The Stranglers Honeymoon (26 page)

Stood up again after a minute and looked for Blake in the bookshelves: there were three volumes, and he sat over them for the rest of the morning. The rain came and went, pattering onto the pavement outside and against the windows, but not a single customer tried the door.

Perhaps it’s just Blake and the rain and the port wine, he thought when the clock was showing half past eleven and his thoughts were starting to turn to lunch, but I’m beginning to get a sense of something particularly black and horrific at the heart of all this business.

The thought of something black and horrific reminded him of that fateful sandwich again. The olive.

And the broken filling.

The visit to the dentist’s and the priest’s beard and Stravinsky with the dead swallow in its jaws. There’s no doubt that this case is a brew made up of remarkable ingredients.

And swimming around in the midst of the brew is a murderer. Feeling very sure of himself, it seemed. The police hadn’t even begun fishing for him. Perhaps they hadn’t yet found the right box of hooks to attach to the lines.

Van Veeteren heaved himself out of his chair and poured himself another glass. My range of vocabulary wouldn’t even be adequate for a nightmare, he thought. Today is one of those days.

But the idea of the murderer wandering around in a state of total freedom was annoying. Extremely annoying.

23

He pushed the pile of newspapers to one side and leaned back on his chair. Gazed out of the window at the sick elm trees in the park, and the old observatory, whose blood-red-tiled façade formed a sort of backcloth behind all the branches and greenery.

Words, he thought. It’s only when we put things into words that we begin to get a grasp of reality.

And images. The image of reality which is more important than reality itself, because all we see of it is the images. Even when it is a question of the reality of ourselves – it is always somebody else who paints a portrait of us. Somebody else putting us under the spotlight.

These were no new conclusions. On the contrary. He had wandered along these phenomenological paths many times before: but he had never felt it as distinctly as now. Action per se –
actions
per se – had hardly affected him at all after they had been carried out . . . Those women, and that unknown black-coated priest who had poked his nose in and got what he deserved: having killed a priest gave him far more satisfaction than he could ever have imagined, and he wondered why . . . And now, when he read about these people in the newspapers, or watched the television reporters leaning over backwards to be careful what they said, the whole business acquired an aura which struck him as strong and very much alive. Especially with regard to the girl and her mother, of course. It had taken over a month for things to become matters of immediate relevance. The priest had been headline news immediately after the incident in the Central Station: but it was decided that it was an accident, and not many lines had been devoted to him.

An accident, nothing more.

But all these weeks, all these days and nights that passed between that September night and the early Tuesday morning when he read about it at last in
Allgemejne
– all that time somehow endowed the actual events with sharper outlines . . . Portrayed them as reality, when they eventually presented themselves to him after all the lethargy and indifference. The clarity of it all seemed to be almost an obscene revelation, spotlighted after so much silence: it felt as if he had been stabbed in the chest, and for a brief moment he was afraid he had lost his footing, was staggering on the edge of a gaping abyss. Over a grave.

But there was also a strong and bitter taste of sweat and blood. Of life.

This is it, he thought. This is where my fires are burning. My life is just as derisively pointless as all other life. It came to an end on that damned Greek island, and since then death has been meaningless. It is no more than an irresistible force.

That same day he read about himself in six different newspapers, all the ones he could find; and each new headline and bold print introduction seemed to increase the pressure he felt on all sides. Enveloped him and raised him into some sort of extraordinarily significant context – an environment that gave (or seemed to give) him all the legitimacy that ought to be the incontestable right of every life. Every pointless individual life.

Justice and obligations. I am empowered, he thought. For the first time in my adult life I am empowered. People have seen me as I really am. Once again he tried to conjure up his mother’s tired but irresistible look as she lay there in her sickbed, but she remained aloof. Was ousted by a mass of later images, more recent women, more recent naked bodies and faces and eyes that averted their gaze from him.

And this was the all-powerful force, these looks that avoided eye contact. They are dominating everything I do, he thought. My powers and my love. What do they think they are doing? I am completely justified in killing every one of them, all those who sooner or later reject me. Justified in blowing out the weak, flickering flames still burning in those disgusting lumps of flesh, growing colder by the minute. Nobody will ever understand me: there is a private and unique abyss inside every human being, and nobody else has one that can match up to mine. Nobody. A human being is a very hungry and very lonely animal: but we all have the same fundamental rights.

We must bear in mind that we are somewhat ironic creations of God.

And we must smile at that. It occurred to him that he was doing exactly that: sitting there, smiling.

There was a knock on the door, and fröken Keerenwert appeared in the doorway.

‘Anything else before I go home?’

He looked through the papers lying on the desk in front of him.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s all in order. Have a nice evening. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.’

‘It’s Saturday tomorrow.’

‘Good Lord, so it is! Have a good weekend!’

‘You too,’ she said, and vanished.

He remained seated, staring at the closed door with its timetable of the term’s various courses. Fröken Keerenwert’s appearance had brought him to his senses. No doubt about that. A rapid shift of focus from the right half of the brain to the left.

From the dark feminine and mystical side to the clear and analytical side – he could almost feel it like a purely physical movement inside his head. Perhaps it was a change for the better. What he needed at the moment was not deep thoughts and reflections, not the stifled, seductive truths, but uncluttered clarity. Distance and perspective.

Luck, he thought. I’ve had a hell of a lot of good luck.

That was undeniable. He had manoeuvred his way out of that triangular relationship with a minimum of planning. Killed three people, one after another, without leaving a single trace behind. Assuming he had interpreted what the newspapers wrote correctly, that is. Not a single clue for the police to follow up. They had been writing about Martina for over a week now; and about Monica as well from today. It must be pure chance and coincidence that the bodies were discovered with such a short gap between them, he thought. First a month of waiting, then they had both turned up within ten or twelve days. He spent a short time wondering whether it was to his advantage or disadvantage, the fact that there were now two of them: but he reached no conclusion. Presumably it didn’t make any difference. It might have been better if that confounded dog had never got a whiff of the girl, but of course that was not something one could realistically hope for – that the body would remain hidden for ever and a day. He had been short of time when he disposed of her: it had been a risky business, even by his standards; but looking back, there was nothing for him to reproach himself with.

He hadn’t noticed any suggestion that there might be a link with that damned priest – not in any of the many newspapers he had read. But why would anybody dream of making such a link?

No links to Kristine Kortsmaa either, of course. As far as he could understand, the police were working on the theory that Martina Kammerle and her daughter had both been killed by a man who was a friend of the mother, but there was no trace of a suggestion about what lay behind it all. Not the slightest hint of a possible motive.

For the simple reason that they didn’t know anything. That there wasn’t a motive that anybody could possibly understand. He smiled briefly again and looked at the clock: half past four. Time to start thinking about going home soon, there was probably hardly anybody left in the department, especially as it was Friday, as fröken Keerenwert had pointed out. She was usually one of the last to head for home.

Nobody knew, and nobody understood . . . Yes, it was as simple as that. The dark forces that compelled him to carry out these deeds were of course way beyond the comprehension of the police – way beyond . . . These profoundly enjoyable and necessary actions taken to eliminate these women, these trivial devils in the form of sexual beings who first received him gladly but then rejected him as something no longer desirable, just as you get rid of a household pet or throw away a worn-out toy. Who produced inside him this stifling, ever-increasing pressure in his chest, this pulsating rush of blood that needed to be expelled before he burst . . . No, it was impossible to expect an ordinary man to tolerate such things. Most certainly not. Such fundamental biological traits under the conventional veneer of what was regarded as civilization . . . They might have been tolerated in remote tribes living in remote corners of the world, in nomads and hunters thousands of years ago – but not now, not in people living in these perverted times. With the possible exception of the Taliban or the Fuegians.

It had taken him some time to reach these conclusions, to understand why it was necessary for him to dispose of these women: but after the whore in London and the whore in Wallburg the penny had dropped. He understood it now. A sort of unwavering certainty: he needed to take control over them at the same time as they humiliated him. As they robbed him of his dignity and he began to feel those choking sensations. When he started his relationship with Martina Kammerle he had known from the start what would happen – realized that one day he would reach that tipping point. That was why he had taken all those precautions. False name. No telephone number. Sporadic meetings in private . . . The fact that the daughter suddenly appeared and offered herself to him on a plate had been a big bonus for as long as it lasted. It had very nearly made him lose his stride – and the fact that her stab with the pair of scissors hadn’t hit some vulnerable organ or other was nothing short of miraculous.

A miracle indeed, and a hint from an ironic God that he had the powers on his side. Certain powers, at least.

But the powers only help those who help themselves, and he would never have got away with it if he hadn’t been careful to take precautions. A grand total of three visits to public places – two with the mother, one with the daughter. Three different restaurants that he never normally went anywhere near, and carefully chosen tables away from the limelight.

No unnecessary walks through town. Contact lenses instead of spectacles, which he always wore in normal circumstances. Haircuts and the removal of his beard when it was all over. Discretion, one hell of a lot of discretion; but nevertheless he was well aware that he was taking risks – and that knowledge was in itself a stimulus. A challenge which made the whole enterprise that much more satisfactory, that much more exciting.

But he must be stricter with himself in future, that was also a requirement. The next time. He suddenly found himself in a situation in which he had killed six people. Half a dozen, and he knew that there would be more. Kefalonia had been the starting point, the rest had been a sort of consequence, and in a way an irrelevance. A modus vivendi which was taking up more time and demanding more and more attention.

Another time. And another one after that. If he hadn’t realized that inevitability after Kortsmaa, he certainly knew it now. After the mother and the daughter and the priest. He would meet women again and make love to them. Have sex with them and keep them satisfied until they reached the point when they began to waver: and then it would be time to allow himself the greatest satisfaction of all. He would place his strong hands around their thin necks and squeeze hard. Squeeze the life out of them, then stroke his hand over their still warm pussies.

That’s the way things looked, there was no other solution to the equation of life. But he must raise his guard. As yet there were no indications in the newspapers suggesting a link between that whore in Wallburg and these latest victims: but the next time, when they found another woman strangled in that deeply biologically – I’m repeating myself, he thought in annoyance – that same deeply biologically necessary way . . . My mum, my mother, she would have understood why these women had to die – nobody else but her. They are asking for it, they actually yearn for this escape route deep down inside themselves, and my role is simply to do them a favour . . . There is a part of every human being that, without ever recognizing the fact in deed or thought, is identical with decline and extermination . . .

He suddenly felt the opposite. An intoxicating wave of happiness and inspiration surged up like a rainbow from the balls of his feet to the crown of his head, and the erection that accompanied it was flushed with an almost electric heat. He was obliged to rush out into the corridor and into the bathroom, and to deal with it in the only way possible.

Afterwards, he sat on the lavatory seat with a feeling of somehow being protected, and bathed in the light of an all-powerful star.

Nothing has any meaning, he thought. That is precisely why every little insignificant detail means everything. I am the world, and the world is manifest inside me. No, the world is a woman. A woman’s identity and the centre of her power is her body. The useless navel of the world is a woman’s body, and nobody must deny the existence of another world. Especially not the woman herself. It’s as simple as that, so damned simple, and dying is no more difficult than looking at one’s image in a mirror.