The Stranglers Honeymoon

by Håkan Nesser

  He waited until it was completely dark, then went out into the town.

  Came back after midnight, slightly drunk on ouzo and cheap retsina. No food – there was no space inside him for food. Apart from a few olives and a lump of feta cheese one of the taverna owners had offered him without charge. He smoked another ten or twelve cigarettes while lying on the bed, and fell asleep, feeling sweaty and rather sick, at turned three.

  There was a sort of emptiness that he soon felt unable to fill any longer.

  He dreamed about the fire, and his mother. About how he sucked her nipples for the last time on the day of his twelfth birthday. I have no milk any more, and you’re a man now. Never forget that you are a man, and that no woman shall deny you anything you want – not even your mother. Believe me when I say this.

  Believe me.

  Tuesday was an exact repetition of Monday.

  Wednesday evening, Plakas. He wanted to sit outside, but Vasilis insisted they should go indoors. It was hardly spring yet, after all.

  As if that mattered. They found a table that was more or less half-and-half, by a window looking out over Tripodon Street. The restaurant was called Oikanas. Vasilis had put on fifteen kilos since they had last met. Was that seven years ago, or was it eight?

  He was already drunk, which was a damned nuisance; but his disgust had been nagging at him all afternoon, and he had forced himself to drink quite a lot. Vasilis kept on saying My Friend, My Friend, My Friend – and soon he no longer had the strength to listen to it. He urged Vasilis to Cut the Crap, commented Bullshit, and asked when he was going to deliver that damned gun? That was what all this was about, and nothing else.

  When? My Friend.

  It took time to convince Vasilis, but in doing so he didn’t reveal an iota of his plan and intentions. Nor the story behind it all. He realized (and recalled) that basically, he was much brighter and more strong-minded than Vasilis, and had the Greek at his mercy even though he was drunk. As time passed, Vasilis had drunk more and more and become hesitant and sluggish, and eventually he gave up. Mediterranean apathy.

  ‘Fuck you, My Friend. All right.’

  ‘When? Where?’

  Vasilis took another drink of the expensive Boutari wine, and ran his fingers through the Communist beard he had worn since the Junta era. More grey than black nowadays. More bourgeois pig than revolutionary.

  ‘Friday evening. Here. Same place. All right, My Friend?’

  ‘All right.’

  Thursday was a repetition of Tuesday.

  He bought a boat ticket at a little travel agent’s. It was low season, and he would have to wait until Sunday. There was an Olympic Airways flight, but that was only in theory: the Saturday flight was fully booked. They asked him if he wanted to turn up on stand-by.

  Ochi. No thank you. He sat in the National Park instead and watched the women. Imagined them naked. Imagined them naked and dead.

  The naked and the dead. Disgust bubbled up inside him once more. And he had an erection. The only thing that could fill the emptiness. Everything else was finished and done with. His fingers were seismographs again. He masturbated in some bushes. Shouted out loud when he came, but nobody took any notice. The park was almost deserted. It was an ordinary weekday, people were at work of course; it was cloudy, but quite warm.

  Then he lay on his bed for five or six hours, smoking. Ate next to nothing, tried to masturbate again but couldn’t even get an erection. His throat was itching.

  He went to the bathroom and tried to be sick, but his stomach was empty. He went out and bought some sesame biscuits, a bottle of water and two packets of local cigarettes.

  He drank quite a lot, and dreamed about his mother’s pubic hair. It became quite sparse as the years passed by.

  Friday was a repetition of Thursday.

  Slightly drunk again. Short meeting with Vasilis in the same taverna in Plakas. He had cut off most of his Communist beard for some reason or other, and maintained that he was worried – but nevertheless handed over without more ado a pistol in a shoe box inside a plastic carrier bag. A Markarov, he said. Russian, nine mil. A bit awkward, but reliable. It should be loaded with eight bullets, and a whole carton was part of the deal. Thirty thousand drachma – that was cheap, he stressed several times. Damned cheap: what was he intending to use it for?

  He didn’t answer, paid up and left. He knew they would never meet again.

  My Friend.

  He didn’t have many memories of Saturday. He lay on his bed. Smoked and drank several glasses of ouzo, but mixed with quite a lot of water. Masturbated occasionally, managed an erection but not an orgasm. Evidently empty there as well. On Sunday morning he was unable to dredge up any memories of the night’s dreams. He took a taxi out to Piraeus and boarded the boat.

  It was called Ariadne and wasn’t very big. There was rather a strong wind blowing, and the departure was delayed as the sea was too rough: but he stayed on board rather than going back on land.

  They set off in the end at two o’clock. He was quite grateful for the delay, having felt ill all morning. He went straight to the bar and ordered a beer, then started reading Isaac Norton’s Byron biography – he had taken it with him as travel reading, but hadn’t got round to looking at it until now.

  Byron? he thought. I’ve waited too long before making this journey. People have suffered unnecessarily.

  But he was in no hurry now.

  49

  When MS Aegina set off from the harbour in Piraeus at nine o’clock in the morning of Tuesday, 5 March, the sky was as blue as a faultless sapphire. The temperature was about twenty degrees in the shade, and there was no wind to speak of in B-deck’s open after-saloon. Only a slowly rising morning sun. No blankets were needed over their legs, they didn’t really need long trousers. Van Veeteren had even acquired a straw hat.

  ‘Not too bad,’ said Münster, turning to look at the sun.

  ‘You ought to have been an astronaut,’ muttered Van Veeteren.

  ‘An astronaut?’ said Münster.

  ‘Yes, one of those Americans who flew to the moon. I heard how the first man on the moon tried to express his rapture to the dumbfounded masses back here on earth – do you know what he said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s great up here.’

  ‘It’s great up here?’

  ‘Yes. A bit on the inadequate side, you might think.’

  ‘I see,’ said Münster, looking out over the rail. ‘And how would an antiquarian bookseller express his feelings on seeing this panorama?’

  Van Veeteren thought for five seconds, also gazing out over the sea, the sky and the coastline. Then he closed his eyes and took a sip of beer.

  ‘O bliss to be young in the light of morning on the sea,’ he said.

  ‘Not too bad,’ said Münster.

  ‘Maybe we should exchange a few thoughts about our mission,’ suggested Van Veeteren when Münster arrived back at the deckchairs with two bottles of lemon squash (a sort of primitive beer substitute: it was only half past nine in the morning, and their fluid balance needed some attention in view of the hot sun). ‘So that we know where we stand.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Münster. ‘Personally I’m not even sure we’re on the way to the right island. But then, I’m only the one in charge of the investigation.’

  Van Veeteren eased off his shoes and socks and splayed out his toes with an air of satisfaction.

  ‘Of course we are,’ he said. ‘DeFraan is trying to complete a circle – I don’t know exactly how, but we shall find out in due course.’

  ‘Do you mean that he’s returning to the place where his wife died?’

  ‘Have you any other suggestion?’

  Münster did not. They had not discussed the case properly for two days, even though they had spent nearly all the time in each other’s company. On the flight Van Veeteren had slept from start to finish, and the previous evening he had resorted to his old, familiar weakness for smokescreens and g
eneral mystification, Münster had unfortunately been forced to conclude.

  But that’s the way he was. The intendent had seen it all before. And now it seemed at last to be time to hint at an apology. Better late than never. Münster drank some water, and waited.

  ‘We have no chance of proving any of this,’ said Van Veeteren to begin with. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Münster. ‘But surely it’s deplorable that the prosecutor wouldn’t allow us to search deFraan’s flat, don’t you think?’

  ‘Deplorable is the right word,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But it’s pretty obvious what lies behind it.’

  ‘The fact that Ferrari is a member of the Succulents?’

  ‘Of course. He has a chance to obstruct us, and so of course he does just that. Don’t forget that their motto is “Singillitam mortales, cunctim perpetui!”’

  ‘What does that mean?

  ‘On your own you are mortal, together you are immortal!’

  ‘I didn’t know you could speak Latin.’

  ‘I looked it up,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I work in a bookshop now and then, as you might know, so it wasn’t too difficult. According to Reinhart, Ferrari is going to be replaced, so that detail will be sorted in a few days.’

  ‘Presumably,’ said Münster, turning to look at the sun again.

  I’m doubtful about the whole of this, he thought. Does he really know what he’s doing?

  ‘If deFraan had had a bit more ice in his veins,’ said Van Veeteren, ‘all he’d have needed to do was to lie low instead of running off in this panicky way. He must have known the situation, he’s no fool. What do you think it signifies?’

  ‘That he ran away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Münster thought for a moment.

  ‘That he’s tired of it all?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Van Veeteren, adjusting his straw hat. ‘That’s the conclusion I drew. He knows that we know, and his lunacy isn’t under control any longer. Not completely, in any case, and that’s what will bring about his downfall. He just hasn’t the strength to go on any longer. My guess is that he’s utterly exhausted – no wonder, come to that.’

  ‘The fingerprints in the Blake book were pretty convincing,’ said Münster. ‘Not conclusive, of course, but they prove that he had a link to the Kammerle family.’

  Van Veeteren nodded. Sat in silence for a while, staring at the glass of lemon squash he had in his hand.

  ‘Of course. But a good lawyer would produce ten innocent explanations from up his sleeve in as many seconds. The same applies to that confounded lapel badge. All the clues pointing to deFraan are so insubstantial that they would carry no weight at all in a courtroom, that’s the problem. But I would really like to meet him eye to eye. I hope we can nail him.’

  ‘Why?’ wondered Münster. ‘Why would you like to meet him?’

  ‘Human interest,’ said Van Veeteren, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Or inhuman interest, perhaps?’ suggested Münster.

  ‘Possibly, yes. I want to know what makes him tick, and what the hell lies behind it all. It’s so damned unpleasant for a man of such high intelligence to be driven for so long by such high lunacy. He must be an emotional monster, I can’t see it any other way. But even monsters are made up of flesh and blood and nerves – or so I’ve always believed, in any case.’

  Münster put on his newly acquired sunglasses and unfastened a couple of shirt buttons.

  ‘Nobody seemed to have known him particularly well.’

  ‘Nobody at all, it seems. If that Dr Parnak was a pal of his for so many years and didn’t have more to say about him than she did, well – who the hell could throw light on him?’

  ‘His wife? Could have done . . .’

  ‘We’re on the way to her,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It’s a pity we weren’t able to talk to her sister – that might have given us a few clues, at least.’

  Münster nodded. They had managed to track down Professor deFraan’s former sister-in-law, a certain Laura Fenner née Markovic, to Boston, USA, but just before they left Maardam Krause had informed them that fru Fenner was unfortunately on a skiing holiday at Lake Placid, and couldn’t be contacted.

  ‘What do you think about Christa deFraan’s death?’ Münster asked.

  Van Veeteren said nothing for a while, merely sat twiddling his toes.

  ‘I think what I think,’ he said eventually.

  It was four in the afternoon when they got out of their taxi in the square in Argostoli. Van Veeteren stood for a while beside his suitcase, looking around and nodding contentedly. Münster paid the driver, then followed suit. It was not difficult to understand the satisfied expression on the Chief Inspector’s face. The agora was large and square, surrounded on three sides by restaurants, tavernas and cafes. Low, pale-coloured buildings with flat roofs, and plane trees and oleander bushes to provide shade. The town climbed up the mountainside, and down towards the sea. Palm trees were making crackling noises in the warm breeze. Cyclists and small children were everywhere, pedestrians, elderly gentlemen playing tavli, and a few apathetic pigeons pecking away around an empty tribune with some kind of rudimentary loud-speaker set-up.

  ‘Ah,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We have come to the real world, Münster. Pascal never saw this.’

  ‘Pascal?’ said Münster. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He claimed that people are incapable of sitting still in the same place for any longish time, and that almost all wretchedness can be traced back to that fact – evil, for instance. But you could spend an eternity in this square, surely you can see that? If you have a beer and a newspaper, at least.’

  Münster looked around.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ he said, picking up his suitcase. ‘And that hotel doesn’t look so bad either. That’s where we’ll be staying, isn’t it?’

  He pointed to the Ionean Plaza, the large building on the northern side of the square. The pale yellow façade was bathed in evening sunshine. Three storeys high, small balconies with wrought-iron bars, and a distinctly French look overall. Van Veeteren nodded and looked at his watch.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘But we mustn’t forget that this island has a history as well. A recent history.’

  ‘Really?’ said Münster.

  ‘It was one of the worst affected of all during the war, in various ways. The Germans massacred thousands of Italian soldiers, for instance. Burnt heaps of them on big fires. And there was a terrible earthquake here in 1953.’

  ‘I thought Germany and Italy were on the same side during the war,’ said Münster.’

  ‘So did the Italians,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But I suppose we’d better forget about the war and Pascal for a while, and check in instead. Perhaps we ought to get something done today. Or what do you think?’

  ‘A good idea,’ said Münster. ‘For our peace of mind – especially if we are going to sit around here for an eternal evening.’

  The Fauner travel agency had its office in the south-west corner of the agora, and Münster was served by two blonde women in blue uniforms. They looked to be in their thirties, could well have been twins, and for the moment had nothing better to do than sit in front of their switched-off computers with a cup of coffee each. Münster knew that the tourist season proper didn’t start for another four or five weeks, and he was surprised to find the office open from as early as 1 March.

  But perhaps there was the occasional island-hopper to look after. And an occasional detective intendent. He turned to the nearest blonde and introduced himself.

  ‘Were you the one who rang?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiled a friendly charter-smile. Münster smiled back.

  ‘I’ve looked into the matter for you.’

  She took a sheet of paper from a file.

  ‘Maarten and Christa deFraan were here for a fortnight’s holiday in August, 1995, like you said. They bought the holiday from us, and stayed at one of the hotels out at Lassi. That’s only a few ki
lometres from here – it’s where the best beaches are, and most people want to stay there. The hotel’s name was Olympos, but it’s not there any more. It wasn’t one of the better establishments, to tell you the truth, and we stopped using it about three years ago. They closed down altogether last year. I think they’re converting it into a collection of boutiques, but I’m not sure.’

  Münster wrote it all down in his notebook.

  ‘I suppose you don’t happen to know about an incident that took place while they were here?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No. What are you referring to?’

  ‘Were you not working here then? In 1995?’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t come here until spring last year. Agnieszka as well.’

  The presumptive twin looked up from her newspaper and smiled.

  ‘I’ve just extracted the information from the computer.’

  ‘I see,’ said Münster. ‘Am I right in thinking there are quite a lot of hotels out there?’

  ‘Of course. We use about ten, but there must be twenty-five to thirty in all. Most of them haven’t opened yet, of course. The usual season is Easter to the end of September.’

  ‘I see,’ said Münster again, and contemplated the slowly rotating fan on the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘But you haven’t had a booking from Maarten deFraan this week, have you?’

  ‘No. There’s very little to do at this time of year, to be honest. It’s mainly planning for the season ahead – checking that the hotels are up to standard, booking buses for the excursions, that sort of stuff. But we are open for a few hours every afternoon, as you have noticed.’

  Münster nodded.

  ‘What’s the situation regarding the police authorities?’ he asked. ‘Argostoli is the main town on the island, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. The police station is down by the harbour. We don’t have much to do with them – it’s pretty quiet around here, thank goodness. But they have three departments: traffic police, tourist police and criminal police – well, I suppose the criminal police isn’t really a department. His name is Yakos. Dimitrios Yakos.’