The Stranglers Honeymoon

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘What a depressing area this is,’ said Rooth after a while. ‘Thank God we don’t have to live here.’

  Jung, who had grown up less than three hundred metres away from Moerckstraat, had no comment to make. He suggested instead that they should call it a day and sum up their impressions in the car. Rooth had no objections: they said goodnight to le Houde and his team of officers, and hoped they would have a fruitful night.

  Le Houde was so tired that he didn’t even have the strength to swear at them, and when Rooth offered him half a bar of chocolate he simply turned his back on them.

  ‘Good to know that we have such well-brought-up colleagues,’ said Rooth, putting the chocolate into his own mouth. ‘Well, how did you get on? Have you found a strangler?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jung. ‘But then, I’ve only managed two flats so far.’

  ‘I did three,’ said Rooth. ‘They don’t seem to know much about anybody else around here. But I expect fru Paraskevi must have had plenty to say for herself?’

  Jung shrugged.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘She was there when they went into the flat, and she said she’d been feeling that something was wrong for quite some time. She’s on a disability pension, and is at home all day – presumably she notices things, as you might say. Her husband’s a Serb, incidentally: she’s a Croat. She thinks he’s living somewhere in the Balkans, but she hasn’t heard from him for five years.’

  ‘Great,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Yes, terrific. They have a daughter as well. She last saw her father when she was eight: she’s sixteen now. Martina Kammerle also had a daughter, according to Paraskevi. About as old as her own. Where the hell is she? you have to ask. It seems that nobody has seen her for a month either.’

  ‘Could she be the one who’s done it?’ wondered Rooth. ‘Strangled her mother then done a runner?’

  Jung pulled a face.

  ‘That sounds a bit steep, but you never know. Surely there must be quite a lot of people who knew the Kammerles – relatives and friends, and suchlike. Not to mention enemies. Fru Paraskevi says fru Kammerle had a gentleman friend for a while in August–September. She never saw him, but she heard them talking.’

  ‘A gentleman friend?’ said Rooth. ‘Does that mean there wasn’t what you might call a steady relationship, then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘Nothing that we’ve heard about so far, at least. Did your interviews produce anything of interest?’

  ‘Nothing more than a bit of heartburn,’ said Rooth with a sigh. ‘I must stop drinking coffee this late at night. No, nobody seems to know anything at all. None of the people I’ve spoken to were even quite sure of her name. That of the dead woman, I mean. Despite the fact that they’ve been living here for . . . er, for how long? Two years, was it?’

  ‘One-and-a-half, I think,’ said Jung.

  ‘But no doubt this Traut bloke will be able to clarify a few things. There doesn’t seem to be much point in our running around and disturbing people when we haven’t got a clue about the background. For Christ’s sake, all we know so far is her name. Not much more than that, in any case.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Jung. ‘So what do you reckon we should do?’

  ‘Go home and get some sleep,’ said Rooth, after a split second’s thought. ‘I expect we’ll be spending all tomorrow knocking on doors around here, so no doubt we’ll get to know the place pretty well.’

  Inspector Jung realized that for once, he was in full agreement with his colleague, and after having emptied his bladder of all that coffee and tea and more coffee – plus a tiny little glass of plum brandy fru Paraskevi had insisted on – in a well-hidden corner of the courtyard, they went back to the car.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Reinhart. ‘But as I’m sure you realize, this business has created an awful lot of work for us.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Egon Traut accommodatingly. ‘I’ve rung the missus and told her I’ll be coming home tomorrow instead.’

  He tapped the breast pocket of his jacket, where the top part of a mobile telephone was sticking up. Münster and Reinhart sat down at the table opposite him, and Reinhart lit his pipe.

  ‘She’s pretty shaken, my wife is,’ said Traut. ‘But that’s understandable. They weren’t all that close, but a sister is a sister, let’s face it.’

  ‘Are there any other siblings?’ wondered Münster.

  ‘Were,’ said Traut. ‘A brother. He died . . . Committed suicide, to be honest.’

  ‘There is every reason to be honest in this situation,’ stressed Reinhart. ‘Your sister-in-law has been brutally murdered, there’s no doubt about that, and we must catch whoever did it.’

  ‘Of course, obviously,’ Traut hastened to say. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help you get on the right track . . .’

  He broke off and raised the palms of his hands towards the ceiling, a gesture presumably meant to demonstrate the genuineness of his intentions. Münster regarded him with a feeling of mild distaste. Traut was about the same age as he was, around forty-five, but he looked heavy and bloated. The passage of time had taken its toll on him, but it was hardly as a result of work and hard effort, Münster suspected. More like living the good life. Sitting around doing nothing. Creamy sauces and strong booze. And a minimum of exercise. His red-coloured hair was sparse and lifeless, and combed in an odd sort of way from below his ears and upwards, apparently in a vain and rather pathetic attempt to conceal a well-developed bald patch.

  Ah well, Münster thought, it’s not outward appearance that matters.

  ‘So you live up in Chadow,’ said Reinhart. ‘What brought you down here to Maardam?’

  Traut cleared his throat and began to explain.

  ‘I was just passing through,’ he said. ‘On business. I usually make a little trip to Groenstadt and Bissenhof and other places around there at this time of year. Usually two or three days – it’s important to be in personal contact with your customers, that’s something I’ve never doubted. There are those who think that—’

  ‘What exactly is your business?’ interrupted Münster.

  ‘Optical display stands,’ said Traut with a professional half-smile. ‘I sell them to opticians and spectacle shop chains all over the country. My firm is called GROTTENAU, and it’s doing pretty well, though I say so myself . . . Anyway, I went by car as usual, and I’d promised my old lady that on the way home I’d call in on her sister. She was a bit worried because she hasn’t heard anything from her for over a month. I did so, of course – blood is thicker than water after all – and when I realized that there didn’t seem to be anybody at home in the flat in Moerckstraat today either, I began to suspect that there was something wrong . . .’

  ‘Why?’ wondered Reinhart. ‘They might have been at the cinema, or somewhere else.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Traut, digging out a cigarette. ‘Of course. But as she hadn’t answered the phone for such a long time and wasn’t at home this evening, I thought I ought to look into the situation. Try to get to the bottom of it while I was on the spot anyway. And the rest you know.’

  He lit the cigarette and leaned back.

  ‘Tell us about Martina Kammerle,’ said Reinhart.

  Traut inhaled deeply, coughed and looked worried.

  ‘Huh, what can one say?’ he said. ‘We didn’t have a lot of contact, as I said. None at all, really. I don’t think I’ve met her more than four or five times, ever, even though I’ve been married to her sister for twenty-three years . . . Time passes, that’s one thing there’s no doubt about. She was a bit odd, Martina. Ill, in fact – you ought to be clear about that.’

  ‘Ill in what way?’ asked Münster.

  ‘Her psyche,’ said Traut, making a vague gesture in the direction of his own head as if to indicate where in the body the psyche was to be found. ‘Manic depressive, as it’s called. She’s suffered from it all her life. Spent time in care homes a few times, although that was quite a long time ag
o . . .’

  ‘But she had a daughter, we gather,’ said Münster. ‘Who lived with her, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Traut. ‘Mar . . . Monica.’

  ‘Monica Kammerle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old?’

  Traut flung out his arms.

  ‘I don’t really know. In her teens. About fifteen or sixteen, I’d guess.’

  ‘And presumably you had no contact with her either?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘And who was Monica’s dad?’

  Traut frowned and tried to think.

  ‘I can’t remember his name. Apart from Kammerle, of course. Yes, they were married, Martina and him, but he died. Four or five years ago, I’d say, but time passes so quickly. Car accident. He fell asleep at the wheel – that’s what they say, at least. I only met him once, briefly . . . Ah yes, his name was Klaus of course, I remember now. I think things have gone downhill for Martina since she’s been on her own. Hasn’t been able to hold down a proper job and so on, that’s what my old lady says in any case. No, she didn’t exactly lead a happy life – but that it should end like this is . . . well, a bit much, don’t you think?’

  He looked at Reinhart and Münster in turn a few times, as if he was expecting them to enlighten him on how things really stood.

  ‘Do you know if she had a job at the moment?’ asked Münster.

  ‘Keine Ahnung, as they say in France,’ said Traut. ‘I think it would be better if you talked to my old lady about this. She’s taken it pretty hard, but of course she’d be pleased to give you any help she could. What kind of a loony could do something like this? I mean, you read about it in the papers and see it on the telly, but you don’t believe—’

  ‘We’ll talk to your wife in the next few days,’ interrupted Reinhart. ‘Possibly even tomorrow. Do you know if there’s anybody else who might be able to give us information? Anybody who knew Martina Kammerle or knows a bit more about her?’

  Traut shook his head.

  ‘Or her daughter?’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry. It’s as I said, we haven’t been in touch very much at all. There were six years between the sisters as well, and Martina was never easy to handle, you must be clear about that.’

  ‘How do you know that if you’ve hardly ever been in contact with her?’ wondered Münster.

  Traut seemed to be thinking that one over.

  ‘The old lady told me,’ he said. ‘She keeps ringing her, although all she gets back is nearly always a lot of shit . . . Or used to get a lot of shit, I should say. We’ve lent her money a few times, by the way, but we’ve never received anything back. Not even any shit. A pretty crappy investment, I must say . . .’

  ‘When was that?’ Reinhart asked. ‘When you lent her money.’

  ‘Ages ago,’ said Traut. ‘Before she got married. Twenty years ago, something like that . . . She’d just come out of a home, and we lent her some money so that she could get a flat. Not the kind of sum to make a fuss about, of course, and we didn’t do so.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart, looking at the clock. ‘It’s getting a bit late. I gather you have a hotel room for tonight, and intend driving up to Chadow tomorrow morning, is that right?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Traut. ‘The Palace in Rejmer Plejn. If you need me for anything else I’ll be there until about eleven tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Reinhart. ‘I think we can leave it at that for now. I suppose there’s no point in asking you what you think might have happened – who might have murdered your sister-in-law, that is?’

  ‘No,’ said Traut, displaying the palms of his hands again. ‘How the devil would I know?’

  ‘Two questions,’ said Reinhart when Traut had left them alone. ‘If you can answer them, maybe we can get somewhere.’

  ‘Only two?’ said Münster. ‘I have a hundred. And we haven’t even started yet.’

  ‘No,’ said Reinhart. ‘We haven’t. But I can’t help wondering about the daughter. Where the hell is she? A fifteen-or sixteen-year-old girl can’t simply disappear into thin air. Did you notice that Traut didn’t even seem to be able to remember her name?’

  Münster stood up and wriggled his way into his jacket.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I noted that. But even if people have forgotten about you, it’s a bit hard simply to go up in smoke. Do you think she’s lying in another rubbish bag somewhere? Or do you think she strangled her mother after a row over pocket money?’

  Reinhart snorted, but didn’t answer.

  ‘What was your other question?’ asked Münster. ‘You said you had two.’

  ‘Traut,’ said Reinhart. ‘I have the feeling he’s keeping something from us, but I can’t work out what.’

  Münster nodded.

  ‘I had the same impression, in fact. Anyway, I don’t suppose we’ve seen him for the last time. Shall we say goodnight now? It’s past midnight.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Reinhart. ‘I expect to see you here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. As clear in the head as a chess computer.’

  ‘I’ve always thought that Monday mornings have a special shimmer about them,’ said Münster. ‘Especially at this time of year. Was it half past nine you said?’

  14

  Ewa Moreno took an early flight and was in Chadow by eight o’clock.

  The town was shrouded in smoke from the factory chimneys, sea mist and the grey light of dawn which seemed to be reflecting her own inner landscape. November, Monday morning and blocked sinuses. She had a quick breakfast in the lugubrious cafeteria in the airport terminal, as no food had been served on the flight, and took a taxi to Pelikaanallé, where Barbara Traut lived.

  Three children had just been sent off to various schools, and fru Traut asked Moreno if she could have a shower before they started their conversation – she had hardly slept a wink during the night, she explained, and after all, they had the whole morning at their disposal.

  Moreno abandoned all hope of catching the eleven o’clock flight back home, and assured fru Traut that there was no hurry. She sat down at the half-cleared breakfast table with yet another cup of tea and the local morning paper, which was called the Kurijr. She glanced absent-mindedly through its pages, and wondered – as she had done on the plane – about points of contact between Barbara Traut and herself.

  Or point of contact, rather: on the basis of what little she had seen of fru Traut, she hoped there was only one.

  Having lost a sister.

  On her own part Inspector Moreno had not actually lost a sister – not in the horrendous way that her hostess had, at least. But it was over three years since she had heard from Maud, and there were certainly reasons to assume that she was unlikely to appear again in Moreno’s life. Good reasons.

  No, not good ones. Awful reasons. Rootlessness. Drugs. A constant shortage of money and consequential prostitution – plus some sort of warped and inadequate relationship with her family that presumably was at the bottom of it all, and that Moreno preferred not to think about: all those desperate factors that seemed somehow to be legion among her generation, and dragged Maud relentlessly down into the cold, man-eating swamp that seemed to claim so many victims in the late twentieth century. That was simply the way it was. Perhaps she was clinging to a sort of life in one of those big cities where there was still a need for broken people with no safety net who could be ruthlessly exploited. In the social machinery that nobody was servicing any more, or bothered to oil.

  As she had seen it described somewhere.

  Or perhaps she’s dead, Moreno thought. Vanished in the anonymous and unidentified way that people, young people, are simply wiped off the ethnographical map of the new Europe. Victims, victims of the post-modern age.

  Without leaving any trace behind.

  Lives as substantial as footprints in water.

  Yes, Maud has no doubt vanished for ever, she decided with the same cold bitterness as alway
s. Dead, or enduring a living death. There was nothing Moreno could do about it: a continuation of the amusing and happy thirteen-year-old that had been her little sister when she flew the nest was simply non-existent. Moreno had realized that several years ago: the fact that she thought about it now was simply due to the parallel she had now come across. What happened to be on today’s agenda. Barbara Traut and Martina Kammerle.

  And echoed by the dull greyness of the November day. She recalled something Van Veeteren had said a few years ago. We must unfortunately be aware, he had maintained, that for many people, life ends before they die.

  All she could do was to bow down once again before the Chief Inspector’s superior wisdom. And it seemed there was plenty to suggest that Barbara Traut’s sister belonged to this category. To those who hadn’t had much of a life before she lost it and passed over into the next one.

  Assuming of course that the scant amount of information that had so far emerged turned out to be true.

  But why anybody should help her along the way in such a hideous fashion was another question. Murder her. Why would anybody have wanted to get rid of Martina Kammerle?

  And what had happened to her daughter?

  Good questions, thought Inspector Moreno as she sipped her cup of tea. Hopelessly good.

  And of course the reason why she was hanging around in the Trauts’ over-decorated kitchen, waiting for the shower to come to an end, was to receive an answer to those questions.

  ‘Martina and I never really got on,’ said Barbara Traut, blowing her nose. ‘I ought to make that clear from the start, even if it sounds awful at a time like this.’

  She was a morose woman who seemed to exude a sort of self-justified dissatisfaction, both in her facial expression and in her voice. As if the world had failed to fulfil her expectations of it. Her shower had taken a long time, and Moreno gathered that making herself up had no doubt been a laborious process. She seemed to be about forty-five. Pale and somewhat colourless, but with hair of many colours that seemed to need non-stop care. She put on water for more tea and coffee, produced some biscuits and muffins and a third of a rillen cake from the pantry, breathing hard and chainsmoking all the while.