The Strangler's Honeymoon (4 page)

Monica Kammerle. Monica Kammerle’s childhood and youth. Her mum and dad. Her teachers, her old unreliable friends, her favourite hobbies and favourite books. Her thoughts about everything under the sun, and how she felt when he touched her in various ways. And when he was inside her.

But what about him? Nothing. It was hardly his fault. She liked to talk, and she liked him listening to her. To be perfectly honest, you could say that she wasn’t much more than a self-centred sixteen-year-old who liked to contemplate her own navel and never looked beyond the end of her own nose.

On the other hand, she had never had anybody to listen to her since her father died. That’s life, she supposed. You have certain needs, and if you had an opportunity to satisfy them, that was what you did of course.

Apart from the phenomenon of Monica Kammerle there was really only one topic of conversation to which they devoted any time.

Their relationship.

The forbidden fact that she had the same lover as her mother. The fact that she, Monica Kammerle, sixteen years of age, and he, Benjamin Kerran, thirty-nine, spent their time
screwing
each other. From in front and from behind. With mouths and tongues and hands and everything possible. Screwing away like the very devil. She soon realized that she felt a sort of delight mixed with horror, a rather stimulating dismay, as soon as they began talking about it.

As if they had invented it. As if no other person was aware that you could act like that.

Or as if putting all the disgusting actions into words somehow made it all acceptable. By talking about it. She was quite sure that he felt the same way about it as she did.

We are well aware that we are doing wrong, and so we can allow ourselves to do it, she said on one occasion.

And so we can allow ourselves to do it?

At first she believed that.

At first she was really no more than a willing victim in his arms – she was bright enough to be aware of that.

Because she enjoyed what he did to her. Everything – almost everything.

And she enjoyed what he allowed her to do with him. And the fact that he enjoyed it as well.

He told her on one occasion that there are other cultures in which they introduce young girls to sex by letting them go with experienced, grown-up men. Perhaps that’s not a bad idea.

Monica agreed. Not a bad idea at all.

After a night that Benjamin had spent in her mother’s bed before leaving shortly before dawn, she confided in her daughter that he was the best lover she had ever had.

Monica was inclined to agree, but she said nothing. There was no doubt that Benjamin had a strong and positive influence on her mother, it was impossible not to notice that. The manic high she had enjoyed during the latter part of August had come to an end. She was taking her medicine regularly – as far as Monica could judge by checking the medicine cupboard – and she seemed to be healthier and more relaxed than Monica could recall her being at any time since her father’s death.

She was attending her work therapy classes four times a week, cooking meals, shopping and doing the laundry. Almost like a real mother. She had never been so patient and focused. Not as far as Monica could remember, in any case.

So touch wood, she thought. What we are doing might be lunacy – but we are living in a different culture, as it were.

She smiled at the thought. If only her classmates knew . . .

The need to confide in somebody, to tell at least one other person what was going on, cropped up a few days later: to be more precise, the early morning when he left her mother in her bedroom and came to hers instead.

It was early one Wednesday morning at the beginning of September. Shortly after five o’clock. As far as she could make out Benjamin and her mother had been on a trip to Behrensee, and got back home quite late. She was already asleep in bed when they returned, and had only a vague recollection of hearing them in the hall.

She was woken up by him caressing her nipple. He held a warning finger to his lips and nodded in the direction of her mother’s bedroom. Took her hand, placed it on his rock-hard penis and looked suggestively at her.

There was something hungry in his eyes, she noted, but at the same time something entreating, almost like a dog.

And although she was only sixteen years old – and had been a virgin as recently as eighteen days ago – she read in that look of his something about the balancing act that is a hidden component of bodily love. Had crystal-clear insight – although she was only half awake – into all the bottomless pits that lurked behind the most gentle touches and modest glances.

How quickly something could go wrong. And how easily something could go wrong.

She hesitated for a moment. Made sure that he at least closed the door properly. Then nodded and allowed him to penetrate her doggy-fashion.

It hurt, wasn’t at all like it usually was. She hadn’t been properly prepared, it hurt and he was much rougher than usual. He seemed to be interested only in satisfying his own needs, and after a minute or so he ejaculated all over her back without her having been anywhere near to an orgasm.

Without her having experienced an ounce of pleasure.

He mumbled an apology and went back to her mother’s bedroom. No, this was nothing like it usually was, and for the first time she was filled with a surge of extreme disgust.

No doubt he would tell her mother that he’d just nipped out to the loo. If she happened to wake up. Hell’s bells.

She got out of bed. Staggered to the bathroom and threw up until she felt completely drained. Showered and showered and showered.

His dark secret love does thy life destroy, she thought. No, I can’t go on like this. I need to talk to somebody.

4

‘Can you tell me what this is?’

The young shop assistant smiled nervously and fingered his moustache. Van Veeteren wiped the counter with his shirt sleeve and placed the object in the middle of the bright, shiny surface. The young man leaned forward to examine it, but when he realized what it was he straightened his back and watered down his smile.

‘Of course. It’s an olive stone.’

Van Veeteren raised an eyebrow.

‘Really? Are you absolutely sure of that?’

‘Of course.’

He picked it up carefully between his thumb and index finger and eyed it closely.

‘No doubt about it. An olive stone.’

‘Good,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’re in agreement so far.’

He gingerly took a rolled-up handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it meticulously.

‘What about this, then?’

It seemed as if the young man was about to give this object the once-over as well, but for some reason changed his mind. He remained halfway bent over the counter with an odd expression on his freckly face.

‘It looks like a tooth filling.’

‘Precisely!’ exclaimed Van Veeteren, sliding the olive stone towards the little dark-coloured lump of metal until they were more or less side by side, with only a centimetre or so between them. ‘And might I ask if you have any idea who you have the great pleasure of conversing with on a beautiful September day like this one?’

The shop assistant tried to smile again, but it wouldn’t come. He glanced several times at the display window and the door, as if hoping that a rather more normal customer might turn up and relieve the somewhat tense atmosphere inside the shop. But no such saviour appeared, and so he put his hands into the pockets of his white smock and tried to appear rather more self-assured.

‘Of course. You are Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. What are you getting at?’

‘What am I getting at?’ enquired Van Veeteren. ‘Let me inform you. I want to go to Rome, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make sure I get there. Tomorrow morning, to be more precise, when I have a flight booked from Sechshafen. However, I must say that I had hoped to make that journey in the best possible condition – namely with all my teeth present and correct.’

‘Your teeth?’

‘My teeth, yes. Incidentally, it is true that my name is Van Veeteren: but when it comes to my occupation, allow me to inform you that I ceased to be a member of the police force three years ago.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the youth apologetically. ‘But they say you get dragged back in from time to time.’

Get dragged back in? Van Veeteren thought, losing his concentration for a moment. Do they say I get dragged back in? What the hell . . . ?

He thought quickly about the four years that had passed since he handed in his resignation to Hiller – but the chief of police changed the request on his own initiative to a sort of permanent leave, an arrangement for which there was no precedent in the rulebook. Was the situation really as the callow youth had described it? That he got dragged back in now and then? That he had difficulty in staying away?

Three or four times, he decided. Maybe five or six, it depended on how you counted.

But no more often than that. Once or twice a year. Not much to speak about, in fact, and he had never been the one to take the initiative. Apart from just once, perhaps. It had usually been Münster or Reinhart who had proposed something over a beer at Adenaar’s or Kraus’s place. Asked a tricky little question or requested some advice, as they and their colleagues were getting nowhere in a particular case.

Asked for help, in fact: yes, that’s the way it was. Sometimes he had declined to be of assistance, sometimes he had been interested. But
dragged back in
? No, that was going too far. Definitely an exaggeration: he hadn’t been involved in any police work in the real meaning of the term since he had become an antiquarian book dealer. In that respect his conscience was as clear and pure white as both innocence and arsenic.

He glared at the shop assistant, who was shuffling his feet and seemed to be having difficulty in remaining silent. Van Veeteren himself had never found it difficult to remain silent. On the contrary, he and silence were old mates, and sometimes he found it advantageous to use silence as a weapon.

‘Rubbish,’ he said in the end. ‘I work with old books at Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop. Full stop. But the point has nothing to do with my personal circumstances, but with this olive stone.’

‘I see,’ said the shop assistant.

‘And this filling.’

‘And so?’

‘You acknowledge that you know me?’

‘Er, yes . . . Of course.’

‘Do you also acknowledge that you sold me a sandwich this morning?’

The shop assistant took a deep breath, as if to build up some strength.

‘As I have done every morning for the past year or so, yes.’

‘Not every morning,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Not by any means. Let’s say three or four times a week. And nowhere near a year either, as I used to shop at Semmelmann’s until January when they closed down. I very much doubt if I would ever have had a problem like this in that shop, incidentally.’

The young man nodded submissively and hesitated.

‘But what the hell . . . What is the point you are making?’ he managed to force himself to ask as the blush began to make its way up from under his shirt collar.

‘The content of the sandwich, of course,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘The content?’

‘Precisely. According to what you said and in accordance with what I expected, you sold me this morning a lunchtime sandwich with a filling of mozzarella cheese – made from buffalo milk, of course – cucumber, sun-dried tomatoes, fresh basil, onion, radicchio and stoneless Greek olives.’

The blush on the assistant’s face blossomed forth like a sunrise.

‘I repeat:
stoneless
olives!’

With a restrained gesture Van Veeteren pointed out to the youth the small objects on the counter. The young man cleared his throat and clasped his hands.

‘I understand. We apologize, of course, and if what you are saying is . . .’

‘That is what I am saying,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘To be more precise, the fact is that I have been forced to make an appointment with Schenck, the dentist in Meijkstraat. One of the most expensive dentists in town, unfortunately, but as I am due to leave tomorrow morning I had no choice. I just wanted to make you aware of the circumstances, so that you are not surprised when the invoice arrives.’

‘Of course. My father . . .’

‘I have no doubt that you will be able to explain it all in a convincing manner to your father, but now you must excuse me – I simply don’t have the time to stand here arguing the toss any longer. You may keep the stone and the filling. As a souvenir and a sort of reminder, I don’t need either of them any longer. Thank you and goodbye.’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ stammered the young man. ‘We shall be seeing you again, I hope?’

‘I shall think about the possibility,’ said Van Veeteren, stepping out into the sunshine.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in the inner room of the antiquarian bookshop, working. Answered eleven requests from bookshops and libraries – eight of them negative, three positive. Listed and annotated a collection of maps that Krantze had found in a cellar in the Prague old town (how on earth had he managed to make such a journey and also go down into a cellar, afflicted as he was by rheumatism, sciatica, vascular spasms and chronic bronchitis?). Began sorting out four bags of odds and ends brought in that same morning by the heirs of a recently deceased man, and bought for a song. He allowed the few customers who came into the shop to wander around freely, and the only transaction was the sale of half a dozen old crime novels for rather a good price to a German tourist. At a quarter past five Ulrike rang to ask what time he would be coming home. He told her about the olive stone and the tooth filling, and thought that she found it more amusing than she ought to have done. They agreed to meet at Adenaar’s at about seven – or as soon after that as possible, depending on when he had been allowed to leave the dentist’s chair. Neither of them had any great desire to cook a meal the evening before a journey; and in any case it was by no means certain that he would be able to chew anything so soon after being fitted with new false teeth, Ulrike thought.