The Strangler's Honeymoon (53 page)

‘Not too bad,’ said Münster, turning to look at the sun.

‘You ought to have been an astronaut,’ muttered Van Veeteren.

‘An astronaut?’ said Münster.

‘Yes, one of those Americans who flew to the moon. I heard how the first man on the moon tried to express his rapture to the dumbfounded masses back here on earth – do you know what he said?’

‘No.’

‘It’s great up here.’

‘It’s great up here?’

‘Yes. A bit on the inadequate side, you might think.’

‘I see,’ said Münster, looking out over the rail. ‘And how would an antiquarian bookseller express his feelings on seeing this panorama?’

Van Veeteren thought for five seconds, also gazing out over the sea, the sky and the coastline. Then he closed his eyes and took a sip of beer.

‘O bliss to be young in the light of morning on the sea,’ he said.

‘Not too bad,’ said Münster.

‘Maybe we should exchange a few thoughts about our mission,’ suggested Van Veeteren when Münster arrived back at the deckchairs with two bottles of lemon squash (a sort of primitive beer substitute: it was only half past nine in the morning, and their fluid balance needed some attention in view of the hot sun). ‘So that we know where we stand.’

‘By all means,’ said Münster. ‘Personally I’m not even sure we’re on the way to the right island. But then, I’m only the one in charge of the investigation.’

Van Veeteren eased off his shoes and socks and splayed out his toes with an air of satisfaction.

‘Of course we are,’ he said. ‘DeFraan is trying to complete a circle – I don’t know exactly how, but we shall find out in due course.’

‘Do you mean that he’s returning to the place where his wife died?’

‘Have you any other suggestion?’

Münster did not. They had not discussed the case properly for two days, even though they had spent nearly all the time in each other’s company. On the flight Van Veeteren had slept from start to finish, and the previous evening he had resorted to his old, familiar weakness for smokescreens and general mystification, Münster had unfortunately been forced to conclude.

But that’s the way he was. The intendent had seen it all before. And now it seemed at last to be time to hint at an apology. Better late than never. Münster drank some water, and waited.

‘We have no chance of proving any of this,’ said Van Veeteren to begin with. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘I agree,’ said Münster. ‘But surely it’s deplorable that the prosecutor wouldn’t allow us to search deFraan’s flat, don’t you think?’

‘Deplorable is the right word,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But it’s pretty obvious what lies behind it.’

‘The fact that Ferrari is a member of the Succulents?’

‘Of course. He has a chance to obstruct us, and so of course he does just that. Don’t forget that their motto is “
Singillitam mortales, cunctim perpetui!
”’

‘What does that mean?

‘On your own you are mortal, together you are immortal!’

‘I didn’t know you could speak Latin.’

‘I looked it up,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I work in a bookshop now and then, as you might know, so it wasn’t too difficult. According to Reinhart, Ferrari is going to be replaced, so that detail will be sorted in a few days.’

‘Presumably,’ said Münster, turning to look at the sun again.

I’m doubtful about the whole of this, he thought. Does he really know what he’s doing?

‘If deFraan had had a bit more ice in his veins,’ said Van Veeteren, ‘all he’d have needed to do was to lie low instead of running off in this panicky way. He must have known the situation, he’s no fool. What do you think it signifies?’

‘That he ran away?’

‘Yes.’

Münster thought for a moment.

‘That he’s tired of it all?’

‘Exactly,’ said Van Veeteren, adjusting his straw hat. ‘That’s the conclusion I drew. He knows that we know, and his lunacy isn’t under control any longer. Not completely, in any case, and that’s what will bring about his downfall. He just hasn’t the strength to go on any longer. My guess is that he’s utterly exhausted – no wonder, come to that.’

‘The fingerprints in the Blake book were pretty convincing,’ said Münster. ‘Not conclusive, of course, but they prove that he had a link to the Kammerle family.’

Van Veeteren nodded. Sat in silence for a while, staring at the glass of lemon squash he had in his hand.

‘Of course. But a good lawyer would produce ten innocent explanations from up his sleeve in as many seconds. The same applies to that confounded lapel badge. All the clues pointing to deFraan are so insubstantial that they would carry no weight at all in a courtroom, that’s the problem. But I would really like to meet him eye to eye. I hope we can nail him.’

‘Why?’ wondered Münster. ‘Why would you like to meet him?’

‘Human interest,’ said Van Veeteren, lighting a cigarette.

‘Or inhuman interest, perhaps?’ suggested Münster.

‘Possibly, yes. I want to know what makes him tick, and what the hell lies behind it all. It’s so damned unpleasant for a man of such high intelligence to be driven for so long by such high lunacy. He must be an emotional monster, I can’t see it any other way. But even monsters are made up of flesh and blood and nerves – or so I’ve always believed, in any case.’

Münster put on his newly acquired sunglasses and unfastened a couple of shirt buttons.

‘Nobody seemed to have known him particularly well.’

‘Nobody at all, it seems. If that Dr Parnak was a pal of his for so many years and didn’t have more to say about him than she did, well – who the hell could throw light on him?’

‘His wife? Could have done . . .’

‘We’re on the way to her,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It’s a pity we weren’t able to talk to her sister – that might have given us a few clues, at least.’

Münster nodded. They had managed to track down Professor deFraan’s former sister-in-law, a certain Laura Fenner née Markovic, to Boston, USA, but just before they left Maardam Krause had informed them that fru Fenner was unfortunately on a skiing holiday at Lake Placid, and couldn’t be contacted.

‘What do you think about Christa deFraan’s death?’ Münster asked.

Van Veeteren said nothing for a while, merely sat twiddling his toes.

‘I think what I think,’ he said eventually.

It was four in the afternoon when they got out of their taxi in the square in Argostoli. Van Veeteren stood for a while beside his suitcase, looking around and nodding contentedly. Münster paid the driver, then followed suit. It was not difficult to understand the satisfied expression on the
Chief Inspector
’s face. The agora was large and square, surrounded on three sides by restaurants, tavernas and cafes. Low, pale-coloured buildings with flat roofs, and plane trees and oleander bushes to provide shade. The town climbed up the mountainside, and down towards the sea. Palm trees were making crackling noises in the warm breeze. Cyclists and small children were everywhere, pedestrians, elderly gentlemen playing tavli, and a few apathetic pigeons pecking away around an empty tribune with some kind of rudimentary loud-speaker set-up.

‘Ah,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We have come to the real world, Münster. Pascal never saw this.’

‘Pascal?’ said Münster. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He claimed that people are incapable of sitting still in the same place for any longish time, and that almost all wretchedness can be traced back to that fact – evil, for instance. But you could spend an eternity in this square, surely you can see that? If you have a beer and a newspaper, at least.’

Münster looked around.

‘Yes indeed,’ he said, picking up his suitcase. ‘And that hotel doesn’t look so bad either. That’s where we’ll be staying, isn’t it?’

He pointed to the Ionean Plaza, the large building on the northern side of the square. The pale yellow façade was bathed in evening sunshine. Three storeys high, small balconies with wrought-iron bars, and a distinctly French look overall. Van Veeteren nodded and looked at his watch.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘But we mustn’t forget that this island has a history as well. A recent history.’

‘Really?’ said Münster.

‘It was one of the worst affected of all during the war, in various ways. The Germans massacred thousands of Italian soldiers, for instance. Burnt heaps of them on big fires. And there was a terrible earthquake here in 1953.’

‘I thought Germany and Italy were on the same side during the war,’ said Münster.’

‘So did the Italians,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But I suppose we’d better forget about the war and Pascal for a while, and check in instead. Perhaps we ought to get something done today. Or what do you think?’

‘A good idea,’ said Münster. ‘For our peace of mind – especially if we are going to sit around here for an eternal evening.’

The Fauner travel agency had its office in the south-west corner of the agora, and Münster was served by two blonde women in blue uniforms. They looked to be in their thirties, could well have been twins, and for the moment had nothing better to do than sit in front of their switched-off computers with a cup of coffee each. Münster knew that the tourist season proper didn’t start for another four or five weeks, and he was surprised to find the office open from as early as 1 March.

But perhaps there was the occasional island-hopper to look after. And an occasional detective intendent. He turned to the nearest blonde and introduced himself.

‘Were you the one who rang?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled a friendly charter-smile. Münster smiled back.

‘I’ve looked into the matter for you.’

She took a sheet of paper from a file.

‘Maarten and Christa deFraan were here for a fortnight’s holiday in August, 1995, like you said. They bought the holiday from us, and stayed at one of the hotels out at Lassi. That’s only a few kilometres from here – it’s where the best beaches are, and most people want to stay there. The hotel’s name was Olympos, but it’s not there any more. It wasn’t one of the better establishments, to tell you the truth, and we stopped using it about three years ago. They closed down altogether last year. I think they’re converting it into a collection of boutiques, but I’m not sure.’

Münster wrote it all down in his notebook.

‘I suppose you don’t happen to know about an incident that took place while they were here?’

She shook her head.

‘No. What are you referring to?’

‘Were you not working here then? In 1995?’

‘Oh no, I didn’t come here until spring last year. Agnieszka as well.’

The presumptive twin looked up from her newspaper and smiled.

‘I’ve just extracted the information from the computer.’

‘I see,’ said Münster. ‘Am I right in thinking there are quite a lot of hotels out there?’

‘Of course. We use about ten, but there must be twenty-five to thirty in all. Most of them haven’t opened yet, of course. The usual season is Easter to the end of September.’

‘I see,’ said Münster again, and contemplated the slowly rotating fan on the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘But you haven’t had a booking from Maarten deFraan this week, have you?’

‘No. There’s very little to do at this time of year, to be honest. It’s mainly planning for the season ahead – checking that the hotels are up to standard, booking buses for the excursions, that sort of stuff. But we are open for a few hours every afternoon, as you have noticed.’

Münster nodded.

‘What’s the situation regarding the police authorities?’ he asked. ‘Argostoli is the main town on the island, is that right?’

‘Yes. The police station is down by the harbour. We don’t have much to do with them – it’s pretty quiet around here, thank goodness. But they have three departments: traffic police, tourist police and criminal police – well, I suppose the criminal police isn’t really a department. His name is Yakos. Dimitrios Yakos.’

‘He’s gone home for the day,’ said Van Veeteren an hour later when they sat down with a beer each under a green parasol outside the Ionean Plaza. ‘Chief Inspector Yakos. I rang the station, but the secretary wasn’t even sure if he’d been in at all today – she hadn’t seen him, if I understood her rightly. You haven’t considered moving yet, have you?’

‘I’m sitting here,’ said Münster.

‘Hmm, so you are,’ said Van Veeteren, taking out his cigarette machine. ‘Anyway, she was going to tell him that I want to meet him tomorrow morning, no matter what. I wonder where the hell our friend has got to . . . He’s got a few days’ start on us, of course.’

Friend? Münster thought. He’s taken the lives of five people, or however many it is by now. Whatever he is, he’s certainly not a
friend
.

‘Was it Chief Inspector Yakos who was in charge of the investigation in 1995?’ he asked.

‘In so far as you can call it an investigation,’ said Van Veeteren, suddenly looking much grimmer. ‘I hope he speaks better English than his secretary in any case. But perhaps it’s intentional that the local population should look after criminal activities on the island, and not the tourists.’

Münster said nothing for a while, gazing out over the square, where a blue Mediterranean twilight had begun to descend and make outlines more blurred. It made everything look even more attractive, like a large living room under an open sky. The temperature was still around twenty degrees, he estimated, and there were rather more people out and about now. Elderly gentlemen sitting and reading newspapers, or chatting over tiny cups of coffee. Women with or without string bags, with or without widows’ veils. Young people sitting on the little podium, smoking. A few motorcyclists standing around, preening themselves . . . Young girls laughing and shouting and chasing one another, and small boys playing football. Dogs and cats. Not many tourists, as far as he could judge: perhaps twenty or so in the cafes and tavernas he could see from their table.

How the hell are we going to find him? he thought. We don’t even know for sure if he’s on this island.

Has he really got a plan, this bookseller by the name of Van Veeteren?

He didn’t bother to ask as he knew he wouldn’t get a sensible answer. Was content to keep a discreet eye on his former boss from the side – just now he looked as inscrutable as a newly dug-up antique statue as he sat there sipping his beer with a newly rolled and newly lit cigarette between the index and long fingers of his right hand. But I suppose statues didn’t normally smoke and drink beer, Münster thought. I suppose I’m an astronaut after all, at bottom.