The Stranglers Honeymoon (45 page)

‘Willby? Why?’

‘A good question,’ said Sammelmerk. ‘To see Clara Peerenkaas: she’s the one I have my sights on. Rooth thought she had been suspiciously quiet lately. As you may recall, she phoned us every day at first, after her daughter disappeared. But then, all of a sudden, she stopped . . . Well, it might not mean anything – but it could be worth looking into, at least.’

Moreno thought that over.

‘Could be,’ she said. ‘But in any case, if you can miss half a day of shuffling paper around, that has to be a good thing. But I gather you haven’t been given the green light yet, is that right?’

Sammelmerk flung out her arms.

‘How could that have happened? We don’t even know at the moment who’ll be responsible for switching on the green light. Do you think the notorious VV will step into the breech? It would be interesting to meet him.’

Moreno shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I have no idea, in fact. But aren’t you also due to see Hiller at ten o’clock to find out what’s going on?’

Sammelmerk looked at her wristwatch.

‘I certainly am,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the chosen few. It’s two minutes to – shall we go?’

Chief of Police Hiller was not at his best that murky February morning – but then, he rarely was.

Moreno thought for a moment that he reminded her of a fanatical German stamp collector and child murderer she’d seen in a tenth-rate film a few months ago – and she wondered how on earth it could be that he had five children and a wife who had stood by him all these years. It must be getting on for forty by now, she was horrified to realize.

‘Now, let’s see,’ he began. ‘Is everybody here?’

He checked all those present. So did Moreno. Münster, Rooth, Jung. Herself and Sammelmerk. And the promising Inspector Krause.

They were all the ones who had been summoned, it seemed. The criminal circle.

But then, there was nobody else available. She sat down next to Jung on the shiny leather sofa and closed her eyes while she waited for Hiller to write down the names of all present in his notebook. She tried to recall how things had been when she first joined the CID eight years ago. Who was still there – and above all, who wasn’t.

Heinemann had gone, of course. Old, timid Intendent Heinemann who always stuck to his own leisurely tempo, but often edged his way forward to answers and solutions that the others had blustered their way past . . . And deBries, who had committed suicide six months ago. To avoid facing up to the shame of what he had done. Even now the only ones who knew what that shame entailed were she herself, Münster and Van Veeteren. The real reason for his suicide. An excessive interest in young girls. Very young girls. She couldn’t avoid shuddering at the thought of it.

Was there anybody else no longer there?

Van Veeteren, of course. The
Chief Inspector
. Was he really going to turn up once again? She found that hard to believe. Very hard. He’d sounded less than enthusiastic at Adenaar’s.

She opened her eyes, and concluded from the grim, stamp-collector-like expression on the chief of police’s face that her presumption was correct.

What about the new faces? Compared with those from eight years ago?

Krause had forced his way into the regular team. Thanks to hard work, meticulousness and ambition. Perhaps he would become a good police officer one of these days. But she also wondered if he would ever become a man.

And she wondered why such a condescending thought had occurred to her. There was nothing wrong with Widmar Krause, of course. But was he a man or a potted plant? What prejudiced thoughts occurred to her at times . . .

Sammelmerk had joined them. Moreno felt a sudden rush of gratitude, and hoped from the bottom of her heart that Irene had come to stay.

There were no more new recruits. There were fewer of them now, in fact, than there had been eight years ago, despite the fact that there had been no decline in the rate of criminality. Even fewer today, of course, in view of Reinhart’s accident. That was why they were assembled here. Because of Reinhart. Moreno put her hand over her mouth to conceal a yawn.

‘Anyway, good morning,’ intoned the chief of police as he turned to a new page in his notebook.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Rooth.

Nobody else spoke.

‘The situation is grim. Unusually grim.’

He ran his hand over his head, to check that what remained of his hair was in place, and clicked a few times on his latest ballpoint pen.

‘We are very sorry to note the mishap that has befallen Chief Inspector Reinhart. We had hoped that it would be possible to persuade Van Veeteren to step into the breech for a limited period of time, but alas, that has not been possible – despite the fact that I had a long discussion with him on Sunday . . .’

He fished out a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and waved it in the air.

‘I have received his reply this morning, and he declines . . . Regrettably but definitely, he says. On the other hand, he says – and I quote – he intends to “undertake certain investigative work on his own initiative”. What the hell does that mean? Any comments?’

Rooth made a point of sneezing, but nobody else had anything to say.

‘So that’s the way it is,’ said the chief of police. ‘And that’s the way Van Veeteren is. Anyway, we need to reorganize our resources in view of Reinhart’s absence . . . Münster, you can take over as investigator in chief of this old Kammerle–Gassel case – or whatever you call it. I take it for granted that we shall soon solve it – there appears to have been a new development recently, and we can’t have this strangler on the loose much longer: people’s respect for the upholding of the law is being undermined. Use the resources at your disposal as you think necessary – but remember that we have a lot of other cases on our hands, so only use them if it is necessary – remember that!’

‘Thank you for the trust you are placing in me,’ said Münster courteously.

‘And for Christ’s sake keep in touch with Van Veeteren. God only knows what he’s up to. Private detective work? – it’s enough to give you goose pimples!’

He demonstrated his impotence by crumpling up the
Chief Inspector
’s fax and throwing it into the waste paper basket.

‘I have no intention of interfering in the practical operations in connection with this case – unless it is absolutely essential, and I repeat the word
essential
.’

Nobody seemed to think that such a circumstance was likely to occur in the near future, and since nobody had anything else of relevance to say, Hiller declared the meeting closed.

‘Make sure you sort out this mess!’ was his final order. ‘That’s what you are paid to do. The general public has a right to expect a certain percentage of success when it comes to solving criminal activities.’

An inspiring run-through, Münster thought as he closed the door behind him. Five-and-a-half minutes. Perhaps one ought to have oneself encased in plaster for a few weeks?

Van Veeteren was slumped back in the armchair in the back room of the bookshop. In the shop itself two customers were wandering around discreetly among the bookshelves: he could hear the sound of them leafing through books, almost like a whispering echo from another world; but he had informed them that they could shout for him if they needed any assistance. Or if they even wanted to buy something.

In his lap was a copy of the Succulents’ membership list – the one received from Münster at Adenaar’s on Sunday. Four pages. A hundred-and-fifty-two names.

One hundred and fifty-one needed to be eliminated. Only one would remain. Benjamin Kerran alias Amos Brugger alias the Strangler. That was his task. The ideal solution.

He took a drink of coffee from the mug in the holder on the arm of his chair, and had a sudden and totally idiotic thought comparing what he was doing to the culinary reduction of sauce (when you began with two litres of cream and ended up with half a litre of ambrosial nectar). Then he started work.

After ten minutes he had eleven names left.

After fifteen minutes, six.

After another five minutes, four.

That was as far as he could get.

It was not possible to reduce his sauce any further. There was a limit to how thin a sauce could become. He wrote the names down on a loose sheet of paper, and memorized them.

Erich Lambe-Silbermann

Maarten deFraan

David Linghouse

Mariusz Dubowski

The first two – Lambe-Silbermann and deFraan – were professors. Linghouse was a reader. Dubowski a lecturer with a doctorate. Their ages were respectively, 48 – 42 – 38 – 41.

One of them, he thought. One of these men has murdered five people. I must have faith in the method used – any doubts must remain locked up in the wardrobe for the time being.

That was easier said than done, but he gritted his teeth and ignored any objections. It was just as well that he wasn’t in charge of the investigation: the method he was using was light years apart from normal, acceptable police work. He shook his head at himself, and dialled the number of Gemejnte Hospital.

After being connected to various operators, he finally had Reinhart at the other end of the line.

‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked.

‘A lot better, thank you,’ said Reinhart. It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he was telling the truth. ‘You were here visiting me yesterday, weren’t you?’

Van Veeteren confirmed that he had indeed paid Reinhart a visit.

‘I’ll be buggered if I can distinguish between dream and reality,’ said Reinhart. ‘Until now, that is. I’m afraid they’ve shovelled a few kilos of morphine into me, but that’s the routine in this abattoir. Still, from today onwards I’m in charge of my own healing process.’

‘Thus speaks a real man,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You’ll be running in the Maardam Marathon in May.’

‘No chance,’ protested Reinhart. ‘What the hell do you want? Don’t tell me you’re in harness again? I really don’t want you to—’

‘No chance,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But I’m playing at being a private detective. I’ve dreamt of doing that since I was eight years old, and it does give you a free rein . . .’

‘A private detective?’

‘Something like that. You can call it whatever you like. I’ve had an idea regarding that murderer you’re looking for, but it’s a bit unorthodox and so I’m staying in the background.’

‘Old bookseller, he talk in tongues,’ said Reinhart. ‘Ouch! . . . Sorry about that, I forgot I’m handicapped . . . Anyway, I’m also a shadow of my former self. Come on, tell me what the hell you are on about!’

‘I’d thought of making use of your wife,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘My wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Winnifred?’

‘Do you have more than one?’

‘No. But . . .’

‘Good. You have no objections, then?’

Reinhart coughed, and groaned.

‘What are you proposing to do with my wife?’

‘She works in the English Department, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes . . . Of course.’

‘Hmm. I’ve worked out that the Strangler also works there.’

There was silence at the other end of the line.

‘Forgive me,’ said Reinhart eventually. ‘I needed to check and make sure I was awake. Why the hell do you think that he works in the English Department?’

‘I’ll come and explain it to you in the next day or two,’ Van Veeteren promised generously. ‘I just want to test the validity of my theory first. But I take it you don’t have any objections to me consulting Winnifred?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Good. She’s a woman of sound judgement, isn’t she?’

‘She has chosen me as her husband,’ said Reinhart. ‘What more proof do you need?’

‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Presumably none. I’m glad to hear that you are in such good spirits. Do you know if she’s at home this evening?’

‘She will be unless she comes to visit me, like a loyal and loving wife. Joanna thinks hospitals are great, so I expect them to turn up for a while.’

‘I see. Then perhaps you could mention to her that I’m intending to get in touch.’

‘You can rely on me,’ said Reinhart. ‘Do the others know what you’re getting up to?’

Van Veeteren paused.

‘Not yet. Münster is in charge of the investigation in your absence: I’ll keep him informed if things turn out well. But only if they do.’

‘If I weren’t in plaster,’ said Reinhart, ‘I’d squeeze out of you whatever it is you’re up to. I’d like you to be quite clear about that.’

‘But you
are
in plaster,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’m quite clear about
that
.’

He hung up, and drank the rest of his coffee.

43

It was a few minutes past ten in the evening when he rang the bell of Zuyderstraat 14. It was Winnifred Lynch herself who had proposed such a late time for their meeting, but Van Veeteren thought she looked very tired indeed when she answered the door.

‘I’m worn out,’ she admitted without beating about the bush. ‘Work, nursery, hospital, cooking, bathing, putting to bed, reading a story . . .’ A day in the life of, no doubt about that. ‘I need a whisky – would you like one as well?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Van Veeteren, hanging up his overcoat. ‘I promise not to be long-winded, but you need to be pretty well on the ball. Reinhart said you usually are.’

‘I’m the bright one in the family,’ said Winnifred. ‘Don’t worry. Sit yourself down in there, and I’ll fix us a couple of glasses. Water? Ice?’

‘One centimetre of tap water, please,’ said Van Veeteren, and headed for the living room.

He liked the look of it, as he always did. The unfussy, well-filled bookshelves. the piano. The almost bare walls and the large, comfy sofas. No television. A streamlined, black music centre and a potted palm touching the ceiling. Discreet lighting.

He realized that he hadn’t been here for four or five years . . . Not since Reinhart had married his pretty wife, in fact.