The Stranglers Honeymoon

51

The police station in Argostoli was a blue-and-white two-storey building in Ioannis Metaxa, opposite the harbour office. Van Veeteren was escorted by a young, fit-looking constable through a long corridor to a blue door with a handwritten plate saying Dimitrios Yakos. In both Greek and Latin letters.

The constable knocked gently, and after a few seconds the door was opened by a stocky, thin-haired man in his fifties. He had a cigarette in his mouth, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper folded in two in the other. Van Veeteren couldn’t help but wonder how he had managed to manipulate the door handle.

‘Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?’ he said solemnly, and put down what he was carrying. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

Van Veeteren shook hands, and the young constable headed back towards the front desk. Chief Inspector Yakos invited his guest to sit down and apologized eloquently for not being contactable the previous day as he had been busy with a case that needed his presence and full attention: but now he was available one hundred and fifty per cent. Europe is one big town nowadays, isn’t she?

Van Veeteren nodded and accepted a cigarette from a shiny metal case. He looked quickly around the cramped room with barred windows overlooking the street and the harbour, and decided that (apart from the barred windows) it looked more like a sort of student room than an office. A low table with two armchairs. A bookcase with files, books and newspapers. At least twenty framed family portraits on the walls, and a small humming refrigerator from which Yakos produced two cans of beer and opened them dexterously without even bothering to ask.

He was speaking all the time, and Van Veeteren’s worries about possible linguistic problems were put to shame in no uncertain manner. Yakos’s English was almost as fluent as his own — apart from the imagery which was firmly rooted in the Greek cultural traditions — and when Van Veeteren had tasted the beer and sat down in one of the armchairs, he had the distinct impression that everything might click into place despite everything.

After five minutes the chief inspector had completed his introductory monologue concerning his family and professional circumstances. He lit a new cigarette from the butt of the previous one, clasped his hairy hands and contemplated his guest with eager interest.

‘Perhaps you could now explain the nature of your business here. It will be a pleasure to work with you.’

Van Veeteren thought for two seconds.

‘I’m looking for a murderer,’ he said then.

‘Ah,’ said Yakos, smacking his lips slightly as if he had just enjoyed a fresh fig. ‘Here? On the island of donkeys and heroes?’

‘Yes, here,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘His name is Maarten deFraan, and I have reason to suspect that he is holed up here in Argostoli — or possibly in Lassi. We think he arrived quite recently, and has presumably checked into a hotel or boarding house. Possibly using a false name, but he’s probably using his real one. I need your help to find him, and I need your help to arrest him. I assume you have received my authorization documents?’

Yakos nodded.

‘Yes, of course. No problem.’

Van Veeteren handed over a photograph of deFraan. Yakos took it, held it carefully between his thumb and index finger as he studied it with his eyebrows assuming the shape of a circumflex accent.

‘The murderer?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many lives does he have on his conscience? It’s not clear from the picture.’

‘We don’t know for certain. Four or five.’

‘Ah.’

He returned the photograph.

‘Can we expect any complications? Is he armed?’

Van Veeteren thought for a moment before replying.

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to judge if he’s dangerous or not. I suggest we wait with that aspect until we have located him. How long do you think you’ll need?’

Yakos looked at the clock and smiled.

‘Get in touch again this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Let’s face it, we only need to carry out a check on the local hotels. That shouldn’t take more than a few hours — I have several junior officers at my disposal. If we don’t find him, then of course the situation will become more difficult: but why foresee difficulties that might not exist?’

‘Why indeed,’ agreed Van Veeteren. He drank the rest of the beer and stood up. ‘I’ll call in at about four, is that okay?’

‘This afternoon, yes,’ said Yakos with a smile suggesting a typically Greek indifference towards time. ‘If anything happens before then, I’ll be in touch.’

Before going out on watch the second day, she checked the contents of her cloth bag.

A short iron rod taped into a piece of sheeting. A nylon rope. Two bottles, one containing hydrofluoric acid, the other petrol. A packet of salt. Matches. Two different knives. A small pair of pliers.

She offered up a silent prayer, hoping to be able to use them all in more or less that order while trying to visualize the scenario in her mind’s eye. She felt a sudden shooting pain down her spine and into her legs, and a moment of dizziness. Then she tied the thin headscarf around her hair and the lower part of her face. Good to be rid of those Muslim veils, she thought. Looked at herself in the mirror again before completing her disguise with the aid of a pair of large, round sunglasses.

She picked up the bag and left the room. Stepped out into the sunlight and warmth of the Greek morning. Looked around. The Lassi district, as it was called, was basically just one street. That was an advantage, an indisputable advantage. She adjusted her sunglasses and looked up at the sky. It was more or less cloud-free, and the temperature must have been eighteen to twenty degrees already. A warm day, but not too hot. There was a hint of promise in it, she told herself. Something that suggested the end was nigh.

It was a long street, two kilometres or more. The previous evening she had walked back and forth along it, past the tavernas and hotels, without attracting any attention. Bars, mini-markets and boutiques. And why should she attract any attention? Headscarves were a common item of clothing, sunglasses almost compulsory. It was perfect. Sooner or later she would get wind of him. Sooner or later. There were no other streets to walk along if you wanted to move around Lassi out of doors.

Sooner or later.

‘What do we do now?’ said Münster.

Van Veeteren looked up.

‘We wait,’ he said. ‘There’s not much else we can do. But we could take a stroll around the harbour district and have a look at the shops. Or would you like to go for a swim in the sea? I’d be happy to stand by with the towels.’

‘It’s only the seventh of March,’ Münster pointed out. ‘No thank you. But I’d like to know what you think about fröken Peerenkaas.’

They left the cafe and started walking towards Ioannis Metaxa. Van Veeteren took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with a paper tissue. Münster’s query remained hanging in the air for half a minute until the Chief Inspector felt called upon to answer it.

‘I think she’s highly dangerous,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately. Perhaps not only for deFraan. But I hope she hasn’t found her way here. Perhaps you could keep your eyes skinned as we make our way through the crowds — your eyesight’s better than mine. Do you have your service pistol handy?’

Münster tapped under his arm, and nodded to confirm that it was there. It had delayed their departure a whole day, but Van Veeteren had insisted that at least one of them should be carrying a gun.

That was most unusual, Münster thought. He never seemed to be especially interested in police officers carrying weapons. Certainly not as far as he himself was concerned.

‘I suppose there is a risk, though,’ said Münster. ‘That she might be here, I mean. If she was already in Athens when we got there, as Krause maintains, well. . I have to say that I don’t honestly know what she might do.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Van Veeteren, adjusting his straw hat. ‘Maybe it isn’t all that complicated. It’s not deFraan she’s been shadowing, it’s us, my dear Watson. You and me. A couple of thick detective officers who book flights and hotels backed up by a fanfare of trumpets, and using their own names. DeFraan has no doubt done all he can to prevent her from catching up with him, but so what when we have been as obvious as brightly coloured hippos in a chicken run?’

Münster frowned, then relaxed again.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘No doubt that’s the way things are. But if we happen to catch sight of her in among all the crowds of people, what do we do then? Arrest her?’

‘For what?’ wondered Van Veeteren. ‘As far as I’m aware she hasn’t even acquired a parking ticket.’

Münster thought for a moment.

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But what do we do, then?’

‘We wait,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I tried to explain that to you. Have you already forgotten your Pascal?’

Hell’s bells, thought Münster, gritting his teeth. Here we are, wandering around in peace and quiet — like brightly coloured hippos! — although in fact we’re on the trail of a lunatic who has killed at least four people with his bare hands. And of a totally obsessed woman. And he goes on about Pascal! Life in the antiquarian book world has made its mark, it seems.

He adjusted his gun, which was chafing against his armpit, and ducked under a red awning to a stall where Van Veeteren had just slipped in to taste some unusually large and fat olives.

‘Watch out for the stones,’ thought Münster — but said it out loud.

‘What?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘These are not bad at all. What did you say?’

‘It was nothing,’ said Münster.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye — she’d been a hair’s breadth away from missing him completely.

Niko’s Rent-a-car. On the extreme northern edge of the little town, where the road started to climb up the mountain towards Argostoli. She continued a few metres past the office, then stopped.

He was standing inside. Maarten deFraan. Him. Her heart rose up inside her chest, and suddenly she could feel a strong taste of metal on her tongue. It was strange. For a few seconds she just stood there, in the middle of the pavement, while the ground seemed to be revolving under her feet as the cicadas sawed away at her eardrums. It was as if something — or possibly everything — was about to burst.

It soon passed. She took two deep breaths and regained control of herself. Concentration surged into her like a fast-flowing river. No, she thought. We’re nearly there. There’s not far to go. . But what’s he doing?

He intended to hire a car. Or some kind of motorbike. That was as clear as day.

But why? What was he going to do? What was he doing on this confounded island in any case?

And what would she do?

She looked round. A white-and-green taxi was approaching slowly along the road, and she automatically raised her hand. The driver stopped and she jumped into the back seat.

At that very moment the car rental assistant — a flabby young man in a large-patterned shirt unbuttoned down to his navel — emerged from the office together with deFraan. The necessary papers had evidently been signed. All was in order. They walked over to a purple-coloured scooter that was standing by itself, slightly to the side of the other two-wheelers lined up on the pavement. She realized that deFraan must have picked out that one before entering the office. The assistant handed over a couple of keys and gave his customer some simple instructions. DeFraan nodded, and sat astride the scooter. Adjusted his rucksack and exchanged a few more words with the young man. Then he turned the ignition key and started the engine. He checked the road situation before gingerly negotiating the kerb edge and spluttering off in the direction of Argostoli.

‘Where are we going, miss?’ asked the taxi driver, looking at her enquiringly in the rear-view mirror.

She took a one thousand-drachma note out of her handbag and pointed at the scooter.

The driver hesitated for a moment, then took the note between his index and middle fingers, put it into the breast pocket of his white shirt, and set off.

‘I understand,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘He’s been located, but is still at large, is that right? Okay, we’ll wait for your next report.’

He handed the mobile to Münster.

‘You can switch it off. I don’t know where the button is.’

Münster did as he was bidden, and put the phone in his breast pocket.

‘Was it Yakos?’ he said. ‘Have they found him?’

‘Not really.’

Van Veeteren paused and looked out over the whitewashed buildings that filled the whole of the western side of the bay. They had crossed over the narrow stone bridge and were on their way back. It was half past eleven, and the sun had started to become really warm.

‘No,’ continued the Chief Inspector. ‘Apparently they’ve found the hotel, in Lassi as we expected, but the bird had flown the nest. He went out at about ten o’clock, they thought. Perhaps he’s lounging back in a deckchair somewhere, or maybe he has something else in his sights.’

‘What, for instance?’ wondered Münster.

Van Veeteren put his foot on the low stone balustrade and gazed out over the glittering water. Said nothing for a while.

‘God only knows,’ he said in the end, straightening his back. ‘But he must have gathered that we are at his heels — and that a certain woman is hot on his trail as well. He knows the game is almost up, but perhaps he wants to have a hand in setting up the final showdown — or what do you think?’

Münster sat down on the balustrade, and thought that one over.

‘It’s hard to figure out the logic behind his behaviour,’ he said. ‘In many respects he’s as mad as a hatter, but in other ways he seems to be acting more or less normally.’

That’s not an especially unusual phenomenon,’ said Van Veeteren, lighting a cigarette. ‘We all have a few screws loose, including you and me; but it’s a bit more complicated in the case of deFraan. He’s presumably hyper-intelligent, and if there’s anything we like to use our intelligence for it’s trying to explain away those loose screws. To find motives for our peculiar behaviour and our murky instincts. . If we didn’t do that we would never be able to put up with ourselves.’

Münster nodded.

‘Yes, I’ve never understood how certain people have the strength to carry on living. Rapists and wife-beaters and child murderers. . How the hell can they look themselves in the eye the following morning?’

‘Defence mechanisms,’ said the Chief Inspector in a weary voice. ‘That applies to you and me as well. We create safety nets over the abyss, and in deFraan’s case he has presumably been forced to devote the whole of his abilities to making things work. . We’ll have to see if we ever get to the bottom of it all.’

‘We’ll also have to see if we ever catch him,’ said Münster. ‘I hope Chief Inspector Yakos can handle this.’

Van Veeteren shrugged and they started walking back to the harbour.

‘I’m sure he can,’ he said. ‘Just as well as we could, in any case.’

Chief Inspector Yakos looked tired when he came to sit at their table shortly after nine o’clock that night. He beckoned to the waiter, ordered Greek coffee, beer, ouzo and peanuts. Stubbed out a cigarette and lit another.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but we haven’t managed to catch him.’

‘Things sometimes take time,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘He hasn’t been at the hotel since this morning. I’ve had a constable posted outside Odysseus all afternoon, and he’d have been bound to see him.’

‘What about that scooter?’ wondered Münster.

Yakos shook his head grimly.

‘He hasn’t been back to the rental people with it. He was supposed to return it by nine o’clock, according to the contract — that’s when they close. I’m afraid there’s not much else we can do today. But my man at Odysseus will remain on watch — and if he turns up, we’ll pounce on him immediately, of course.’

He placed his blood-red mobile on the table, as if to stress that the network was on red alert.

‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I assume you’ve instructed your constable not to try to tackle him on his own? We’re dealing with a murderer, and he can be extremely dangerous.’

Yakos emptied his glass of ouzo.

‘No chance,’ he said. ‘Constable Maraiades is the most cowardly donkey on the whole island.’

‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren again. ‘And that scooter — are you following that up?’

Yakos observed his guests with a wry smile before answering.

‘My dear friends,’ he said slowly but firmly. ‘I have been a chief inspector in Argostoli for twenty years. I was born here — two days after the earthquake and a week too early, it was the tremors that sparked off my dear mother’s labour pains. . Anyway, I can guarantee that every police officer, every bar owner and every taxi driver on this island knows that I’m looking for a purple scooter, a Honda with the registration number BLK 129. Don’t underestimate me.’

‘I apologize,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Let’s drink a bottle of good Boutari wine and eat a lump or two of cheese while we’re waiting.’

Yakos flung out his arms.

‘Why not?’ he said.