The Strangler's Honeymoon (55 page)

She paused again.

‘But I understand her, of course. It’s not all that odd that she has become like she is: that’s why I didn’t want to betray her.’

She tried to make eye contact with both Moreno and Sammelmerk now, as if in the hope of receiving support. Or at least some kind of understanding. Moreno found herself trying to avoid Kristeva’s eyes, and she nodded rather vaguely.

‘Yes indeed,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s understandable. I think it would be understandable for a male detective officer as well – for most of the ones I know, at least.’

‘No doubt about that,’ said Sammelmerk. ‘But I don’t think we should get too deeply involved in the sex role aspects at this stage. In any case, I don’t think you need to worry at all about having kept quiet about this. The whole business is bad enough as it is. But what’s the current situation? I don’t think you’ve quite brought us up to date, as it were . . .’

Kristeva cleared her throat and continued.

‘Ester had that Muslim woman disguise – she’d bought it in Paris somehow or other. Hijab and all. I don’t know if you can just walk into a shop and buy everything, just like that – perhaps it is that simple. The problem when she came back here was that she didn’t even know what the man was called. He hadn’t used his real name, as you know. But she knew where he lived, and it wasn’t long before she knew who he was. She shadowed him for a few days while she was making her plans. Presumably he noticed her, because one day she discovered that he’d upped and left Maardam. Last Sunday, I think it was. In addition somebody else had turned up, also shadowing deFraan, according to Ester. Some sort of sleuth or detective officer from your lot, if I understood her rightly.’

Moreno managed another movement of the head that committed herself to nothing.

‘In any case, deFraan must have become aware of one of them, or perhaps both. He must have realized that no matter what, he was living dangerously, and one day he was simply no longer there. Ester was furious, she didn’t sleep for two nights, didn’t even go to bed. I really thought she was going to lose control – she must have been taking some kind of tablets too. And then, well, she simply disappeared as well.’

‘Disappeared?’ said Moreno.

Kristeva nodded.

‘So you’re saying that Ester Peerenkaas disappeared once again, are you?’ said Sammelmerk, checking that the tape recorder was still functioning. ‘After Maarten deFraan had left Maardam.’

‘Yes,’ said Kristeva somewhat wearily. ‘That’s what I’m saying. On Wednesday last week she was suddenly no longer there. She had left and taken her suitcase with her, without a word of explanation.’

Five seconds passed.

‘Where is she?’ asked Moreno.

Kristeva shrugged in resignation.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the slightest idea. But I know who she’s after, and I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes.’

Moreno looked at Sammelmerk. Sammelmerk looked out of the window and drummed lightly with a pencil on her underlip.

‘Maarten deFraan,’ she said slowly. ‘The Strangler. Suspected of having taken the life of five people – or perhaps it’s only four now. So you’re saying that he’s the one Ester Peerenkaas is after?’

Yes,’ said Kristeva, with another sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he is?’

‘We have our suspicions,’ said Moreno.

Inspector Sammelmerk switched off the tape recorder.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ she said. ‘Forgive me, but I really must swear a little off the record. What a dreadful story! Yes, as Inspector Moreno said, we think we’ve begun to nail him down – but the less said, the better.’

‘Where?’ asked Kristeva, but she received no reply.

‘Thank you for coming to us,’ said Moreno instead. ‘It hasn’t been easy for you.’

Anna Kristeva allowed herself a very slight and brief smile.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t been easy.’

When they were alone, Inspector Sammelmerk went over to the door and switched off the light.

‘Good God,’ she said as she flopped down onto her desk chair again. ‘What do you say to that?’

‘What is there to say?’ said Moreno.

Sammelmerk thought for a while, biting her underlip and gazing out through the window.

‘If we continue to refrain from getting involved in the sex role aspects,’ she said eventually, ‘where do we land up?’

‘In Greece, of course.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘What about?’

‘About how things are down there. Do you think she’s landed up there as well?’

‘No idea,’ said Moreno. ‘But I reckon we ought to give them a ring in any case.’

Irene Sammelmerk waited for a few long seconds, then slid the telephone across her desk.

‘You do it,’ she said. ‘You know our representatives down there better than I do. Shall I look the number up for you?’

‘That’s not necessary,’ said Moreno. ‘I have a good memory for numbers.’

51

The police station in Argostoli was a blue-and-white two-storey building in Ioannis Metaxa, opposite the harbour office. Van Veeteren was escorted by a young, fit-looking constable through a long corridor to a blue door with a handwritten plate saying Dimitrios Yakos. In both Greek and Latin letters.

The constable knocked gently, and after a few seconds the door was opened by a stocky, thin-haired man in his fifties. He had a cigarette in his mouth, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper folded in two in the other. Van Veeteren couldn’t help but wonder how he had managed to manipulate the door handle.

‘Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?’ he said solemnly, and put down what he was carrying. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

Van Veeteren shook hands, and the young constable headed back towards the front desk. Chief Inspector Yakos invited his guest to sit down and apologized eloquently for not being contactable the previous day as he had been busy with a case that needed his presence and full attention: but now he was available one hundred and fifty per cent. Europe is one big town nowadays, isn’t she?

Van Veeteren nodded and accepted a cigarette from a shiny metal case. He looked quickly around the cramped room with barred windows overlooking the street and the harbour, and decided that (apart from the barred windows) it looked more like a sort of student room than an office. A low table with two armchairs. A bookcase with files, books and newspapers. At least twenty framed family portraits on the walls, and a small humming refrigerator from which Yakos produced two cans of beer and opened them dexterously without even bothering to ask.

He was speaking all the time, and Van Veeteren’s worries about possible linguistic problems were put to shame in no uncertain manner. Yakos’s English was almost as fluent as his own – apart from the imagery which was firmly rooted in the Greek cultural traditions – and when Van Veeteren had tasted the beer and sat down in one of the armchairs, he had the distinct impression that everything might click into place despite everything.

After five minutes the chief inspector had completed his introductory monologue concerning his family and professional circumstances. He lit a new cigarette from the butt of the previous one, clasped his hairy hands and contemplated his guest with eager interest.

‘Perhaps you could now explain the nature of your business here. It will be a pleasure to work with you.’

Van Veeteren thought for two seconds.

‘I’m looking for a murderer,’ he said then.

‘Ah,’ said Yakos, smacking his lips slightly as if he had just enjoyed a fresh fig. ‘Here? On the island of donkeys and heroes?’

‘Yes, here,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘His name is Maarten deFraan, and I have reason to suspect that he is holed up here in Argostoli – or possibly in Lassi. We think he arrived quite recently, and has presumably checked into a hotel or boarding house. Possibly using a false name, but he’s probably using his real one. I need your help to find him, and I need your help to arrest him. I assume you have received my authorization documents?’

Yakos nodded.

‘Yes, of course. No problem.’

Van Veeteren handed over a photograph of deFraan. Yakos took it, held it carefully between his thumb and index finger as he studied it with his eyebrows assuming the shape of a circumflex accent.

‘The murderer?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many lives does he have on his conscience? It’s not clear from the picture.’

‘We don’t know for certain. Four or five.’

‘Ah.’

He returned the photograph.

‘Can we expect any complications? Is he armed?’

Van Veeteren thought for a moment before replying.

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to judge if he’s dangerous or not. I suggest we wait with that aspect until we have located him. How long do you think you’ll need?’

Yakos looked at the clock and smiled.

‘Get in touch again this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Let’s face it, we only need to carry out a check on the local hotels. That shouldn’t take more than a few hours – I have several junior officers at my disposal. If we don’t find him, then of course the situation will become more difficult: but why foresee difficulties that might not exist?’

‘Why indeed,’ agreed Van Veeteren. He drank the rest of the beer and stood up. ‘I’ll call in at about four, is that okay?’

‘This afternoon, yes,’ said Yakos with a smile suggesting a typically Greek indifference towards time. ‘If anything happens before then, I’ll be in touch.’

Before going out on watch the second day, she checked the contents of her cloth bag.

A short iron rod taped into a piece of sheeting. A nylon rope. Two bottles, one containing hydrofluoric acid, the other petrol. A packet of salt. Matches. Two different knives. A small pair of pliers.

She offered up a silent prayer, hoping to be able to use them all in more or less that order while trying to visualize the scenario in her mind’s eye. She felt a sudden shooting pain down her spine and into her legs, and a moment of dizziness. Then she tied the thin headscarf around her hair and the lower part of her face. Good to be rid of those Muslim veils, she thought. Looked at herself in the mirror again before completing her disguise with the aid of a pair of large, round sunglasses.

She picked up the bag and left the room. Stepped out into the sunlight and warmth of the Greek morning. Looked around. The Lassi district, as it was called, was basically just one street. That was an advantage, an indisputable advantage. She adjusted her sunglasses and looked up at the sky. It was more or less cloud-free, and the temperature must have been eighteen to twenty degrees already. A warm day, but not too hot. There was a hint of promise in it, she told herself. Something that suggested the end was nigh.

It was a long street, two kilometres or more. The previous evening she had walked back and forth along it, past the tavernas and hotels, without attracting any attention. Bars, mini-markets and boutiques. And why should she attract any attention? Headscarves were a common item of clothing, sunglasses almost compulsory. It was perfect. Sooner or later she would get wind of him. Sooner or later. There were no other streets to walk along if you wanted to move around Lassi out of doors.

Sooner or later.

‘What do we do now?’ said Münster.

Van Veeteren looked up.

‘We wait,’ he said. ‘There’s not much else we can do. But we could take a stroll around the harbour district and have a look at the shops. Or would you like to go for a swim in the sea? I’d be happy to stand by with the towels.’

‘It’s only the seventh of March,’ Münster pointed out. ‘No thank you. But I’d like to know what you think about fröken Peerenkaas.’

They left the cafe and started walking towards Ioannis Metaxa. Van Veeteren took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with a paper tissue. Münster’s query remained hanging in the air for half a minute until the
Chief Inspector
felt called upon to answer it.

‘I think she’s highly dangerous,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately. Perhaps not only for deFraan. But I hope she hasn’t found her way here. Perhaps you could keep your eyes skinned as we make our way through the crowds – your eyesight’s better than mine. Do you have your service pistol handy?’

Münster tapped under his arm, and nodded to confirm that it was there. It had delayed their departure a whole day, but Van Veeteren had insisted that at least one of them should be carrying a gun.

That was most unusual, Münster thought. He never seemed to be especially interested in police officers carrying weapons. Certainly not as far as he himself was concerned.

‘I suppose there is a risk, though,’ said Münster. ‘That she might be here, I mean. If she was already in Athens when we got there, as Krause maintains, well . . . I have to say that I don’t honestly know what she might do.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Van Veeteren, adjusting his straw hat. ‘Maybe it isn’t all that complicated. It’s not deFraan she’s been shadowing, it’s us, my dear Watson. You and me. A couple of thick detective officers who book flights and hotels backed up by a fanfare of trumpets, and using their own names. DeFraan has no doubt done all he can to prevent her from catching up with him, but so what when we have been as obvious as brightly coloured hippos in a chicken run?’

Münster frowned, then relaxed again.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘No doubt that’s the way things are. But if we happen to catch sight of her in among all the crowds of people, what do we do then? Arrest her?’

‘For what?’ wondered Van Veeteren. ‘As far as I’m aware she hasn’t even acquired a parking ticket.’

Münster thought for a moment.

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But what do we do, then?’

‘We wait,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I tried to explain that to you. Have you already forgotten your Pascal?’

Hell’s bells, thought Münster, gritting his teeth. Here we are, wandering around in peace and quiet – like brightly coloured hippos! – although in fact we’re on the trail of a lunatic who has killed at least four people with his bare hands. And of a totally obsessed woman. And he goes on about Pascal! Life in the antiquarian book world has made its mark, it seems.

He adjusted his gun, which was chafing against his armpit, and ducked under a red awning to a stall where Van Veeteren had just slipped in to taste some unusually large and fat olives.