The Stranglers Honeymoon (32 page)

‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘Absolutely typical. Anyway, this was the latest news. You can hardly call it a breakthrough, but needless to say we are following everything up as best we can. Something will turn up sooner or later.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘As long as it’s not another victim.’

Moreno sat in silence for a moment, contemplating that possibility as her eyes wandered over the row upon row of books.

‘Do you think that’s what’s going to happen?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘To be honest, that’s what I expect to happen next. Not least if it is in fact linked with that business at Wallburg. I was playing badminton with Münster last week, and he claimed that it wasn’t out of the question that the same killer was involved.’

‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘That seems likely. But if nothing else, that television programme ought to have put women on their guard.’

‘Let’s hope that’s the case as well,’ said Van Veeteren.

Moreno stood up.

‘I don’t think I’ll bother about my literary education today,’ she said with an apologetic smile. ‘But perhaps I could take another peep at Andrea before I rush off ?’

‘Of course,’ said Van Veeteren.

They crept along the gap between the shelves again. Moreno bent down over the pram, and Van Veeteren stood behind her, feeling a sort of diffuse pride bubbling up inside him.

‘She’s sweet,’ said Moreno. ‘Incredibly sweet.’ Van Veeteren cleared his throat.

‘Of course she’s bloody sweet. She’s my grandchild after all.’

When Inspector Moreno had left, he sat down again on the stair and also took a look inside the pram.

Then he checked the time. It was fifty minutes since Marlene had hurried off for her interview.

Time’s running out, he thought, giving the pram a shake. It would be a pity if poor Andrea had to spend a whole hour with her grandad without actually seeing him.

He gave the pram another shake, a bit harder this time.

29

On the night of 8 December, Anna Kristeva dreamed that she was going to die.

Or that she had already died. Among the chaotic, feverish images that had come cascading down over her were some depicting the actual burial – she recalled those clearly when she woke up at about eight in the morning, soaked in sweat and wrapped in foul-smelling sheets. She opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling and noticed that the room was spinning round. For a brief moment she thought that she hadn’t been dreaming after all, but that it was real. That she really was dead. Then she closed her eyes again and remembered that she was ill. Before falling asleep for the night at about eleven the previous evening she had managed to get her temperature down as far as 38.1: it hadn’t been possible to get it any lower than that, so no wonder she had been afflicted by unpleasant dreams.

She lay there in bed for a while before daring to test whether her legs would support her. It turned out that they did, albeit only just: she had to cling on to the walls in order to stagger as far as the bathroom, and when she had finished peeing she remained sitting on the toilet for five minutes, without a single rational thought entering her head. It was a non-stop procession of images of her death from her dreams. Lying there naked on the bedroom floor, unable to breathe. Tossing and turning convulsively back and forth, trying to grab hold of something – an illusory and elusive object that evidently didn’t exist. Hovering there in mid air, something only she could see and evaluate, nobody else. Whatever it could possibly have been.

Then she was lying in a white coffin in Keymerkyrkan as her friends and relatives filed past, gazing at her with sorrowful, sometimes tearful eyes. Her mother. Didrik, her brother. Jacob Brooms. Leonard, her ex-husband and his new wife, whose name she could never remember. And Ester Peerenkaas, who unlike the others didn’t seem to take it all too seriously. She smiled encouragingly at her instead, winking conspiratorially at her: for some inexplicable reason she was wearing a red tie round her neck.

At that point the dream sequence came to a sudden end. Anna remembered the conversation with her friend on Thursday evening, flushed the toilet and managed to stand up. Clung on to the washbasin and stared sceptically at her reflection in the mirror before splashing a few handfuls of cold water forcefully into her face. Almost immediately she had a headache, and started shivering like a dog.

Out into the kitchen. Aspirin, juice, vitamin C and a drop or two of Kan Jang – she had trouble in swallowing it, her throat seemed to have dried up during the night, but she managed it in the end. She staggered back into the bedroom and tumbled back into bed. Wrapped herself up in all the blankets and covers and pillows she could lay hands on, and went back to sleep.

She just had time to think: I really must ring Ester if I ever wake up again.

It was just turned half past ten when she did, and she couldn’t remember if she had been dreaming again. But she did remember that she should ring her friend, and as she wasn’t quite as feverish and sweaty as when she first woke up that morning, she picked up the telephone and dialled Ester’s number without further ado.

But Ester wasn’t at home. She wondered if she ought to leave a message on the answering machine, but decided not to – she couldn’t think of anything to say, and she could always ring again a bit later on.

Happy with her efforts and decision, she emptied the glass of water – which she must have put on her bedside table the previous evening, it tasted somewhat stale – turned her pillow over and went back to sleep.

The next time she failed to get through to Ester it was a quarter past three. She had taken a shower and got dressed: admittedly only a T-shirt and a pair of baggy jogging trousers, but still . . . She left no message this time either, but instead telephoned that neighbour of hers who was always willing to run errands for her, and told him she had the flu. She asked if he could possibly nip down to the corner shop and buy her a couple of litres of juice; and if he had any spare aspirins, could he please let her have one or two as her own stock was dwindling.

Herr Dorff, the engineer, produced the goods within half an hour. He seemed quite worried and looked just as lovelorn as usual when he handed them over, and asked if there really wasn’t anything else he could do to help.

Anna assured him that there wasn’t, she had everything she needed now and it was just a matter of lying down in bed and getting some rest.

Dorff told her he would be at home all evening, and all she needed to do was to give him a call if she wanted anything. She thanked him, and ushered him swiftly out through the door, explaining that she didn’t want to pass on the germs: in those circumstances there was nothing he could do but withdraw gracefully.

By way of variation she parked herself on the sofa and tried to read, but the plot and the series of harrowing events in Diza Murkland’s latest crime novel, which had shot up to the top of the bestseller list over the last couple of weeks, soon sapped the life out of her and she fell asleep again.

It was not until getting on for nine o’clock that evening that she left a message on Ester’s answering machine, and it was only then that she started to feel a bit worried.

What the hell was she up to? Why did she never come home and answer her telephone?

Needless to say there was no end of perfectly natural answers to those questions. She might be out shopping, for instance. Visiting a friend. At the cinema (although she had evidently been there yesterday, surely?), or out enjoying herself in some way or other. It was Saturday, after all. There was no reason why she should sit at home, wasting time she could be spending on celebrating her youth. Always assuming she wasn’t ill and feeling miserable as well, of course.

And miserable was exactly how Anna felt at the moment. She had had her evening shower and drunk as much fluid as would have satisfied a camel before a desert safari, but she still had a temperature and felt completely washed out.

Shit, shit, shit, she thought. I must ask Dorff to get me some more juice tomorrow.

He’ll be only too pleased to do that for me.

Sunday began a little better, but not all that much. Instead of asking Dorff to run the errand, she managed to get to the corner shop under her own steam: but by the time she was back in her flat she almost fainted. She went back to bed, rested for an hour then read the Sunday paper for another two. She drank some more juice and water, eventually succeeded in getting down her a sandwich and a banana, and checked her temperature.

Exactly thirty-eight, what else? . . .

That afternoon she telephoned her mother and felt sorry for herself, and also rang Ester Peerenkaas: still no reply.

She didn’t leave a message, but the unwarranted and somewhat surprising feeling of unease started nagging at her again. Only for a moment, but it was there and she had to ask herself why.

Despite everything she began to feel a bit better by the evening. She read some more Murkland, watched the television and lay down on the sofa, listening to music. Bach’s cello suites, which she had been given by her family as a thirty-fifth birthday present and were just right for an evening like this one. She telephoned Ester once again, and instructed the answering machine that her friend had better get her finger out and ring her back the moment she came in through the front door. What the hell was she up to? A woman friend was lying here ill in a state of misery and despair: couldn’t she display even a tiny bit of sympathy? A tiny crumb of interest in the fate of a fellow human being?

She smiled wearily to herself. Hung up and noted that it was a few minutes to nine. She decided to watch that Canadian film on the telly after all – if it was a load of crap she could always switch off.

The film turned out to be not a load of crap: not exactly unmissable, but she watched it to the end even so. Switched off the television, took the last aspirin of the day and went to the bathroom. The telephone rang as she was halfway through brushing her teeth.

Ester, she thought, rinsing her mouth out rapidly. About time.

But it wasn’t Ester. It was a man.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night. Is that Ester I’m speaking to?’

For a confused couple of seconds she didn’t know what to say.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Yes . . . No, I’m not Ester.’

‘Could I speak to her, please?’

His voice sounded rough. She had a vague image of an unshaven docker in a string vest with a can of beer in his hand.

But of course, that was just prejudice.

‘There is no Ester at this number. Who am I speaking to?’

‘That’s irrelevant. Ester Suurna, is she not there?’

‘No,’ said Anna. ‘And no other Ester either. You must have the wrong number.’

‘Oh, shit,’ said the man and hung up.

Very odd, she thought when she had got into bed. Here’s me waiting for a call from that damned Ester for two days, and all that happens is that some bloody layabout rings and goes on about a different Ester.

And the feeling of unease started nagging at her once again.

In fact it was Monday morning before Ester got in touch. She sounded as perky as a parrot on pot.

‘Good morning, my lovely – I hope I didn’t wake you up?’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘I didn’t get home until late last night. I didn’t want to ring then and disturb you. How are things?’

‘I haven’t had time to find out yet,’ said Anna. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half past seven. I’m on my way to work, but I thought I’d give you a bell first. I heard your message on the answering machine. So you’re still ill, are you?’

Anna raised herself into a half-sitting position, and felt that she certainly wasn’t yet back on top form. She brushed aside some hair that had stuck fast to her forehead and cheeks, and took a firmer grip of the receiver.

‘Yes, I think I’m still ill. It’ll take at least a week, just as the doc said. Where on earth have you been? I rang several times.’

‘I know,’ said Ester. ‘I’ve been with my parents in Willby – didn’t I say I was going there?’

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Anna.

‘Huh. Ah well, never mind. I expect you want to hear about what happened on Friday evening.’

‘Among other things, yes.’

‘Well, I ended up by going to Keefer’s after all.’

‘Really?’

‘He was sitting there.’

‘And?’

‘Wearing a red tie and with Eliot on the table.’

Anna waited. Then her friend suddenly burst out laughing.

‘The fact is, it went pretty well. I’ve taken him over.’

‘Eh?’

‘Taken him over. I didn’t bother to pass on any greetings from you, I simply spent a couple of hours having dinner with him. You can have my pilot.’

‘Your pilot?’ said Anna, then sneezed straight into the receiver.

‘Bless you! Yes, the bloke with the house in Greece – he’d be absolutely right for you. We’ll do a swap, just like that.’

‘But that’s not on. You can’t . . .’

‘Of course it’s on,’ insisted Ester, sounding thrilled to bits. ‘Why not? It’s already fixed, there’s no going back.’

Anna felt something that was either a fever or an attack of anger – or a combination of both – welling up inside her.

‘What the hell do you mean?’ she snarled. ‘You can’t simply take over my bloke just like that. I asked you to go there and explain that I was unable to attend. What you’ve done is a bloody disgraceful way of—’

‘Of course it is,’ said Ester, interrupting her, ‘but that’s the way it turned out. My colleague also caught the flu on Friday, so I had nobody to go to the cinema with. I thought it would be much easier to test the bloke out, seeing as I was there in any case. Why are you kicking up such a fuss? Surely it doesn’t matter, it’s too late to change anything now, and you can have my pilot . . .’

‘I don’t want your bloody pilot!’

‘Why not? There’s nothing wrong with pilots. Get a grip, for God’s sake!’

Anna sat there in silence for a few seconds, trying to hold back another sneeze. But in vain.

‘Bless you!’ said Ester again. ‘We can’t do anything to change this now, surely you can see that. He has no idea that there were two of us involved in the game. I don’t think he’d be impressed if another woman turned up next time . . . Don’t take it personally, but we’re not twins after all.’