by Håkan Nesser
‘We’ve gathered that things were not all they might have been,’ said Moreno. ‘But it’s important that we get a good idea of her life and general circumstances to begin with, and you are the obvious person to turn to. We haven’t yet found anybody in Maardam who knew her well.’
‘No,’ said fru Traut, blinking away the tears that threatened to well up into her eyes. ‘She led a pretty solitary life.’
‘But she used to be married, I gather?’
‘To Klaus, yes. He was a big support for her, no doubt about that; but he died. Since then – that was 1996 – things haven’t been easy for her. I assume and hope you’ve found Monica?’
Moreno shook her head.
‘I’m afraid not. Have you any idea where she might be?’
‘Me? No, I haven’t a clue. We didn’t socialize, I haven’t seen the girl since Klaus’s funeral. She was twelve then. A really nice girl, poor thing.’
‘Klaus Kammerle died in a car accident, is that right?’
‘Yes. Drove off the road and into a tree. Somewhere between Oostwerdingen and Ulming – there wasn’t much left of him . . . They say he fell asleep at the wheel.’
‘They say?’ said Moreno. ‘Do you mean you are not convinced?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said fru Traut. ‘Certainly not. It was at night, and he was on his way home from some course or other. No doubt he just dozed off.’
Moreno took another sip of tea, and changed tack.
‘Let’s concentrate on your sister,’ she said. ‘How was she? Was she in difficulty?’
Fru Traut inhaled deeply and coughed.
‘Difficulty? You can say that again. She swung this way and that like a weathercock – that was her problem, and it started while she was still at school . . . She was always in a mess. Manic depressive – do you understand what that means?’
Moreno nodded and made a note.
‘Before she met Klaus she was taken into care several times. There are medicines to treat the condition, but she never took them as she should. Refused to take any tablets when she was feeling good, and of course, she suffered as a result. When she was on a high she would start up one daft project after another, and behaved in such a way that nobody could put up with her. Then she would fall to pieces, get into a state of anxiety, and she tried to commit suicide. It was like that all the time. She cut her wrists several times as well, but that was mainly cries for help and they managed to save her.’
‘But things got better when she met Klaus, is that right?’
‘Yes. At least there was always somebody close to her who could ride her punches and make sure that she kept going. I don’t know, but I suspect that she got pregnant the very first time they met. In any case, she told me about both things at the same time – that she was pregnant and they were going to get married. That was 1984. I think she’d had a few abortions before then, incidentally. Or one at least . . .’
‘But you didn’t start socializing with them then? When they were going to start a family?’
Fru Traut paused and stirred another lump of sugar into her coffee.
‘They came here once,’ she said. ‘Stayed for an hour and a half and had lunch. Monica was three or four. But that’s all, I’m afraid. She wasn’t easy to be together with, my sister. Klaus didn’t always have an easy time either.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Calm. As safe as a parking place, as far as I could tell. Maybe things would have turned out all right, if only he’d been able to keep going . . .’
Her voice started to tremble, and she blew her nose again.
‘What a bloody mess,’ she said. ‘I can’t get it into my head that somebody would have wanted to murder her. What kind of a lunatic could have done such a thing? Do you have any idea?’
‘Not yet,’ said Moreno. ‘The body’s been lying there in the flat for quite a long time – that makes things more complicated.’
‘Didn’t anybody go and ask about her?” asked fru Traut with a sob – she had been crying silently now for a while. ‘Wasn’t there anybody who wondered where she’d been all that time?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Moreno.
‘But what about Monica? Where is she? Are you suggesting that she’s also dead and that nobody’s bothering about her either?’
Moreno suddenly felt how the bitterness of this large woman was beginning to infect her as well.
Was that really possible? she thought. That a mother and her daughter could vanish, without anybody asking about their disappearance for a whole month? Surrounded by lots of people in the centre of a town?
And this was supposed to be civilization?
She looked down at her notebook and tried to concentrate.
‘Do you know anything at all about her circle of friends?’ she asked. ‘Any names of people she used to mix with?’
‘No. I know nothing at all about things like that.’
‘But you used to phone her occasionally. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, of course. I used to ring her at least once every month. To find out how she was and so on. But I hardly ever found out anything at all. And she never phoned me. Never – can you believe that? Since Klaus died I haven’t received a single telephone call from my little sister.’
‘I understand,’ said Moreno. ‘But have you any idea whether she had any friends at all? I mean, you did speak to her now and again.’
Fru Traut frowned even more intensely, and thought for a moment.
‘I don’t think she had any friends,’ she said. ‘No, she was a pretty lonely person. In the old days she often used to bring new people into her life when she was in a manic phase, but I think she stopped that . . . I gather that’s a normal development.’
‘Did you use to speak to her daughter as well?’
‘Never. If she was the one who answered the phone, she always used to hand over to her mother the moment she realized it was me. If Martina wasn’t at home, she would say so and put down the receiver without more ado. It would be a lie to pretend that I felt appreciated, let’s face it.’
‘And if your sister had met a new man, that’s not something she would have told you about?’
‘It would never have occurred to her to do so.’
‘This autumn, for instance?’
‘No. Not a word. I haven’t heard her mention a man since Klaus died. But no doubt she had a few. One of them even answered.’
‘You mean he answered the phone when you rang?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was that?’
Fru Traut shrugged.
‘I don’t remember. Last summer, I suppose.’
‘Just that one occasion?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he didn’t mention his name?’
‘No.’
Moreno turned over a page in her notebook. Fru Traut lit another cigarette.
‘So your sister didn’t have a steady job, is that right?’
‘I think she was on sick leave. Long-term or half-time or something along those lines. No, she hasn’t really been able to cope with a job since Klaus left the scene.’
‘But she used to work before that, did she?’
‘On and off. Mostly off. She was a hotel receptionist for a while. Then a cleaner at a hospital . . . I think she worked in an office for a while as well. She didn’t have any educational qualifications – she didn’t even finish her GCEs. She just couldn’t cope with anything formal.’
‘Do you know if she had a doctor . . . A therapist or a psychologist who used to see her regularly?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said fru Traut, scratching her lower arm where she had some kind of rash. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Martina had trouble in coping with anything that required regular attendance. She always used to think that people were letting her down although in fact it was the other way round.’
‘I think I understand,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m sorry to keep harping on, but can you really not recall any name
at all when it comes to your sister’s circle of friends? There must surely be somebody. If you think really hard?’
Fru Traut took the challenge ad notam and sat there quietly for half a minute.
‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll be damned if I can think of a single person at all.’
Just over an hour after Inspector Moreno left the Traut mansion in Chadow, she was very nearly run over.
A pale sun had begun to force its way through the thick cloud, the mists had lifted, and she decided to walk to the little airport. It was several kilometres away from the town, but she had a good two hours to fill.
The last of those kilometres was along a very busy road with only a narrow shoulder for cyclists and pedestrians, and it was there it happened. A motorcyclist suddenly cut in directly in front of a large long-distance lorry, and Moreno had to jump into the ditch and escaped being hit by a whisker.
The only tangible outcome of the incident was that she got her feet wet, but she also received a sharp reminder of the inherent fragility of life, and when she turned into the road leading to the little airport, thankfully much safer for pedestrians, she suddenly found herself longing for Mikael Bau.
A strong and powerful longing for him to wrap his arms around her and give her a big hug, and she promised herself to contact him the moment she got home that evening.
The feeling of being weak and vulnerable had of course to do with both her sinuses and the conversation with Barbara Traut, she was aware of that.
And with the murdered Martina Kammerle, whose life and death somehow seemed remarkably petty. She couldn’t shake off that impression – it was as if the poor woman’s brutal end had merely been a grotesquely exaggerated exclamation mark after a totally pointless and insignificant existence.
When Moreno was at secondary school – and hence was roughly the same age as the murdered woman’s missing daughter – she used to have two maxims printed on a piece of paper pinned over her bed:
It’s up to you to give significance to your life.
It’s better to regret what you have done,
than what you never did.
She knew that the second saying was a quotation from Nietzsche; she wasn’t sure where the first one came from, but that didn’t matter. Just now, as she walked through the almost white sunshine on her way to Chadow’s little airport, she felt that the words were of immense topical significance.
So topical, in fact, that she didn’t dare to wait until evening before telephoning Mikael Bau. She did so as soon as she entered the terminal building instead.
Needless to say he wasn’t at home, but she left a message on his answering machine: that she was longing to be with him, and that he should prepare something tasty as she intended to call round at his place for dinner that evening.
At about nine o’clock or thereabouts.
When she had switched off her mobile, she felt a little bit alive at last.
15
It was not until half past six on Monday evening that they were able to acknowledge anything resembling a breakthrough in the Martina Kammerle case.
But, as Reinhart said, the murderer had had plenty of time in which to cover his tracks, so perhaps matters were not as urgent as the media hacks – always keen to apply pressure – seemed to think. The investigation team had issued a press release at the routine media briefing at three o’clock, but had explained that there would be no press conference as such until Tuesday afternoon at the earliest.
In response to this, a young and obviously unbalanced reporter from the Telegraaf had called Reinhart a secrecy-obsessed turnip, and Reinhart had asked him if he had been accepted for training at the College of Journalism as part of a quota reserved for sticks of asparagus without heads.
Relations between the head of Maardam CID and the fourth estate were nothing to write home about.
In addition to Reinhart, Moreno and Münster, also present at the run-through were Jung, Rooth and Krause – the last-named had just been promoted to the rank of inspector – so it was obvious that plenty of resources had been mobilized at this early stage of the investigation.
Apart from that, as Reinhart stressed, things were not looking exactly rosy.
‘Unless a murderer full of regrets, or a five-star witness, turns up within the next few days, we shall no doubt have to resign ourselves to a long, hard slog. People who lie under a bed dead for a month without being discovered have not normally been living in the spotlight either. Does anybody disagree about that?’
Nobody did. Reinhart took out his pipe and tobacco, and handed over to Münster for a summary of what had been discovered during the day with regard to what are usually but somewhat inappropriately called ‘technical matters’.
‘A month seems about right,’ Münster began. ‘That’s what Meusse reckons at least, and we all know the status of an estimation by Meusse, right? The cause of death is obvious: strangulation. Persistent and hard pressure applied to the larynx. Only the hands were used, presumably from behind, probably by somebody who is pretty strong. No rape, no sign of any sort of struggle. Nothing odd at all, one could say.’
He paused, and looked around.
‘Go on,’ said Reinhart.
‘The scene of the crime and the place where the body was discovered seem to be identical. Somebody had been to visit Martina Kammerle four or five weeks ago. He killed her and put the body in rubbish bags – there are several in the broom cupboard by the way, so he might well have taken them from there – and then he shoved her under the bed and left the scene. The door can be locked without a key. There is no indication of anything having been removed from the flat, nor that it was searched, although of course we can’t be certain of that. There was no alcohol in the victim’s body, no sign of any unwashed plates or glasses. If we eventually find that he removed jewellery worth a million or two from the flat, we shall obviously have to consider the possibility of robbery with murder: but there is nothing to suggest that at the moment.’
‘Is there anything to suggest anything at all?’ wondered Rooth, but he received no reply.
‘Fingerprints?’ asked Krause.
‘Nix,’ said Münster. ‘It looks as if the murderer was careful to wipe everything clean before leaving. There are hardly any prints in the flat at all. Mulder says it seems that somebody spent several hours cleaning and dusting all surfaces. There were a few prints on crockery and books and suchlike, but most of them are those of the victim herself. It’s fairly obvious that the others are probably those of the daughter.’
‘A very cautious type, then,’ said Rooth. ‘So nothing to hope for there?’
‘Presumably not,’ said Münster.
‘I don’t suppose we have any of the usual suspects on the run, do we?’ asked Rooth. ‘Characters who enjoy strangling women now and then?’
Münster shook his head.
‘I’ve started looking into that,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think so. Not in the vicinity of Maardam, at least.’
Reinhart had lit his pipe by now, and blew a cloud of smoke over all those present.
‘So we’re looking for a loony making his debut, in other words,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing of significance,’ said Münster. ‘All the reports are available for people to read.’
‘Very true,’ said Reinhart. ‘That will be the homework for tomorrow. I don’t know how long we’ll be allowed to continue on the case with as many officers as we have now, but for the time being it would be as well if everybody could make sure they were familiar with all aspects of it. There’s not all that much, and of course, three eyes see better than one.’
‘No doubt,’ said Rooth. ‘And coffee without any cake is better than no coffee at all. Are we going to get any refreshments?’
Reinhart ignored that question as well.
‘What about the neighbours?’ he asked instead. ‘Jung, Rooth, over to you.’
Jung explained that together with Constables Klempje, Dilli
nger and Joensuu, they had spent six hours knocking on doors in Moerckstraat, and the result had been depressingly thin. Nobody – not a single soul of the ninety-two persons listed as having been contacted – had known anything at all about Martina Kammerle.
And precisely the same number had been able to comment on her daughter, Monica.
‘It makes you think,’ said Jung. ‘And leaves you depressed. Violeta Paraskevi, who lives next door to the Kammerles, is the only one who noticed that there might be something wrong. Might be, note that. And it was thanks to her that this Traut character decided to call in the caretaker.’
‘And what about him?’ wondered Münster. ‘What did the caretaker have to say?’
‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Rooth. ‘As long as you pay your rent on time and don’t trash anything, you are as familiar as a paving stone in his eyes. And valued just about as much. Nice chap – it’s a pity we don’t have a standard punishment for being a bastard. But where’s the daughter? We should be talking about that instead. We can forget about the neighbours, despite the fact that Dillinger and Joensuu still have a few more doors to knock on tomorrow.’
‘Ah yes, the daughter,’ said Reinhart. ‘That’s another disaster, to say the least.’
‘Really?’ said Münster. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Reinhart had no desire to enlarge upon his comment, but delegated this question as well.
‘Inspector Krause,’ he said. ‘Over to you!’
‘Hmm, yes, thank you,’ said Krause leaning forward on his elbows. ‘It looks as if Monica Kammerle hasn’t attended school since the twenty-first of September – assuming the information we have received is correct, and no doubt it is in this case. She’s in the first year at the Bunge Grammar School, but nobody has reacted to the fact that she’s been absent. I’ve spoken to the headmaster, to one of the teachers and a few of her classmates, and there seem to be quite a few points that are unclear.’
‘Points that are unclear?’ wondered Moreno. ‘What, for instance?’
