ester Peerenkaas on his conscience as well. If you have the choice, it’s always better to be looking for just one murderer rather than several — as I seem to recall a certain chief inspector saying on several occasions.’

‘If you have the choice, yes,’ said Van Veeteren, still looking sceptical. ‘So you reckon there are five victims?’

‘Yes,’ said Münster with a sigh. ‘It seems so. A handful. But the big question, of course, is how we’re going to get anywhere with these damned freemasons. We have to investigate them, even if it turns out to be a false track. It won’t be easy to persuade them to cooperate. The whole set-up is one of those fraternities in which everybody supports everybody else to the hilt, irrespective of the facts. That seems to be the bottom line — you brush my teeth, and I’ll cut your toenails. .’

‘The Camorra,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘A sort of state within a state: no doubt what you say is absolutely right. But for Christ’s sake, they surely don’t have much influence in this day and age. . Apart from in purely academic circles. Appointments and so on. I don’t suppose you’ve started poking your noses into their affairs yet?’

Münster shook his head.

‘We have to try to narrow things down a bit before we get going. Eliminate the most unlikely candidates. There are eleven Succulents who are over eighty — presumably we can exclude them without further ado.’

‘Presumably,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘If we set an age limit at fifty, for instance, that leaves us with forty-three Succulents to investigate. . Although that isn’t the real problem.’

‘What is the real problem?’ wondered Moreno.

‘As I understand it,’ said Münster, ‘and as Reinhart understands it as well, if I interpreted his slurred mumblings correctly, it could well be a mistake to simply jump in and start interrogating them all, one by one. No matter how many we pick out as possible candidates. Reinhart obviously had trouble in extracting the list of members from the top dog, Pro-Vice-Chancellor Kuurtens. If we just go barging in, they might very well keep mum once they realize that we’re after one of their number.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Moreno. ‘What century do they live in?’

‘Not this one in any case,’ said Münster with a sigh. ‘Maybe not the last one either.’

Van Veeteren leaned back and lit a newly rolled cigarette. Münster exchanged glances with Moreno and decided it could well be best to say nothing at the moment. They had been sitting at one of the usual window tables for over an hour now. The Chief Inspector had been provided with all the information he could reasonably need as a basis on which to make a decision, and was immune to any persuasive arguments or ploys by this stage. As far as Münster could judge, at least.

If he felt like joining them in their efforts, he would no doubt do so. If he didn’t, they would simply have to make do with the resources they already had. That was the long and the short of it. Münster looked out of the window and noted that the sun wasn’t shining today either.

‘Anyway,’ said Moreno after a while. ‘That’s the way it is.’

‘So I’ve gathered,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Is the situation clear to you?’ asked Münster tentatively.

Van Veeteren took another drag at his cigarette.

‘As clear as a Budweiser,’ he said. ‘That’s what it was called, that wishy-washy Yankee piss.’

‘Oh, a Bud, was it?’ said Münster. ‘I have to agree that that’s nothing to write home about. Still, one has to feel sorry for Reinhart. Especially as it’s happened just now.’

Van Veeteren shrugged.

‘There isn’t a good time to get run over by a bus,’ he said. ‘Ah, well, I’ll think about what I’m going to do. Don’t take it for granted that I’ll join you.’

Moreno and Münster nodded in unison, and waited.

‘I’ll drive out to the hospital this evening and have a word with Reinhart. You can tell Hiller that I’ll let him know tomorrow morning what I’ve decided. Is that okay?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Münster. ‘But we could certainly do with your help. There are several other cases on the go, in parallel to this one of ours, so we’re under quite a bit of pressure. Rooth claims he’s lost a couple of kilos.’

‘That’s a bad omen,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But as I said, don’t take it for granted that I’ll be joining you.’

He drained his beer glass and checked his watch.

‘Oops,’ he said. ‘It’s high time I opened the shop if we’re going to sell any books today. Thank you for my free lunch.’

‘The pleasure was entirely ours,’ said Inspector Moreno, and received a tap on the head in return.

‘I. . collided. . with. . a. . bush,’ spluttered Reinhart.

‘So I see,’ said Van Veeteren, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed.

‘Number. . fourteen. . I. . remember. . it. . wash. . number. . fourteen.’

‘Bravo,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘There speaks a real police officer.’

This is going to take some time, he thought.

‘I. . haven’t. . become. . an. . idiot,’ Reinhart insisted. ‘But. . it’sh. . shmashed. . my. . jaw. . bone.’

Van Veeteren gave him an encouraging tap on his plastered jaw and looked hard at his bruised and swollen face.

‘You look an even bigger mess than you usually do,’ he said in a friendly tone. ‘So you took the main force of the blow on your face, did you?’

Reinhart coughed and wheezed for a while.

‘There. . ish. . a. . crack. . in. . every. . shing,’ he panted, gesturing towards his head with his unbandaged arm.

‘Do you remember what happened?’ asked Van Veeteren.

Reinhart tried to shake his head, but the effort was too much and he pulled a face.

‘Only. . the. . bush. . number. . and. . I. . thought. . about. . thoshe. . bloody. . Shuccu. . lentsh. . Woke. . up. . in. . the. . ambulansh. . God. . I’m. . sho. . tired. .’

‘Hiller rang,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘I know,’ said Reinhart in one go.

‘He wants me to go back and join the team.’

The expression on Reinhart’s face was impossible to interpret.

‘I haven’t made my mind up yet.’

‘It. . washn’t. . my. . shuggeshion,’ Reinhart insisted.

‘I believe you. But it looks as if you’re going to be off work for a few days.’

‘It’ll. . be. . shome. . daysh. . yesh,’ said Reinhart. ‘But. . I. . have. . a. . favour. . to. . ashk.’

‘Really?’

‘Nail. . that. . bashtard. . shtrangler!’

Reinhart slurped noisily down some juice from a cardboard pack and groaned.

‘I have a question,’ said Van Veeteren when the patient had lain back down on the pillows. ‘I’d like to know how you interpret the situation. Does that badge business really hold water? Do you believe it?’

Reinhart closed his eyes and kept them closed for five seconds before answering.

‘Fifty-one. . pershent. .’ he stuttered. ‘I’m. . fifty-one. . persh. . ent. . con. . vinshed!’

‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren.

He stayed there for a while, listening to the faint swishing sound from the air-conditioning system, and recalled his own operation some six years previously. When he saw that Chief Inspector Reinhart had fallen asleep, he stood up carefully and left the ward.

He walked home from Gemejnte Hospital through persistent light rain. He recalled having taken an umbrella with him that morning, but it was presumably still in the antiquarian bookshop. Or at Adenaar’s. He certainly hadn’t left it by Reinhart’s bedside, he was sure of that.

Indecision gnawed away inside him like a well-deserved bout of sickness, and he realized that he would have to devise a way of solving the problem. Something irrational — such as whether the first person he met after turning the corner into Wegelenstraat was a man or a woman. . Or whether there was an odd or an even number of bicycles parked outside the Paradiso cinema.

Draw lots, in other words, and dodge having to make a decision in that way.

Because it certainly wasn’t easy.

Becoming a chief inspector again — albeit for only a short time — was an exceedingly unpleasant thought.

But not doing one’s bit to help solve the case was at least as unpleasant a thought. Especially as he had that confounded priest on his conscience.

Pastor Gassel, who had concluded his journey through this life on a railway line of all places.

And Hiller was expecting to hear his decision the following morning. Oh, shit!

But then again, it struck him just as he had passed by Zuydersteeg and resisted the temptation to nip down to the Society for an hour, perhaps there was a third way? A compromise?

That thought accompanied him all the way home. Was there perhaps a way of turning down Hiller’s offer but nevertheless fulfilling his duty in this peculiar case? Was it possible to find such a solution? A moral short cut.

It would be worth its weight in gold if there was. And most certainly worth thinking about in any case.

Ulrike was not at home — he recalled her having said something about a friend who was having some difficulties. He switched on the standard lamp in the living room and flopped down into the armchair in front of the window. Got up again and set up a CD of Preisner’s Requiem dla mojego przyjaciela before flopping down again once more.

He started recapitulating in detail everything that had happened since the day last autumn when he had bitten into that disastrous olive.

Pastor Gassel.

The lonely — and murdered — women in Moerckstraat.

The baby-faced vicar in Leimaar with his liberal views on sexuality.

Benjamin Kerran.

Moosbrugger.

The Wallburg woman and the missing fröken Peerenkaas, who appeared to have advertised for her murderer. And that unlikely little lapel badge with a pin pointing directly into the superior university world.

And to crown all, Reinhart run over by a bus!

What a story, he thought. What an absolutely improbable story! Thinking about it felt like an extremely dodgy walk over quicksand. A swamp which was mostly bottomless and unknown, and with long distances between the tussocks that would carry your weight.

And the thread linking everything together was thin, just as thin as Moreno and Münster had claimed it was at Adenaar’s.

Nevertheless, it was there. Thin, but strong. It was exactly as they had said, his former colleagues: he had nothing against their analysis.

Five murders, one killer. When he thought about that, all other variations seemed significantly less plausible. It’s better to be looking for one murderer rather than several, Moreno had said — something he’d come out with himself on some occasion or other, she had claimed. That seemed highly likely.

But there was something else he remembered. . No, not remembered, that was too strong a word.

An association. Some sort of link to something that was as yet hidden away in the depths of his subconscious, but with a bit of luck it would come bubbling up to the surface without his needing to strain himself. Or to sacrifice a night’s sleep in order to think about it.

An association that was in fact a confirmation?

Yes, that was presumably the case. He understood the function before he could establish the content, which was quite remarkable. It was a detail that fitted in with all these somewhat bizarre circumstances: Kerran, Moosebrugger, the university world. .

But what? he thought.

What the hell can that detail be?

He went to fetch a dark beer in order to stimulate the mysterious mechanisms of his memory, and just as he was swallowing the final mouthful he received his reward.

By Christ yes, he thought. You can bet your life on it.

He remained sitting there for another quarter of an hour, thinking, and the requiem proceeded via Agnus Dei and Lux aeterna to the Lacrimosa, the most beautiful of all the movements. When the music had finished, he fetched another bottle and sat down at his desk in order to write a note to Chief of Police Hiller.