‘What a depressing area this is,’ said Rooth after a while. ‘Thank God we don’t have to live here.’
Jung, who had grown up less than three hundred metres away from Moerckstraat, had no comment to make. He suggested instead that they should call it a day and sum up their impressions in the car. Rooth had no objections: they said goodnight to le Houde and his team of officers, and hoped they would have a fruitful night.
Le Houde was so tired that he didn’t even have the strength to swear at them, and when Rooth offered him half a bar of chocolate he simply turned his back on them.
‘Good to know that we have such well-brought-up colleagues,’ said Rooth, putting the chocolate into his own mouth. ‘Well, how did you get on? Have you found a strangler?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Jung. ‘But then, I’ve only managed two flats so far.’
‘I did three,’ said Rooth. ‘They don’t seem to know much about anybody else around here. But I expect fru Paraskevi must have had plenty to say for herself?’
Jung shrugged.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘She was there when they went into the flat, and she said she’d been feeling that something was wrong for quite some time. She’s on a disability pension, and is at home all day — presumably she notices things, as you might say. Her husband’s a Serb, incidentally: she’s a Croat. She thinks he’s living somewhere in the Balkans, but she hasn’t heard from him for five years.’
‘Great,’ said Rooth.
‘Yes, terrific. They have a daughter as well. She last saw her father when she was eight: she’s sixteen now. Martina Kammerle also had a daughter, according to Paraskevi. About as old as her own. Where the hell is she? you have to ask. It seems that nobody has seen her for a month either.’
‘Could she be the one who’s done it?’ wondered Rooth. ‘Strangled her mother then done a runner?’
Jung pulled a face.
‘That sounds a bit steep, but you never know. Surely there must be quite a lot of people who knew the Kammerles — relatives and friends, and suchlike. Not to mention enemies. Fru Paraskevi says fru Kammerle had a gentleman friend for a while in August-September. She never saw him, but she heard them talking.’
‘A gentleman friend?’ said Rooth. ‘Does that mean there wasn’t what you might call a steady relationship, then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘Nothing that we’ve heard about so far, at least. Did your interviews produce anything of interest?’
‘Nothing more than a bit of heartburn,’ said Rooth with a sigh. ‘I must stop drinking coffee this late at night. No, nobody seems to know anything at all. None of the people I’ve spoken to were even quite sure of her name. That of the dead woman, I mean. Despite the fact that they’ve been living here for. . er, for how long? Two years, was it?’
‘One-and-a-half, I think,’ said Jung.
‘But no doubt this Traut bloke will be able to clarify a few things. There doesn’t seem to be much point in our running around and disturbing people when we haven’t got a clue about the background. For Christ’s sake, all we know so far is her name. Not much more than that, in any case.’
‘Very true,’ said Jung. ‘So what do you reckon we should do?’
‘Go home and get some sleep,’ said Rooth, after a split second’s thought. ‘I expect we’ll be spending all tomorrow knocking on doors around here, so no doubt we’ll get to know the place pretty well.’
Inspector Jung realized that for once, he was in full agreement with his colleague, and after having emptied his bladder of all that coffee and tea and more coffee — plus a tiny little glass of plum brandy fru Paraskevi had insisted on — in a well-hidden corner of the courtyard, they went back to the car.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Reinhart. ‘But as I’m sure you realize, this business has created an awful lot of work for us.’
‘No problem,’ said Egon Traut accommodatingly. ‘I’ve rung the missus and told her I’ll be coming home tomorrow instead.’
He tapped the breast pocket of his jacket, where the top part of a mobile telephone was sticking up. Münster and Reinhart sat down at the table opposite him, and Reinhart lit his pipe.
‘She’s pretty shaken, my wife is,’ said Traut. ‘But that’s understandable. They weren’t all that close, but a sister is a sister, let’s face it.’
‘Are there any other siblings?’ wondered Münster.
‘Were,’ said Traut. ‘A brother. He died. . Committed suicide, to be honest.’
‘There is every reason to be honest in this situation,’ stressed Reinhart. ‘Your sister-in-law has been brutally murdered, there’s no doubt about that, and we must catch whoever did it.’
‘Of course, obviously,’ Traut hastened to say. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help you get on the right track. .’
He broke off and raised the palms of his hands towards the ceiling, a gesture presumably meant to demonstrate the genuineness of his intentions. Münster regarded him with a feeling of mild distaste. Traut was about the same age as he was, around forty-five, but he looked heavy and bloated. The passage of time had taken its toll on him, but it was hardly as a result of work and hard effort, Münster suspected. More like living the good life. Sitting around doing nothing. Creamy sauces and strong booze. And a minimum of exercise. His red-coloured hair was sparse and lifeless, and combed in an odd sort of way from below his ears and upwards, apparently in a vain and rather pathetic attempt to conceal a well-developed bald patch.
Ah well, Münster thought, it’s not outward appearance that matters.
‘So you live up in Chadow,’ said Reinhart. ‘What brought you down here to Maardam?’
Traut cleared his throat and began to explain.
‘I was just passing through,’ he said. ‘On business. I usually make a little trip to Groenstadt and Bissenhof and other places around there at this time of year. Usually two or three days — it’s important to be in personal contact with your customers, that’s something I’ve never doubted. There are those who think that-’
‘What exactly is your business?’ interrupted Münster.
‘Optical display stands,’ said Traut with a professional half-smile. ‘I sell them to opticians and spectacle shop chains all over the country. My firm is called GROTTENAU, and it’s doing pretty well, though I say so myself. . Anyway, I went by car as usual, and I’d promised my old lady that on the way home I’d call in on her sister. She was a bit worried because she hasn’t heard anything from her for over a month. I did so, of course — blood is thicker than water after all — and when I realized that there didn’t seem to be anybody at home in the flat in Moerckstraat today either, I began to suspect that there was something wrong. .’
‘Why?’ wondered Reinhart. ‘They might have been at the cinema, or somewhere else.’
‘True enough,’ said Traut, digging out a cigarette. ‘Of course. But as she hadn’t answered the phone for such a long time and wasn’t at home this evening, I thought I ought to look into the situation. Try to get to the bottom of it while I was on the spot anyway. And the rest you know.’
He lit the cigarette and leaned back.
‘Tell us about Martina Kammerle,’ said Reinhart.
Traut inhaled deeply, coughed and looked worried.
‘Huh, what can one say?’ he said. ‘We didn’t have a lot of contact, as I said. None at all, really. I don’t think I’ve met her more than four or five times, ever, even though I’ve been married to her sister for twenty-three years. . Time passes, that’s one thing there’s no doubt about. She was a bit odd, Martina. Ill, in fact — you ought to be clear about that.’
‘Ill in what way?’ asked Münster.
‘Her psyche,’ said Traut, making a vague gesture in the direction of his own head as if to indicate where in the body the psyche was to be found. ‘Manic depressive, as it’s called. She’s suffered from it all her life. Spent time in care homes a few times, although that was quite a long time ago. .’