The Stranglers Honeymoon (33 page)

‘And when is next time?’ asked Anna.

‘Not for quite some time. So if you’re in a hurry you haven’t lost anything. He’s busy until Christmas, and then I’m going away for a couple of weeks. I shan’t meet him again until January.’

‘January?’

‘Yes. I don’t understand what you’re getting upset about. If I hadn’t gone to Keefer’s you wouldn’t have got anywhere anyway. But as it is, I’m serving you up a cultured pilot on a gold tray – surely you could thank me for that. Don’t you think?’

Anna had the feeling that she didn’t have much of a defence against this attack. Ester had a point, no doubt about it. She thought for a moment again.

‘And this golden boy up in the clouds,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he going to notice anything fishy?’

‘Of course not,’ said Ester, demonstrating her early-morning good humour by laughing yet again. ‘He’s away flying, like I said. I’ve only spoken to him on the phone. Our first date is a week from now, so there’s no problem: I can fill you in on what we said on the phone, that’ll only take five minutes.’

‘Really?’ said Anna.

‘As easy as winking,’ said Ester. ‘Stop moaning, concentrate on getting fit again, and I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. I really must get to work now.’

‘All right,’ said Anna with a sigh. ‘I suppose I ought to thank you.’

‘Of course you should,’ said Ester. ‘Love and kisses.’

‘Watch out, I’m infectious,’ said Anna as she replaced the receiver.

What an ego-tripping bitch, Anna thought when she eventually got out of bed. I stake everything on a wild card with a high risk factor, and that damned Ester thinks she can just step in and steal him from under my very nose.

With friends like that, who needs enemies?

But she failed to work out any way of putting things to rights, despite spending all day thinking about it.

She didn’t even know what the bloke was called, for God’s sake. And in the end she began to realize that it would be best to give up and be satisfied with that pilot.

I hope you end up with a real shit, Ester Peerenkaas, she thought as she switched off the light for the night. That would serve you right.

During the next few years of her life she would frequently come back to that thought, and regret it deeply.

MAARDAM

JANUARY 2001

30

Inspector Baasteuwel looked for a suitable place to put his wet raincoat. As he didn’t find anywhere, he simply dropped it on the floor just inside the door.

Reinhart looked up and nodded.

‘Welcome to headquarters. Take a seat.’

‘Thank you,’ said Baasteuwel, lighting a cigarette. ‘I happened to be passing, as I said, so I thought I’d pop in and see how things are going. I see you’ve been starring on the telly . . . A happy New Year, by the way.’

‘Thank you, and the same to you,’ said Reinhart. ‘As for the telly, well, it was worth a try.’

‘I actually watched the programme,’ Baasteuwel admitted. ‘And very informative it was, I must say. But I gather you haven’t had much of a response?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘But a bit, even so?’

Reinhart scratched his head while wondering what to say.

‘Chickenfeed,’ he said, examining his fingernails. ‘We had confirmation of what we already knew. That the priest was in fact pushed under the train, for instance. And that the Kammerle girl had met him – at least once. A young lad from her school had seen them together in a cafe.’

‘A cafe?’

‘Yes. You might think that was a somewhat unorthodox location for a confession, but maybe it wasn’t really a confession.’

Baasteuwel nodded.

‘So we can be pretty confident that it was the same killer in all three cases,’ said Reinhart. ‘A pretty meticulous type, it seems: he’s wiped away more or less every single fingerprint in the flat where the woman was murdered, not just his own.’

‘What does that indicate?’ wondered Baasteuwel.

‘Nothing in particular; but it could be that he’d been there quite often, and wanted to be on the safe side . . .’

‘It must have taken him a hell of a time,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Even if it’s only a small flat it must have been a devil of a job.’

‘He had plenty of time,’ said Reinhart, starting to fill his pipe with elaborate care. ‘Don’t forget that it was over a month before we came into the picture. He’d have had time to repaper the walls and install a new kitchen if that had been necessary.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Baasteuwel. ‘I reckon it’s the same bastard as in my case, no matter what. He didn’t leave any fingerprints in Wallburg either – but he didn’t need to be so careful there. He’d presumably only had time to wrap his fingers round the odd door handle and glass . . .’

‘Plus her neck,’ said Reinhart.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘We mustn’t forget that. So you agree that we’re both looking for the same bastard, do you?’

‘Why not?’ said Reinhart. ‘It’s always an advantage to be looking for just one loony rather than two.’

Baasteuwel nodded again.

‘What was that name you mentioned? Kerran or something like that?’

‘Benjamin Kerran,’ said Reinhart, with a deep sigh of disgust. ‘Yes, it’s possible that’s what he called himself – but it’s no more than a guess.’

‘The name means nothing to me,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘You’ll have to fill me in a bit, I’m afraid.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘Benjamin Kerran is a fictional murderer in an obscure English crime novel from the thirties. The Kammerle girl had written down his name in a notebook. That’s all, really – we haven’t managed to track down a real, living person of that name.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Baasteuwel.

‘Very,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, as I said it’s only a shot in the dark – but the swine we’re looking for seems to be a pretty unusual type, and it’s as well we bear that in mind. Why did he saw the girl’s legs off, for instance? Can you tell me that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Baasteuwel.

‘Why did he hide the mother under the bed, but bury the girl on the sea shore? Any ideas about that?’

‘Remarkable,’ said Baasteuwel again. ‘So they were murdered at the same time, were they?’

‘More or less, as far as we can establish. It’s not possible to be absolutely precise. But surely it’s a bit odd if he murdered both of them in their home and then hid just the daughter away somewhere else.’

‘Was he having an affair with the mother?’

‘I expect so.’

‘What about the daughter?”

‘What do you mean?’ said Reinhart.

‘Nothing,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I don’t mean any bloody thing.’

‘I know what you’re getting at, of course,’ said Reinhart.

He inhaled deeply, and breathed out a cloud of smoke over his desk.

‘Thank God you allow me to smoke in your office,’ said Baasteuwel. He stubbed out his cigarette and produced another one. Reinhart raised an eyebrow in surprise.

‘Are you saying that you’re not allowed to smoke in the station up at Wallburg?’

‘I certainly am,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘The whole place has been a smoke-free zone for the last couple of years.’

‘What a bloody scandal,’ said Reinhart sympathetically. ‘How do you manage?’

‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I smoke despite everything.’

‘Good for you,’ said Reinhart.

Irene Sammelmerk contemplated the woman who had just sat down on the other side of her desk.

Between sixty and sixty-five, she thought. Not badly off. Platinum-blonde hair cut pageboy style (or was it a wig?), fur-trimmed coat and brown medium-high boots that must be calf-leather if not even more expensive. Handbag in similar style on her knee. Clear-cut features and restrained make-up.

If she hadn’t been shrouded in a cloud of uncertainty, she could well have passed for a president’s wife at a formal photo-shoot, Sammelmerk thought. Or a former film star.

‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘Would you like anything to drink?’

The woman shook her head.

‘Let’s start from the beginning. My name’s Irene Sammelmerk, I’m a detective chief inspector. Your name is Clara Peerenkaas: would you be so good as to tell me why you’ve come here?’

Peerenkaas licked her lips and adjusted her handbag.

‘It’s about my daughter, she’s the one I’m worried about . . . I told another policeman all about it on the phone earlier on – I can’t remember his name, but maybe you know . . .’

‘I’d be grateful if you could tell me all about it again,’ said Sammelmerk, ‘so that we can have a proper record of all the details. I’ll be recording this conversation, so it’s important that we don’t miss anything. It’s about your daughter, you said? . . .’

Fru Peerenkaas nodded.

‘Ester, yes. Our daughter. She lives here in Maardam. In Meijkstraat. My husband and I still live in Willby. Ester has disappeared, that’s why I’m here. We haven’t been able to make contact with her for a whole week – for God’s sake, you’ve got to help us to find her . . .’

She broke off and clasped her hands over her handbag. Her narrow nose was trembling non-stop. It seemed obvious to Sammelmerk that panic was lurking just below the surface.

‘When did you last speak to her?’ she asked.

‘On Monday. Monday last week. We spoke on the telephone, and she was going to give us a ring on Wednesday – it was about a Christmas present that Ester had promised to try and change in a shop here in Maardam . . . It was a soup tureen: my husband and I are trying to collect a whole set, but the one we got for Christmas wasn’t right, and we were – or rather, Ester was – going to go to Messerling’s and try to swap it for the right design. And she was going to phone me about it on Wednesday.’

‘I see,’ said Sammelmerk, making notes. ‘What’s your daughter’s job?’

‘She’s an administrator at Gemejnte Hospital – finance and all that sort of thing. She’s good. She’s been there for nearly five years now . . . I’ve rung and spoken to them, of course. But she hasn’t been seen since last Tuesday.’

‘And they don’t know where she is?’

‘No. She hasn’t turned up for five working days without getting in touch with them. Nothing like that has ever happened before. Not for five years.’

‘Who else have you been in contact with?’

‘Nobody else,’ said fru Peerenkaas in a low voice. ‘Ester lives on her own, we don’t know much about her circle of friends. She was married, but that was a pretty awful business – maybe we don’t need to go into that?’

Sammelmerk thought for a moment.

‘That’s up to you,’ she said. ‘If you are sure that it doesn’t have anything to do with the present state of affairs, then of course we don’t need to poke our noses into that.’

Fru Peerenkaas seemed to hesitate, but decided not to go any further into it.

‘Have you been to examine her flat?’ Sammelmerk asked.

Peerenkaas took a deep, somewhat worried breath.

‘No,’ she said. ‘We called in and rang the doorbell, my husband and I, but she wasn’t at home. We don’t have a key to her flat. There were no lights on, we could see that from the street.’

‘When was this?’ asked Sammelmerk. ‘What time were you there?’

‘About two hours ago.’

‘Where’s your husband now?’

‘At his doctor’s. For various tests. We’d planned to come to Maardam today in any case. We’ll be having lunch at Kraus unless . . .’

The rest of the sentence remained hanging in the air. Inspector Sammelmerk said nothing for a while, studying the rough notes she had made. Ah well, she thought, this is why the tape recorder is running.

‘You’ve no idea what might have happened?’

Fru Peerenkaas shook her head.

‘None at all?’

‘No. We saw Ester at Christmas, and everything seemed to be the same as usual – she was happy and positive, just as she always is. Then she went off to the Canary Isles, and came back home last Sunday.’

‘And nothing like this has ever happened before? She’s never cut herself off like this, for some reason or other?’

‘Never. Not even when she was getting divorced. It’s not like Ester at all.’

‘Is there a man in her life?’

Fru Peerenkaas blinked a few times before answering.

‘Probably. But she doesn’t have a steady relationship – I’d have known if she did. Her marriage left her scarred, so she’s been a bit more careful than most when it comes to committing herself. Nowadays, I mean.’

‘I understand,’ said Sammelmerk. ‘Do you have any photographs of your daughter you could let us have for a few days? It’s probably a bit soon to send out a Wanted notice, but if we need to do that eventually we shall need a photograph, of course.’

Fru Peerenkaas produced an envelope from her handbag, and handed it over.

‘It’s a few years old,’ she said. ‘But it’s the only one we could find, and it’s a very good likeness.’

Sammelmerk took out the photograph and examined it for a moment. That was quite long enough to establish that Ester Peerenkaas was her mother’s daughter. The same clean-cut, delicate features, the same finely drawn mouth. Dark, straight hair, a generous smile.

About thirty, Sammelmerk guessed – and so a few years older than that now. Pretty. She wouldn’t have had any trouble in finding herself a man, if she had wanted one. She wondered about the trauma evidently connected with the woman’s marriage: it seemed to be more than just the divorce in any case.

She put the photograph back in the envelope.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ll do all we can to throw light on this matter. If you just give me her address and tell me how we can get in touch with you, I’ll get back to you – will tomorrow be all right?’

Fru Peerenkaas produced a card from her handbag.

‘You’re welcome to call this evening, even if you don’t know anything by then. We’ll be driving back home this afternoon. Our mobile number is on the card as well. Ester’s address and so on is on the back of it.’

Sammelmerk promised to ring by seven o’clock at the latest. Fru Peerenkaas stood up, shook hands and left the room.

Inspector Sammelmerk switched off the tape recorder and leaned back.

A pretty woman has gone missing, she thought.

Not for the first time in the history of the world, and these things rarely end up happily. Rarely or never.