The Strangler's Honeymoon (17 page)

Needless to say he wasn’t at home, but she left a message on his answering machine: that she was longing to be with him, and that he should prepare something tasty as she intended to call round at his place for dinner that evening.

At about nine o’clock or thereabouts.

When she had switched off her mobile, she felt a little bit alive at last.

15

It was not until half past six on Monday evening that they were able to acknowledge anything resembling a breakthrough in the Martina Kammerle case.

But, as Reinhart said, the murderer had had plenty of time in which to cover his tracks, so perhaps matters were not as urgent as the media hacks – always keen to apply pressure – seemed to think. The investigation team had issued a press release at the routine media briefing at three o’clock, but had explained that there would be no press conference as such until Tuesday afternoon at the earliest.

In response to this, a young and obviously unbalanced reporter from the
Telegraaf
had called Reinhart a secrecy-obsessed turnip, and Reinhart had asked him if he had been accepted for training at the College of Journalism as part of a quota reserved for sticks of asparagus without heads.

Relations between the head of Maardam CID and the fourth estate were nothing to write home about.

In addition to Reinhart, Moreno and Münster, also present at the run-through were Jung, Rooth and Krause – the last-named had just been promoted to the rank of inspector – so it was obvious that plenty of resources had been mobilized at this early stage of the investigation.

Apart from that, as Reinhart stressed, things were not looking exactly rosy.

‘Unless a murderer full of regrets, or a five-star witness, turns up within the next few days, we shall no doubt have to resign ourselves to a long, hard slog. People who lie under a bed dead for a month without being discovered have not normally been living in the spotlight either. Does anybody disagree about that?’

Nobody did. Reinhart took out his pipe and tobacco, and handed over to Münster for a summary of what had been discovered during the day with regard to what are usually but somewhat inappropriately called ‘technical matters’.

‘A month seems about right,’ Münster began. ‘That’s what Meusse reckons at least, and we all know the status of an estimation by Meusse, right? The cause of death is obvious: strangulation. Persistent and hard pressure applied to the larynx. Only the hands were used, presumably from behind, probably by somebody who is pretty strong. No rape, no sign of any sort of struggle. Nothing odd at all, one could say.’

He paused, and looked around.

‘Go on,’ said Reinhart.

‘The scene of the crime and the place where the body was discovered seem to be identical. Somebody had been to visit Martina Kammerle four or five weeks ago. He killed her and put the body in rubbish bags – there are several in the broom cupboard by the way, so he might well have taken them from there – and then he shoved her under the bed and left the scene. The door can be locked without a key. There is no indication of anything having been removed from the flat, nor that it was searched, although of course we can’t be certain of that. There was no alcohol in the victim’s body, no sign of any unwashed plates or glasses. If we eventually find that he removed jewellery worth a million or two from the flat, we shall obviously have to consider the possibility of robbery with murder: but there is nothing to suggest that at the moment.’

‘Is there anything to suggest anything at all?’ wondered Rooth, but he received no reply.

‘Fingerprints?’ asked Krause.

‘Nix,’ said Münster. ‘It looks as if the murderer was careful to wipe everything clean before leaving. There are hardly any prints in the flat at all. Mulder says it seems that somebody spent several hours cleaning and dusting all surfaces. There were a few prints on crockery and books and suchlike, but most of them are those of the victim herself. It’s fairly obvious that the others are probably those of the daughter.’

‘A very cautious type, then,’ said Rooth. ‘So nothing to hope for there?’

‘Presumably not,’ said Münster.

‘I don’t suppose we have any of the usual suspects on the run, do we?’ asked Rooth. ‘Characters who enjoy strangling women now and then?’

Münster shook his head.

‘I’ve started looking into that,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think so. Not in the vicinity of Maardam, at least.’

Reinhart had lit his pipe by now, and blew a cloud of smoke over all those present.

‘So we’re looking for a loony making his debut, in other words,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing of significance,’ said Münster. ‘All the reports are available for people to read.’

‘Very true,’ said Reinhart. ‘That will be the homework for tomorrow. I don’t know how long we’ll be allowed to continue on the case with as many officers as we have now, but for the time being it would be as well if everybody could make sure they were familiar with all aspects of it. There’s not all that much, and of course, three eyes see better than one.’

‘No doubt,’ said Rooth. ‘And coffee without any cake is better than no coffee at all. Are we going to get any refreshments?’

Reinhart ignored that question as well.

‘What about the neighbours?’ he asked instead. ‘Jung, Rooth, over to you.’

Jung explained that together with Constables Klempje, Dillinger and Joensuu, they had spent six hours knocking on doors in Moerckstraat, and the result had been depressingly thin. Nobody – not a single soul of the ninety-two persons listed as having been contacted – had known anything at all about Martina Kammerle.

And precisely the same number had been able to comment on her daughter, Monica.

‘It makes you think,’ said Jung. ‘And leaves you depressed. Violeta Paraskevi, who lives next door to the Kammerles, is the only one who noticed that there might be something wrong.
Might be
, note that. And it was thanks to her that this Traut character decided to call in the caretaker.’

‘And what about him?’ wondered Münster. ‘What did the caretaker have to say?’

‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Rooth. ‘As long as you pay your rent on time and don’t trash anything, you are as familiar as a paving stone in his eyes. And valued just about as much. Nice chap – it’s a pity we don’t have a standard punishment for being a bastard. But where’s the daughter? We should be talking about that instead. We can forget about the neighbours, despite the fact that Dillinger and Joensuu still have a few more doors to knock on tomorrow.’

‘Ah yes, the daughter,’ said Reinhart. ‘That’s another disaster, to say the least.’

‘Really?’ said Münster. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Reinhart had no desire to enlarge upon his comment, but delegated this question as well.

‘Inspector Krause,’ he said. ‘Over to you!’

‘Hmm, yes, thank you,’ said Krause leaning forward on his elbows. ‘It looks as if Monica Kammerle hasn’t attended school since the twenty-first of September – assuming the information we have received is correct, and no doubt it is in this case. She’s in the first year at the Bunge Grammar School, but nobody has reacted to the fact that she’s been absent. I’ve spoken to the headmaster, to one of the teachers and a few of her classmates, and there seem to be quite a few points that are unclear.’

‘Points that are unclear?’ wondered Moreno. ‘What, for instance?’

‘It seems to have been assumed that she had transferred to another school, but she hasn’t been registered at any of the other grammar schools in Maardam and district. There’s a social worker who ought to know a bit more about it, but she’s been at a funeral down in Groenstadt today. We shall be talking to her tomorrow.’

‘So you’re saying that the daughter has been missing for as long as her mother has been lying dead, are you?’ said Moreno.

‘It seems so,’ said Krause. ‘On the face of it.’

‘But that’s deplorable,’ said Rooth.

‘That’s exactly what I said,’ agreed Reinhart. ‘If nobody notices that a child has been missing for a month and a half, you have to ask what the hell is going on there.’

‘Precisely,’ said Krause. ‘The headmaster seemed flabbergasted, to be fair.’

‘No wonder,’ said Münster. ‘Perhaps we ought to say a few words about this at the press conference?’

‘When I played truant at secondary school, they nabbed me after no more than an hour,’ said Rooth. ‘Every bloody time.’

There followed a few moments of silence. Reinhart leafed through his papers and blew out another cloud of smoke.

‘That’s the way things are nowadays,’ he muttered eventually. ‘And however they are, it’s bonkers. But I suppose this isn’t really anything unprecedented . . . The world is a madhouse, and has been that way for as long as I can remember. Münster, did you make contact with any of the medics?’

Münster nodded.

‘After considerable difficulty,’ he said. ‘Martina Kammerle was a manic depressive, and she was taken into care a few times. The first time she was only eighteen, and had tried to take her own life. She’s been on medication ever since then, but Dr Klimke – the one I spoke to – suggested that she sometimes used to skip it. It seems that is not uncommon, when patients are on a high. The usual medicines are Lithium and Calvonal. Martina Kammerle has been on both of them: they are used to try to level out the ups and downs of the manic-depressive psyche, as they say. Klimke works at Gemejnte Hospital and came into contact with Kammerle four years ago, in connection with the death of her husband – I expect you know about that car accident business?’

He looked round the table.

‘Yep,’ said Rooth. ‘Was she on the sick list now?’

‘Klimke thought so – we’ll check that tomorrow. He didn’t really know all that much about her. He’d signed prescriptions for her and phoned the pharmacy once or twice, when she had been in touch; but he says he hasn’t actually met her for about three years.’

‘Top class psychiatric care,’ said Rooth.

‘Brilliant,’ said Reinhart. ‘But that’s not exactly anything new either. Medicine is cheaper than therapy. Anyway, all this boils down to the fact that Martina Kammerle hasn’t had a steady job – or any job at all, come to that – for the last five years. She had no social contacts, not that we know about, at least; and apart from her daughter her only living close relative is her sister up in Chadow. Perhaps Inspector Moreno could be so kind as to inject a little light into the compact darkness and tell us something substantial about her visit to Chadow?’

Moreno did as she was asked, without feeling that anything had become any clearer. She was tempted to mention the incident with the motorcycle, in order to increase the degree of substantiality asked of her, but desisted.

‘A testament to sisterly love, in other words,’ said Reinhart when she had finished. ‘Is there a single person who has anything to say about Martina Kammerle? Didn’t she ever undergo a course of treatment, by the way?’

Krause cleared his throat and took the floor once more.

‘It depends what you mean by “undergo”,’ he said. ‘She started on a sort of work aptitude course in August, and was paid a subsidy to attend. She seems to have turned up three or four times, but the man responsible for it doesn’t recall ever speaking to her about it. It apparently involved mainly watching videos and then filling in aptitude forms . . . But he promised to send us a list of all those taking part so that we can maybe check on whether she made any contacts there.’

‘Good,’ said Reinhart. ‘Not much chance of that, I suspect, but this is the kind of thing we have to hope comes up with a lead. Somebody who might be able to tell us a little bit about her. Every little helps, as they say.’

‘Let’s face it,’ said Rooth, ‘Everything that is more than nothing is something.’

‘You don’t say?’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, we’ll make sure her picture appears in tomorrow’s papers, come what may. And urge people to come forward – especially if anybody has seen her in the company of a man.’

‘A man?’ said Rooth. ‘Why?’

‘Surely that’s obvious,’ said Reinhart, beginning to look annoyed. ‘It’s got to have been a man who killed her, and next-door-neighbour Paraskevi said something – pretty vague, for God’s sake, but still. Something about having seen a man around. At the end of August or thereabouts.’

‘But she never actually saw him, did she?’ asked Krause.

‘Apparently not,’ sighed Reinhart, sitting up straight. ‘Unfortunately. Anyway, to sum up: this is a case about which we know next to nothing – I take it we can all agree on that? We know so damned little that we ought to be ashamed – if it helps for police officers to be ashamed, and maybe it doesn’t. Has anybody anything to add before we start deciding who is going to do what?’

Rooth stood up.

‘I think I must go and fetch something to eat before we go any further,’ he said. ‘Bearing in mind my blood sugar levels and all that. But there’s one other thing I wonder about.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Jung.

‘Well, if this Martina Kammerle woman was so cut off from contact with anybody else, how come that anybody should bother to murder her? Eh? If she was so insignificant?’

Reinhart nodded vaguely, but said nothing.

‘There’s something in that,’ said Münster. ‘Anybody who had a reason for murdering her must have been acquainted with her – a little bit, at least. Bearing in mind how she was killed. You don’t strangle somebody on the spur of the moment. I wouldn’t, at least.’

‘Nor would I,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, let’s take a five-minute pause, so that Inspector Rooth doesn’t starve to death.’

Once Tuesday’s work programme had been drawn up, Münster invited Moreno into his office for a brief chat.

‘You didn’t say very much during the meeting,’ he said when they had sat down.

‘I know,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m sorry, but I find this Martina Kammerle business very depressing.’

‘So do I,’ said Münster.

‘If you live in such a way that nobody notices your presence, why should anybody want to kill you? I agree with Rooth. Getting murdered seems to suggest an interest in you that you haven’t deserved.’

‘Indeed,’ said Münster. ‘That thought struck me as well. But I suppose it’s possible that she possessed some sort of inner light that we’re unaware of. Qualities of life that we don’t see. We’re only rooting around in the afterbirth, as it were.’