by Håkan Nesser
‘Who the hell posted him on the net, then?’ wondered Rooth.
‘The publisher,’ said Jung. ‘They’ve listed every single name in every book they’ve published since 1912. Don’t ask me why.’
‘We’ll pass the book round,’ said Reinhart. ‘Nobody will be deprived of the pleasure of reading a crappy crime novel in working hours. I take it you’ve still got it?’
Jung nodded.
‘And there’s nobody else called Benjamin Kerran?’ asked Moreno.
‘Not as far as we know,’ said Jung. ‘It’s possible there might be somebody of that name, of course; but we haven’t found anybody in the whole of Europe so far.’
‘But nevertheless one of our victims wrote down his name in her notebook,’ said Reinhart. ‘A literary strangler – how about that?’
Münster, who hadn’t said a word so far, spoke up at last.
‘She can’t have read the book,’ he said. ‘That would be too improbable. And do we take it that there’s no other information apart from the name? Nothing about her relationship with him, so to say . . . ?’
‘Nothing,’ said Jung. ‘If we’d had an address or telephone number, all we’d have needed to do was to bring him in.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Münster. ‘Of course. But in any case, there could well be a connection – I have to say I find it highly likely. Our unknown strangler has given her that name somehow or other – as a sort of perverted joke, I expect: he’s not normal, we have to take that for granted. It could even be that he called himself by that name. Don’t you think?’
He looked around the table, but there was no response. Neither positive nor negative.
‘I’ll bet you anything that’s what happened,’ said Münster. ‘He called himself Benjamin Kerran.’
‘Very possible,’ said Rooth.
‘Where does that get us if it’s true?’ wondered Moreno.
Münster thought for a moment.
‘Nowhere at all for the moment,’ he said. ‘We’re still standing on square one, but at least we know which direction to go to find square two.’
‘I’m most impressed by the brilliant imagery our colleagues are using today,’ said Reinhart with a tired sigh. ‘Switch off the respirator, Krause. You don’t have anything else to show us, do you?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Krause, switching off the overhead projector.
Reinhart stood up.
‘I’m going out now for a smoke, and to arrange for a tray of coffee and goodies from fröken Katz,’ he said. ‘We’ll assemble here again ten minutes from now, and I’ll tell you what the future has in store.’
‘Ooh, a real Sibyl,’ said Rooth.
‘Shut up, Rooth,’ said Reinhart for the second time this Tuesday morning.
‘The fact is that I’ve sold us to the mass media.’
There was silence all round the table. Inspector Rooth took the opportunity of swallowing half a bun.
‘You what?’ he said. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘Crime and Punishment,’ said Reinhart.
‘Dostoyevsky?’ said Moreno.
‘Good God no, not him. The crime series on Channel Five, Crime and Punishment.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Jung. ‘I didn’t think it was one of your favourite programmes.’
Reinhart growled.
‘It’s not. But in any case, they are going to feature the Kammerle–Gassel case. It’ll be on the day after tomorrow, between nine and ten, in case you’re interested. I shall be interviewed, and so will the chief of police. They’ll be recording it tomorrow.’
‘Hiller?’ exclaimed Münster, and couldn’t help but smile. ‘What the devil is Hiller going to do on a programme like that?’
‘Perhaps he has a new suit he wants to show off,’ Jung suggested.
‘Perhaps he wants to calm down the general public,’ said Rooth.
Reinhart scratched himself between the eyebrows with the stem of his pipe.
‘It was Hiller who persuaded me to take part,’ he said. ‘Maybe it won’t be a complete waste of time. We haven’t exactly excelled ourselves lately, and there’s always a chance that appearing in the spotlight and getting a bit of publicity might lead to a breakthrough. We haven’t had much help from the general public so far, but you never know.’
‘How on earth did he persuade you?’ Rooth wondered. ‘Hiller, I mean. Did he threaten to give you the sack?’
Reinhart seemed to be wondering whether or not to spit out a sour apple.
‘It was even worse than that,’ he said eventually. ‘He wanted to invite me to dinner. So that we could discuss the case face to face.’
‘Ugh,’ said Rooth.
‘Exactly,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anybody who dares to laugh will receive a punch on the nose. Anyway, they are going to devote half the programme to our strangler. I’ve been given an outline of how they propose to proceed, and I’ve decided to be liberal and drop any misgivings I have. I just wanted you to know that: we’ll probably get lots of tips as a result of the broadcast.’
‘I hope they’re not going to go on about the case in Wallburg,’ said Moreno. ‘That could cause a few problems if they do.’
‘I’ve put a stop to that,’ said Reinhart. ‘No, it’ll be mainly narrators in the background, pictures from the places where the bodies were found, the occasional pedagogical explanation and a hell of a lot of speculation. And an interesting little introductory sequence in blood-red: “When will the Maardam strangler strike again?” I tried to put a stop to that as well, of course, but Hiller rather liked it. He reckons the police will be granted more money if we have the odd lunatic murderer on the loose . . .’
‘Brilliant,’ said Rooth. ‘Thus spake a true strategist.’
‘Very true,’ said Reinhart. ‘But it seems he’s going to promise that we’ll have the murderer under lock and key within a month.’
‘Excellent,’ said Münster. ‘Presumably he’ll have to take his suit off and roll up his shirtsleeves. Incidentally, Chief Inspector, have you got anything impressive to wear? A uniform, perhaps?’
‘I grew out of that twenty years ago,’ said Reinhart with another sigh. ‘I thought I’d wear a pair of overalls and my usual understated charm. Anyway, shall we pack up now and get on with what we each have to do? Or does anybody have anything sensible to say?’
Nobody had. Not even anything stupid to say.
Moreno opened the door to Irene Sammelmerk’s office.
‘Hi! Do you mind if I come in?’
‘Of course not,’ said Sammelmerk with a smile. ‘I hoped you might pay me a call.’
Moreno stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Well . . . Why do you think?’ said Sammelmerk, somewhat hesitantly. ‘How many women are there in this police station?’
‘Not many,’ said Moreno. ‘But now there are two of us on this floor, at least. I’m pleased about that – and I hope you’ll like it here.’
Sammelmerk gestured towards the piles of books and unopened packing cases that lined the walls.
‘I’m sure I shall,’ she said. ‘Once I get all this stuff sorted out. But I have the rest of today to make this room liveable in. I get the impression the team is pretty good – am I right?’
Moreno sat down on the window ledge and thought that over.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so. But then, I’ve hardly ever worked with anybody else, so perhaps I shouldn’t pass judgement. Why did you apply to transfer here?’
Sammelmerk shrugged.
‘Nothing dramatic, I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you’d hoped. My husband got a job in Maardam, it was as simple as that. As a computer geek at Dixnerland. We’ve been living apart for six months, so it’ll be nice to start living as a family again.’
Moreno nodded.
‘Children?’
‘Three,’ said Sammelmerk. ‘Six, nine and twelve. As regular as clockwork. What
about you?’
‘Not yet,’ said Moreno, looking out through the window at the dull grey landscape. ‘But I reckon it’s about time I got started.’
‘I can recommend it,’ said Sammelmerk. ‘Assuming you have a bloke.’
‘That would help, of course,’ said Moreno.
Sammelmerk laughed.
‘Things acquire the right level of importance when there are children involved – you can’t cheat any more . . . Incidentally, this case involving the mother and her daughter seems absolutely horrendous. Please feel free to fill me in a bit more on the details. Assuming I’m going to be involved in one way or another. Although I suppose there is other business as well . . . ?’
‘There certainly is,’ said Moreno. ‘But I’m afraid I must dash off. I just wanted to say I’m thrilled to bits that it’s a woman who has moved into this office . . . And I’d like to suggest that we should have dinner together once you’ve got sorted out. Then I can fill you in on this case, and lots of other things besides.’
Sammelmerk seemed to be quite touched.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘To tell you the truth I’m over the moon to discover that there’s another woman in the team. I’ve spent the last ten years working exclusively with male colleagues. You have to sort of tune in to another wavelength every damned morning before you start work . . . Well, you know what it’s like. And of course we must go out and have a meal together – just give me a week or so to sort out the family.’
‘That goes without saying,’ said Moreno. ‘Just let me know when you’re ready.’
Sammelmerk nodded. Moreno felt an almost irresistible urge to give her a hug, but didn’t dare. It’s not yet time for CID officers to start hugging one another, she thought.
Instead she gave her a slightly awkward wave, and slunk out through the door. She had barely closed it before the image of Intendent deBries appeared in her mind’s eye. And she was reminded of what she had discussed with Münster – how quickly we forget all about people who are no longer around.
And how certain people – like Martina and Monica Kammerle, for instance (and perhaps also Tomas Gassel?) – took up so little space in this life that nobody noticed their absence when they vanished from the face of the earth.
Apart from the fact that a large number of CID officers were doing their best to track down the monster who had murdered them of course.
A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenious paradox, Moreno thought. I wonder if we shall ever find him?
Benjamin Kerran? No, put me right at the bottom of the list of those waiting to read that book.
26
For some reason Thursdays were always the worst. Ester Peerenkaas had often thought that many times before, and this Thursday – 7 December in the Year of Grace 2000 – was no exception. It was as if all the tasks that had been put on one side during the week had reached maturity and cried out to be dealt with at the same time on Thursday afternoon, otherwise they would probably be left until the following week. Friday was always Friday after all, and you couldn’t count on anything serious being done on a Friday: too much time was spent drinking coffee, and planning and discussing possible or impossible activities lined up for the weekend.
Ester was conscientious and understood how important it was to do her duty and thereby gain respect – the respect of her colleagues, despite the fact that she was a woman, and a beautiful one at that. Or perhaps especially for that reason. It was by means of hard and single-minded work that she hoped eventually to be promoted to chief financial officer of the whole hospital – when Svendsen retired in six or seven years’ time – and that was why she stayed at her desk making calculations and forecasts until six o’clock that windy and freezing cold evening. Only two weeks left to the Christmas holidays and a trip to Fuerteventura, so reward was beckoning in the shorter term as well.
She did what little shopping she needed to do at Laager’s in Grote Torg, and got back to her flat in Meijkstraat at a quarter to seven. She had a shower, made an omelette and listened to her telephone messages on the answering machine before flopping down on the sofa in front of the television, thinking that she had no intention of moving a limb until it was time to stagger to bed at about eleven o’clock, and enjoy a well-deserved night’s sleep.
She zapped around the channels for a while before sticking with Channel Five, where a discussion was taking place on the roles of men and women in the new century, to be followed by a crime programme at nine o’clock. Entertainment with a gesture in the direction of a social conscience, she thought as she adjusted the cushions under the small of her back and sipped away at the weak gin and tonic she generally allowed herself after a hard day at the office.
When the telephone rang it was twenty past nine, and the crime programme was well into its stride.
At first she couldn’t hear who the caller was, but after a few confusing seconds she realized that it was Anna. Anna Kristeva.
‘You sound odd,’ she said.
‘I am odd,’ said Anna. ‘What are you doing? Am I interrupting anything?’
‘No. I’m just watching the telly . . . It’s about some loony who strangles women and pushes priests under trains. No, you’re not interrupting anything. What do you want?’
‘I’m ill,’ said Anna. ‘It’s a damned nuisance, but I can scarcely stand.’
‘I can hear it’s bad,’ said Ester. ‘There’s a lot of flu about.’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m told I’ve got,’ said Anna, coughing feebly. ‘Three or four days in bed, and I’ll feel fine after a week, according to my doctor . . . But just now I find it hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Thirty-nine degrees when I took my temperature an hour ago . . . Huh.’
‘Poor you,’ said Ester. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? Do you need any shopping doing?’
‘No, no,’ Anna assured her, ‘all the practicalities are taken care of. My neighbour – you know, that engineer who has a soft spot for me, he looks after all that. But there is one thing . . .’
‘Really?’ said Ester. ‘Fire away.’
‘My wild card.’
‘Eh?’
‘My wild card. The bloke I’m supposed to meet.’
‘What about him?’
Anna coughed a few times again.
‘I can’t very well turn up in this state.’
‘Ah! I see,’ said Ester. ‘When were you supposed to meet him?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Don’t you remember? Keefer’s with T. S. Eliot, and that other business . . .’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Ester. ‘Red tie and red Eliot. Forgive me, I’m a bit on the dozy side today as well . . . Not that I’m ill, mind. It’s just that I had to work overtime, there was so much that couldn’t simply be left unattended to. So you’ll have to put him off, is that it?’
‘How?’ said Anna.
‘What do you mean, how?’
‘What am I supposed to do in order to put him off ?’
‘Well, I suppose . . .’
The penny dropped.
‘Oh yes, I see what you mean. You don’t have his phone number, do you?’
‘Nor his address, nor even his name, nothing at all. And I think it would be a shame to miss him. Not after we’ve completed the elimination process and all that . . . Are you with me?’
‘Yes, I’m with you,’ said Ester. ‘But I don’t see what you can do about it. Three or four days in bed means three or four days in bed. You can’t just stagger into the restaurant in your state and go looking for Eliot.’
‘Exactly,’ said Anna, taking a deep, wheezy breath. ‘That’s precisely what I’m coming round to. That’s why I’m ringing.’
‘Really?’
‘I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’
‘Go there.’
‘Where?’
‘To Keefer’s, tomorrow evening. That’s where h
e’s supposed to be going.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Ester, then sat in silence for a few moments. ‘And what the hell do you want me to do?’
‘That’s up to you. You could simply pass on greetings from me and tell him that unfortunately I’m indisposed. Ask him his name, and whether he can suggest an alternative date. It doesn’t need to be Big Deal.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Ester. ‘I could just call in and pass on a message – no problem. But . . . Oh no! I’ve just remembered, I promised Karen I’d go to the cinema with her tomorrow evening.’
‘Who’s Karen?’
‘A colleague of mine. We’re going to the Canaries after Christmas. Shit, shit, shit! What do we do now, then?’
Anna sighed.
‘Do whatever you like,’ she said. ‘I just think it would be silly to miss the opportunity. But if you don’t have time, you don’t have time. Can’t be helped. How are things with your pilot?’
Ester thought it over while gaping at the television screen: two police officers, one in a blue suit, the other in a crumpled tunic shirt and a yellow scarf, were sitting there, talking to the presenter.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘He’s out flying, but we have spoken on the telephone. I’m going to meet him next weekend.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Anna.
‘Yes, he sounded rather charming. But it’s going to be hard for me to fit Keefer’s in, I’m afraid. Can’t you think of some other way of solving the problem?’
Anna seemed to be thinking that over. She was drinking something as well: Ester could hear her swallowing with considerable difficulty.
‘I can’t think of anything else. Maybe we should just leave him to stew.’
Ester thought for a moment.
‘I’ll go and see him if I can fit it in,’ she said. ‘We haven’t yet fixed a time for our cinema jaunt, Karen and me. If I have time, I’ll call in. Okay? But I’m not promising anything.’
‘All right,’ said Anna. ‘Let’s leave it at that. No, I really must go to bed now – I haven’t the strength to carry on talking any longer. Give me a bell and let me know what happened – tomorrow, perhaps? By the way . . .’
