The Stranglers Honeymoon

by Håkan Nesser

  He welcomed his audience. Took off his wrist watch, placed it on the lectern in front of him, and set off without further ado.

  A short but elegant summary of the English nineteenth-century novel in barely five minutes, before he came to the first of the three authors named in the title of his lecture: Joseph Conrad.

  He occasionally wrote on the whiteboard, and Van Veeteren was somewhat surprised to see that his audience were taking notes for all they worth. Some of the students even had small portable tape recorders on their desk lids – that had never happened forty years ago, and he began to realize that Professor deFraan was regarded as an authority.

  But he soon found it difficult to concentrate. There was evidently a shortage of oxygen in the lecture theatre, and he couldn’t ignore the influence of gravity on his eyelids. He had read both Conrad and Trollope; had his own views on Conrad at least, and wasn’t really interested in having his judgements reassessed or modified.

  Not by a potential murderer, in any case.

  He only knew Borrow by name – and hardly that. He found himself yawning again, and it was remarkable how soothing it was, sitting there in that room.

  DeFraan’s voice was strong but restrained. As he delved into the white man’s burden in The Heart of Darkness, Van Veeteren found it increasingly difficult to assign to this man the role that was the main reason for his being there.

  DeFraan didn’t act like a strangler, in fact. Didn’t sound like a murderer.

  Didn’t act like a strangler?

  Van Veeteren shook his head at that amateurish judgement. ‘We need to be clear that even a criminal usually acts normally’ – that was a rule that old Borkmann had inculcated into him many years ago. ‘In certain circumstances it can even be impossible to distinguish between a bus-load of psychopaths and a totally harmless collection of unimpeachable citizens,’ he had maintained, and grinned characteristically. ‘For instance, a gang of undertakers on a Sunday outing.’

  Van Veeteren smiled to himself when he realized that he had remembered it word for word.

  He didn’t sound like a murderer!

  Borkmann would have laughed at that wording. You can never tell. Van Veeteren decided to leave the professor in the heart of darkness, and instead to look a little more closely at the information about him that Winnifred had found on her computer.

  Needless to say it concentrated on academic qualifications. Examinations passed. Posts held. Published books and articles. Symposiums and conferences deFraan had attended, research projects he had been involved in. Van Veeteren skimmed quickly through all that. Noted that his doctoral thesis had been entitled Narrative Structures in Popular Fiction, and that he had been Professor of English at Maardam University since 1996. Before that he had spent four years as a lecturer at the considerably less venerable seat of learning in Aarlach, which is where he had studied as a student.

  The more personal data took up about half the second page, and stated among other things that he was born in Lingen on 7 June 1958. That he had been married, but had been a widower since 1995, that he had no children, and lived at Kloisterstraat 24.

  That was about all. Van Veeteren read through the whole document from start to finish once again, to see if there might possibly be something – the tiniest detail or circumstance – that might suggest he really was the man they were looking for. The Strangler. The notorious and elusive lunatic who had murdered three people with his bare hands.

  The murderer with a capital M.

  He looked up and contemplated the well-dressed man standing in front of the whiteboard. He was writing something now: several book titles with publication dates. Could these hands . . . this hand (which had a plaster on the back of it, Van Veeteren noted automatically) – could these fingers that were now holding the blue marker pen and writing these letters, in a different situation and in certain circumstances wrap themselves round a woman’s neck and . . . ?

  It seemed absurd. He had met wolves in sheep’s clothing many times during his career, but this seemed too ridiculous for words.

  The private detective sighed and checked his watch: there were twenty minutes of the lecture still to go. He was longing for something to drink.

  In order to give himself something to occupy his mind he took Strangler’s Honeymoon out of his briefcase and started thumbing through it. He had started looking for it in the beginning of December, and eventually received a copy from Dillman’s in London in the middle of January. He’d read it, but not thought much of it.

  It was just that damned name that haunted him.

  Kerran. Benjamin Kerran.

  He found it difficult to associate it with that neatly dressed academic berk holding forth from his pulpit. Very difficult.

  No matter what Borkmann might have had to say.

  Two of the female students – a short, plump, dark-haired one and a tall, blonde girl with a ponytail – had aspects of Trollope to discuss with deFraan, and Van Veeteren had to wait for a while before he could have a private word with the professor. But the girls finished eventually – although it was clear that they would have liked to carry on rather longer, but lacked the ability. Both the intellectual capability and the feminine guile, it seemed. They thanked him excessively and at great length, put their pens and notebooks away in their rucksacks, curtseyed and sauntered out of the room. DeFraan adjusted his glasses and looked attentively and enquiringly at Van Veeteren.

  ‘Excuse me, but do you have a moment?’

  DeFraan smiled and put his lecture notes away in a yellow plastic folder.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you. My name is Van Veeteren. I’m joint owner of Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop in Kupinskis gränd.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘I accepted a book the other day that baffles me a bit, and I wonder if you can help me. With the author, mainly. Henry Moll. I’ve never heard of him.’

  He handed over the somewhat worse for wear paperback. DeFraan examined it for a couple of seconds with one eyebrow raised, adjusted his glasses again, looked at the title page and checked the copyright details and year of publication.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve never heard of it. But lots of books of this sort were published in the twenties and thirties. Why are you interested in it?’

  ‘I read it and rather liked it.’

  ‘Really?’

  DeFraan looked first at the book, then at Van Veeteren, with an expression that might have indicated scepticism or derision.

  ‘It’s not exactly high-quality literature,’ said Van Veeteren, trying to look embarrassed (without succeeding, as far as he could judge), ‘but there’s something intriguing about the plot, and the main character . . . the murderer.’

  DeFraan didn’t react. He started leafing somewhat nonchalantly through the book.

  ‘Benjamin Kerran. Do you recognize the name?’

  ‘Kerran?’

  ‘Yes.’

  DeFraan closed the book and looked at his watch.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be of any help to you in this matter, herr . . . ?’

  ‘Van Veeteren.’

  ‘Van Veeteren. I have a meeting in ten minutes, so if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  Van Veeteren took the book and put it into his briefcase.

  ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time anyway. And thank you for an interesting lecture.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said deFraan, leaving the room unhurriedly.

  Van Veeteren followed him even more slowly. At the bottom of the imposing marble staircase, the steps worn and made shiny by the feet of masses of students for the last century and a half, flanked by unadorned columns, he found a cafeteria. He recalled having been there before – not a century and a half ago, but perhaps forty years. He sat down at an empty table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and tried to analyse the situation.

  God only knows, he thought. Maybe, but maybe not.

  That w
as as far as he got. It wasn’t possible to get any further.

  But the contest had begun, that was clear.

  It took Winnifred less than ten minutes to find the dissertation. She didn’t have a copy in her office, but after a visit to the departmental library she returned with a light-blue book in her hand. Its full title was: Narrative Structures in Early Twentieth Century English Popular Fiction. Van Veeteren thanked her, put it next to Henry Moll in his briefcase and left Maardam University to its fate, whatever that might be.

  He bought a lunch sandwich (without olives) at Heuwelinck’s and was back in the bookshop before half past one. He sat in the kitchenette, and while slowly eating the sandwich and drinking a bottle of Bettelheim dark beer, he started reading.

  When both the sandwich and the beer were finished, he gave up, and looked at the index instead, at the end of the dissertation.

  There it was.

  Moll, Henry p. 136

  He looked up the page referred to.

  Thirteen lines, neither more nor less, were devoted to Henry Moll. Strangler’s Honeymoon was mentioned, as were two other titles. In positive if quite neutral terms.

  He closed the book and slid it to one side. Drained the beer bottle one more time, in the hope that there might be a few drops left.

  God only knows, he thought again. But surely the evidence is building up?

  That evening he went to the cinema with Ulrike, and watched the old Russian film The Commissar, a forgotten masterpiece from the 1960s. Afterwards they sat at Kraus cafe for an hour, discussing how it was possible to produce such a perfect work of art in the conditions that held sway in the Soviet Union a mere ten years after the death of Stalin.

  Talking about the sublime scene in which the Jewish cobbler washes his wife’s feet.

  About the role played by salt and bitter things in life. And about both Karel Innings, Ulrike’s husband, who was murdered by a vengeful woman exactly five years ago, and about Van Veeteren’s son Erich who had been dead for more than two years by this time.

  They didn’t often discuss such matters, but they did now.

  Was it the case that their respective sorrow had brought them closer together? Intensified their relationship, and in some respects made it stronger than it would have been in more normal circumstances?

  Difficult questions, perhaps not ideally defined, and of course they did not reach any conclusions. Not this evening. But as they strolled home through the drizzle, he had the feeling that he loved her like a shipwrecked sailor must love a raft that comes floating towards him just when all his strength has been used up.

  Yes indeed, that was the very image that haunted his mind’s eye.

  It was almost half past eleven by the time they got home to Klagenburg, and he decided to postpone the conversation until the following morning. People’s guard was always lower shortly after they had woken up, and if he could ask his somewhat indiscreet question in those circumstances, it had to be a good thing.

  He set the alarm clock for seven o’clock, and crept closer to Ulrike with a sardonic smile on his lips.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she wondered. ‘You seem somehow brimming over with energy, Mister Yang.’

  He had to admit that she was right.

  ‘It’s the old hunter inside me that has woken up,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve picked up a scent.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Ulrike, and couldn’t help giggling.

  He closed his eyes and tried to work out how much a fifty-eight-year-old woman who could still giggle like a child was worth.

  Quite a lot, he decided.

  ‘Of course it’s you,’ he said. ‘But there’s something else as well.’

  ‘A prey?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Switch the light off and hug me more tightly.’

  He did as he was bidden.

  ‘DeFraan.’

  ‘Van Veeteren here. Good morning.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Van Veeteren, the antiquarian bookseller. We met briefly after your lecture yesterday.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about that book by Henry Moll.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember you now. But why are you ringing so early? It’s not even half past seven yet.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to catch you before you went to work.’

  ‘You’ve done that all right.’

  ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about.’

  ‘Really? I’m all ears – but I’d be grateful if you were quick about it.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to wake you up. But I have a question. Do you still claim that you’ve never heard of Henry Moll and that book I showed you?’

  ‘Claim and claim. I don’t understand . . .’

  Two seconds of silence.

  ‘What was it called?’

  ‘Strangler’s Honeymoon. Published by Thornton & Radice in 1932.’

  ‘Ah, yes . . . No, I don’t remember anything about that book. And I don’t understand why you are harassing me like this. I think we ought to close this call now, I don’t think . . .’

  ‘I’ve been reading your thesis.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your dissertation. Narrative Structures in Popular Fiction . . . – that’s what it’s called, isn’t it?’

  No answer.

  ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about.’

  ‘What, exactly?’

  Was there for the first time a trace of fear in his voice? Or was it just his own imagination and expectations that were playing games?’

  ‘The fact that you wrote about Moll and that book in your thesis, but nevertheless you maintain that you’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘Moll?’ said deFraan thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, I suppose it’s possible that I’ve come across him . . . But you must realize that it’s more than fifteen years since I completed my dissertation. If I remember rightly I referred to over two hundred authors and three times as many books – you can’t expect—’

  ‘And Benjamin Kerran?’

  ‘Kerran? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What the hell are you getting at? I certainly have no intention—’

  ‘So you don’t remember the name Benjamin Kerran either? I think I mentioned the name to you yesterday. He’s the murderer in the book I mentioned. A strangler.’

  Silence again for five seconds, then deFraan hung up.

  Van Veeteren did the same. And leaned back against the pillows in his bed.

  End of round one, he thought. Honours even.

  But if – if I’m on the scent of the right prey, he knows now that I know. No doubt about that. He’s not an idiot. That’s a fact that has altered the odds for all the coming rounds. Changed them fundamentally.

  But nevertheless, he thought as he stood in the shower a quarter of an hour later. There’s something missing.

  The murderer’s shame, for instance – that look, or that noticeably husky voice: he hadn’t exhibited an ounce of that. Van Veeteren had played quite a high trump card and earned as a result . . . well, what?

  Nothing, was the obvious answer to that. Damn and blast! He could feel the doubt and desperation beginning to nag away inside him, as familiar as the chronic pains he had been feeling as age crept up on him: but instead of scrutinizing everything in more detail he left the shower. Dried himself meticulously, switched on the coffee machine and devoted his attention to the chess problem in Allgemejne.

  Mate in three moves with several unidentified snags. It seemed familiar.

  45

  Reinhart was dreaming.

  Two different dreams simultaneously, it seemed, each one worse than the other. In the first one his daughter Joanna and her red-haired friend Ruth were busy baking his left leg inside some kind of dough – that was why it felt so heavy . . . They intended to bake the whole of him in order to present him as an unusually impressive exhibit at a birthday party at their nursery school, they had informed him. The
resultant pastry would be decorated with all kinds of pretty little embellishments such as starfish, flags and various sparkling stones – and would win the first prize in a competition: a trip to Disneyland in Paris. The very thought sent spasms of disgust through Reinhart’s whole being, but he was unable to protest because they had first given him a hefty dose of morphine. His tongue lay half-dead in his mouth like a beached jellyfish. The whole thing was disgustingly awful.

  In the second one he was wandering through a noisy town on the way towards an accident. His own accident. Something was going to happen – it wasn’t yet clear what, but he continued heading towards his fate just as inevitably as if it had been a repeat performance of an old film that he was watching for the seventh time. He lay there helplessly, with his baked-in and incredibly heavy leg, and watched as he was nudged and elbowed on the menacing pavements of the menacing town. His own Maardam and his own Zuyderstraat, if he was not much mistaken: but there were also odd and unfamiliar aspects that he didn’t recognize at all: shattered bridges and ruined houses, as if from a country devastated by war. He tried desperately to attract the attention of Joanna and Red Ruth and his wife, and to beg them to stop the film before it was too late. But it was in vain. The jellyfish in his mouth was now no more than an insignificant single-cell organism that had died and was drying out completely, and adhering to the palate in the most hopeless way. It was clear to him that all his efforts were in vain and pointless.