The Stranglers Honeymoon (43 page)

The total number of current members of
Sodalicium Sapientiae Cultorum Succulentorum
, which was the official name of the association in accordance with the statutes of 1757, proved to be 152 persons.

Reinhart glanced quickly through the columns of names, year of entry and academic specialities. Then he folded the four sheets of paper in two and put them in his inside pocket. Glared for a moment or two at Professor Kuurtens, then shook his hand and wished him a fruitful Saturday before turning on his heel and leaving the university building.

So, that’s that done, he thought as he took the short cut through the park towards Keymerkyrkan. We’ve narrowed it down nicely.

Narrowed what down? he thought in his next breath. What the hell am I trying to fool myself into imagining? Do I really believe I’ve got the murderer tucked into my inside pocket?

One of the hundred and fifty-two?

He put on his gloves, raised his shoulders as a defence against the strong wind, and thought about that.

It must be pure wishful thinking, he told himself – as inevitable as an attack of mildew or the growth of a cancerous tumour after all those unproductive weeks and months. Figuratively speaking.

Or was there in fact a realistic possibility?

Hard to say, thought Chief Inspector Reinhart. Right now, when the excitement engendered by the revelations about the Succulents is so fresh, it’s difficult to distinguish between genuine thoughts and mere emotions or hopes. Having the name of the murderer hidden away with a hundred-and-fifty-one others is not exactly an ideal situation to be in – but it’s significantly better than the barren desert to which we’ve been banished hitherto, with not so much as a lump of fly shit for a clue.

So, it’s now a question of making progress. In principle, at least. We suddenly have a field to start ploughing. The murderer may well be one of a large group: but the group is clearly defined.

What he needed to do now was to sit down and work his way through the personal details of these dodgy academics, and that should shrink the size of the group of suspects significantly – their age is an obvious starting point. It seemed highly unlikely that the average age of a group like this would be all that low: Reinhart assumed that they remained members for life, and as the statutes required that members should have doctorates and also be recommended by a number of their peers, it was unlikely that any of them could have joined the association before the age of thirty-five at least.

And the Strangler could hardly be older than forty-five: several friends of the victims had stressed that aspect.

So let’s face it: this list of members should infuse new life into the investigation. That must surely be the case?

It occurred to him that he was now walking at
tempo furioso
and had started whistling. He obviously needed to calm down and get a grip.

Hold your horses, you berk! he told himself. If you assign all your resources to this line of investigation and it turns out to be a dead end, you’ll never solve this case. Bugger that for a lark!

That blasted badge could have landed up in Kristine Kortsmaa’s shoe in God only knows how many different ways. Or? She might have found it somewhere. One of the Succulents might have paid her a visit in a perfectly innocent context – erotic circumstances, for instance – and happened to drop it. Somebody else might have found the badge somehow or other – come to think of it, Reinhart thought, the murderer could have come across the badge lying in the street, picked it up, and purposely left it in the victim’s flat in order to mislead the police . . . Well, maybe that was a pretty far-fetched possibility, more appropriate to a fifth-rate English 1930s crime novel than the real world . . .

Anyway, there were plenty of possible variations, that was clear. And there were plenty of the badges in existence – two thousand were manufactured in 1957. Pro-Vice-Chancellor Kuurtens had said that there were over three hundred still available in the store, so there would be no need to make any new ones for quite a while yet.

Oh, shit, thought Reinhart. Do I believe in this, or don’t I?

As confused as a donkey faced with a hundred-and-fifty-two wisps of hay, he emerged into the relative hustle and bustle of Keymerstraat – and that’s when it happened. One second, that was all it took: no more.

Without really registering how it happened, he bumped into one of the other pedestrians and stepped to one side, into the road. The bus pulling into the stop at Keymer Plejn hit him with its right wing and sent him flying across the pavement and into the display window of the cheese and delicatessen shop Heerenwijk’s – he was a regular customer most Saturdays, for fancy dessert cheeses.

But not this Saturday. Even before he hit the ground, Chief Inspector Reinhart had lost consciousness and was mercifully unaware of all the bones in his body that were broken, and of the young lady in a light-blue quilted jacket who screamed in such a way that the hearts of all those who heard her missed several beats.

Her name was Vera Simanova: she was a student at the opera college and the possessor of a soprano voice that for a brief moment that Saturday afternoon resounded throughout the whole of central Maardam.

But not in the ears of Chief Inspector Reinhart. Or at least, he had no recollection of it afterwards.

40

Van Veeteren lifted up his granddaughter, and smelled her.

Well, more than smelled her.

He inhaled every aspect of her being. He sniffed at the back of her neck, then breathed in deeply, ecstatically, over and over again.

My God, he thought. Absolutely divine.

How can there possibly be anything so ambrosially delectable in a world like the one we live in? It’s incomprehensible.

Andrea giggled. He realized that she was ticklish. Erich and Jess had been ticklish as well.

Especially there, at the back of the neck.

And they had smelt exactly the same. Just as exquisitely.

He lifted her up into the air, arms stretched. She squealed in delight, and a strand of saliva came trickling out of her mouth.

‘There are times,’ said Ulrike, who was sitting at the other end of the sofa, with tears in her eyes, ‘there are times when I wish I’d met you rather earlier in life. Twenty-five years or so ago.’

‘It’s a sufficient blessing to have met you at all,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But by Christ, she’s so lovely! Can you understand how it’s possible for anybody to be so damned lovely?’

‘No,’ said Ulrike. ‘It’s incomprehensible. But you’ll teach her how to swear when she reaches the right age, I’ve no doubt about that. Yes, Andrea is an absolute pearl. I think it’s excellent that her day nursery is closed on Sundays . . . It’s exactly what you need – the chance to be a grandad for a few hours every weekend.’

‘It certainly is excellent,’ said Van Veeteren, placing Andrea on her back in his lap.

‘Goo,’ said Andrea.

‘You can say that again,’ said Van Veeteren.

Ulrike stood up.

‘I’d better put the gratin in the oven. Marlene will be here in half an hour. But be honest, do you think we would have found each other if we’d had the opportunity when we were younger?’

‘Of course,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’d have dug you up from the bottom of the sea if it had been necessary. I read somewhere – Heerenmacht, I think – that the paths to one’s goal are legion, if only—’

He had no opportunity to enlarge on that thought as the telephone rang. Ulrike answered.

‘Yes?’ she said.

Then she said, in order: ‘yes’, ‘yes’, ‘what?’, ‘no’ and ‘yes, he’s sitting here’. She put her hand over the receiver and whispered:

‘The chief of police.’

‘Eh?’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Hiller. The chief of police. He wants to speak to you.’

‘I’m not at home.’

‘He sounds very persistent.’

‘Tell him it’s four years too late.’

‘But he—’

‘And it’s Sunday afternoon. Can’t he understand that I’m busy?’

‘It’s something to do with Reinhart.’

‘Reinhart?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Reinhart?’

‘That’s what he wants to talk to you about.’

Van Veeteren thought for two seconds. Then he sighed and exchanged his lovely granddaughter for a telephone receiver full of an ugly chief of police.

The call lasted for almost half an hour, and just as he replaced the receiver, in walked Marlene Frey, having finished her weekend stint at Merckx, the supermarket she’d been working at for two months now. So there was no opportunity to discuss the chief of police’s unexpected and cunning disregard of all conventions regarding the Sabbath until after dinner – when mother and daughter had left for home, and host and hostess had once more flopped down on the sofa.

‘It’s remarkable,’ said Van Veeteren, ‘but it’s as if I’m being hounded down.’

‘Really?’ said Ulrike circumspectly. ‘Hounded down by what?’

Van Veeteren pondered.

‘Something.’

‘Something?’

‘Yes. I can’t pin it down, but I’m being persecuted whichever way you look at it. That olive stone, and the priest, and Stravinsky’s poor swallow . . . Do you remember that morning last autumn when we’d just got back from Rome?’

Ulrike nodded.

‘Those strangled women . . . and Robert Musil! And now perhaps there’s another one.’

‘Another Musil?’

‘No, unfortunately not. A new victim.’

‘Another strangled woman?’

‘Yes – or at least, that’s what the indications suggest. They haven’t found her yet. She’s just missing, so there might be some hope.’

‘Oh, shit!’

‘You could say that. And it’s not exactly an uplifting story this time round either – although that’s the rotten core of police work, when all’s said and done . . .’

‘What is?’

‘That you never feel good when you’ve solved your case. When everything is laid bare. There’s no satisfaction while you’re working away at it, and none afterwards either. Apart from . . . well, what you probably feel after a successful amputation.’

‘I understand,’ said Ulrike. ‘And what has been amputated?’

‘A part of your soul,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘The bright side of your soul. But I’ve packed it in, thank God – why are we sitting here making ourselves feel miserable?’

Ulrike nodded thoughtfully and took hold of his hand.

‘What’s happened to Reinhart?’ she asked.

‘He’s in Gemejnte Hospital,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Run over by a bus.’

‘What? Run over by a bus?’

‘Yes. How the hell could that possibly have happened? Yesterday, in Keymerstraat. Leg broken in three places. Other fractures all over the place. He was in the operating theatre for over eight hours – but they’ve sorted everything. It all went well, according to Hiller.’

‘So it was an accident?’

‘Yes. But it happened at a most inopportune moment – it seems they’ve just got a new lead on that strangler, and now the leader of the investigation is a cripple. That’s why Hiller rang.’

‘What?’

‘What more can I say?’

Neither of them spoke. Van Veeteren looked up at the ceiling. Ulrike eyed him over the top of her reading glasses. Five seconds passed.

‘Well?’

‘. . .’

‘Come on. You don’t need to say it in blank verse.’

Van Veeteren sighed.

‘All right. Hiller wants me to step in as a freelance chief inspector, and take over the helm until the ship has docked. They’re snowed under with other work as well . . . He was pretty convincing – he’d probably been practising in advance.’

‘I see.’ She leaned over towards him. ‘Might one ask what you told him?’

‘I didn’t commit myself,’ said Van Veeteren, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘To be honest, I’ve no desire to get involved again: but I must have a word with Münster and Moreno before I make a final decision. And Reinhart, when he’s capable of rational thought again. There’s a murderer on the loose out there after all.’

He turned his head and gazed out of the window.

‘I suppose that’s the quintessence,’ he said, caressing her arm. ‘I’m sitting here all snug and secure on this sofa with a devoted woman – but things are a bit different out there in the wide world.’

‘They certainly are,’ said Ulrike. ‘Although perhaps you don’t need to spend all your time looking out of the window. When are you going to speak to them?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ll meet all three of them tomorrow. Then we’ll see.’

‘No doubt we shall,’ said Ulrike. ‘I think we ought to go to bed now, so that you are thoroughly rested.’

Van Veeteren looked at the clock.

‘Half past eight?’ he said in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Can you possibly misunderstand me?’ Ulrike wondered as she ushered him into the bedroom. ‘What’s happened to your famous intuition?’

He noticed that she was smiling.

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.’