Hakan Nesser - The Stranglers Honeymoon

‘Yes, here,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘His name is Maarten deFraan, and I have reason to suspect that he is holed up here in Argostoli — or possibly in Lassi. We think he arrived quite recently, and has presumably checked into a hotel or boarding house. Possibly using a false name, but he’s probably using his real one. I need your help to find him, and I need your help to arrest him. I assume you have received my authorization documents?’

Yakos nodded.

‘Yes, of course. No problem.’

Van Veeteren handed over a photograph of deFraan. Yakos took it, held it carefully between his thumb and index finger as he studied it with his eyebrows assuming the shape of a circumflex accent.

‘The murderer?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many lives does he have on his conscience? It’s not clear from the picture.’

‘We don’t know for certain. Four or five.’

‘Ah.’

He returned the photograph.

‘Can we expect any complications? Is he armed?’

Van Veeteren thought for a moment before replying.

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to judge if he’s dangerous or not. I suggest we wait with that aspect until we have located him. How long do you think you’ll need?’

Yakos looked at the clock and smiled.

‘Get in touch again this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Let’s face it, we only need to carry out a check on the local hotels. That shouldn’t take more than a few hours — I have several junior officers at my disposal. If we don’t find him, then of course the situation will become more difficult: but why foresee difficulties that might not exist?’

‘Why indeed,’ agreed Van Veeteren. He drank the rest of the beer and stood up. ‘I’ll call in at about four, is that okay?’

‘This afternoon, yes,’ said Yakos with a smile suggesting a typically Greek indifference towards time. ‘If anything happens before then, I’ll be in touch.’

Before going out on watch the second day, she checked the contents of her cloth bag.

A short iron rod taped into a piece of sheeting. A nylon rope. Two bottles, one containing hydrofluoric acid, the other petrol. A packet of salt. Matches. Two different knives. A small pair of pliers.

She offered up a silent prayer, hoping to be able to use them all in more or less that order while trying to visualize the scenario in her mind’s eye. She felt a sudden shooting pain down her spine and into her legs, and a moment of dizziness. Then she tied the thin headscarf around her hair and the lower part of her face. Good to be rid of those Muslim veils, she thought. Looked at herself in the mirror again before completing her disguise with the aid of a pair of large, round sunglasses.

She picked up the bag and left the room. Stepped out into the sunlight and warmth of the Greek morning. Looked around. The Lassi district, as it was called, was basically just one street. That was an advantage, an indisputable advantage. She adjusted her sunglasses and looked up at the sky. It was more or less cloud-free, and the temperature must have been eighteen to twenty degrees already. A warm day, but not too hot. There was a hint of promise in it, she told herself. Something that suggested the end was nigh.

It was a long street, two kilometres or more. The previous evening she had walked back and forth along it, past the tavernas and hotels, without attracting any attention. Bars, mini-markets and boutiques. And why should she attract any attention? Headscarves were a common item of clothing, sunglasses almost compulsory. It was perfect. Sooner or later she would get wind of him. Sooner or later. There were no other streets to walk along if you wanted to move around Lassi out of doors.

Sooner or later.

‘What do we do now?’ said Münster.

Van Veeteren looked up.

‘We wait,’ he said. ‘There’s not much else we can do. But we could take a stroll around the harbour district and have a look at the shops. Or would you like to go for a swim in the sea? I’d be happy to stand by with the towels.’

‘It’s only the seventh of March,’ Münster pointed out. ‘No thank you. But I’d like to know what you think about fröken Peerenkaas.’

They left the cafe and started walking towards Ioannis Metaxa. Van Veeteren took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with a paper tissue. Münster’s query remained hanging in the air for half a minute until the Chief Inspector felt called upon to answer it.

‘I think she’s highly dangerous,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately. Perhaps not only for deFraan. But I hope she hasn’t found her way here. Perhaps you could keep your eyes skinned as we make our way through the crowds — your eyesight’s better than mine. Do you have your service pistol handy?’

Münster tapped under his arm, and nodded to confirm that it was there. It had delayed their departure a whole day, but Van Veeteren had insisted that at least one of them should be carrying a gun.

That was most unusual, Münster thought. He never seemed to be especially interested in police officers carrying weapons. Certainly not as far as he himself was concerned.

‘I suppose there is a risk, though,’ said Münster. ‘That she might be here, I mean. If she was already in Athens when we got there, as Krause maintains, well. . I have to say that I don’t honestly know what she might do.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Van Veeteren, adjusting his straw hat. ‘Maybe it isn’t all that complicated. It’s not deFraan she’s been shadowing, it’s us, my dear Watson. You and me. A couple of thick detective officers who book flights and hotels backed up by a fanfare of trumpets, and using their own names. DeFraan has no doubt done all he can to prevent her from catching up with him, but so what when we have been as obvious as brightly coloured hippos in a chicken run?’

Münster frowned, then relaxed again.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘No doubt that’s the way things are. But if we happen to catch sight of her in among all the crowds of people, what do we do then? Arrest her?’

‘For what?’ wondered Van Veeteren. ‘As far as I’m aware she hasn’t even acquired a parking ticket.’

Münster thought for a moment.

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But what do we do, then?’

‘We wait,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I tried to explain that to you. Have you already forgotten your Pascal?’

Hell’s bells, thought Münster, gritting his teeth. Here we are, wandering around in peace and quiet — like brightly coloured hippos! — although in fact we’re on the trail of a lunatic who has killed at least four people with his bare hands. And of a totally obsessed woman. And he goes on about Pascal! Life in the antiquarian book world has made its mark, it seems.

He adjusted his gun, which was chafing against his armpit, and ducked under a red awning to a stall where Van Veeteren had just slipped in to taste some unusually large and fat olives.

‘Watch out for the stones,’ thought Münster — but said it out loud.

‘What?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘These are not bad at all. What did you say?’

‘It was nothing,’ said Münster.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye — she’d been a hair’s breadth away from missing him completely.

Niko’s Rent-a-car. On the extreme northern edge of the little town, where the road started to climb up the mountain towards Argostoli. She continued a few metres past the office, then stopped.

He was standing inside. Maarten deFraan. Him . Her heart rose up inside her chest, and suddenly she could feel a strong taste of metal on her tongue. It was strange. For a few seconds she just stood there, in the middle of the pavement, while the ground seemed to be revolving under her feet as the cicadas sawed away at her eardrums. It was as if something — or possibly everything — was about to burst.