‘You do it,’ she said. ‘You know our representatives down there better than I do. Shall I look the number up for you?’
‘That’s not necessary,’ said Moreno. ‘I have a good memory for numbers.’
51
The police station in Argostoli was a blue-and-white two-storey building in Ioannis Metaxa, opposite the harbour office. Van Veeteren was escorted by a young, fit-looking constable through a long corridor to a blue door with a handwritten plate saying Dimitrios Yakos. In both Greek and Latin letters.
The constable knocked gently, and after a few seconds the door was opened by a stocky, thin-haired man in his fifties. He had a cigarette in his mouth, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper folded in two in the other. Van Veeteren couldn’t help but wonder how he had managed to manipulate the door handle.
‘Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?’ he said solemnly, and put down what he was carrying. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
Van Veeteren shook hands, and the young constable headed back towards the front desk. Chief Inspector Yakos invited his guest to sit down and apologized eloquently for not being contactable the previous day as he had been busy with a case that needed his presence and full attention: but now he was available one hundred and fifty per cent. Europe is one big town nowadays, isn’t she?
Van Veeteren nodded and accepted a cigarette from a shiny metal case. He looked quickly around the cramped room with barred windows overlooking the street and the harbour, and decided that (apart from the barred windows) it looked more like a sort of student room than an office. A low table with two armchairs. A bookcase with files, books and newspapers. At least twenty framed family portraits on the walls, and a small humming refrigerator from which Yakos produced two cans of beer and opened them dexterously without even bothering to ask.
He was speaking all the time, and Van Veeteren’s worries about possible linguistic problems were put to shame in no uncertain manner. Yakos’s English was almost as fluent as his own — apart from the imagery which was firmly rooted in the Greek cultural traditions — and when Van Veeteren had tasted the beer and sat down in one of the armchairs, he had the distinct impression that everything might click into place despite everything.
After five minutes the chief inspector had completed his introductory monologue concerning his family and professional circumstances. He lit a new cigarette from the butt of the previous one, clasped his hairy hands and contemplated his guest with eager interest.
‘Perhaps you could now explain the nature of your business here. It will be a pleasure to work with you.’
Van Veeteren thought for two seconds.
‘I’m looking for a murderer,’ he said then.
‘Ah,’ said Yakos, smacking his lips slightly as if he had just enjoyed a fresh fig. ‘Here? On the island of donkeys and heroes?’
‘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.