The Stranglers Honeymoon

by Håkan Nesser

  Leimaar was also one of the most recently built parts of Maardam, Van Veeteren was aware of that. Not until after the Second World War, in three or four stages: in the fifties, sixties and eighties. Nearly all the buildings were blocks of flats, rather ordinary in appearance: but being on a ridge with views for miles over the plain leading to the sea, it was considered to be one of the more attractive parts of the town. He recalled once having interrogated an elderly woman in a conservatory right at the top of one of the blocks of flats, and making a mental note that Leimaar was one of the places he might consider as a suitable environment in which to spend the autumn of his life.

  But not the vicarage. And he wasn’t yet in the autumn of his life, even if he was well past sixty and it was the beginning of October.

  ‘As I said,’ he began, ‘it’s about Pastor Gassel.’

  The vicar assumed an expression of pious professional sorrow and served coffee.

  ‘Ah yes, Gassel,’ he said. ‘That was a sad story.’

  Van Veeteren waited in order to give him an opportunity of enlarging upon that platitude, but the vicar showed no sign of doing so. Instead he selected a biscuit and began chewing thoughtfully.

  As far as Van Veeteren could tell he was in his fifties, perhaps fifty-five, but there was hardly a wrinkle on his pale face, and his ash-blond hair was parted in a way that made him look like a confirmation candidate. His hands, which only just peeped out of the sleeves of his black priestly jacket, were as smooth as a communion wafer, and Van Veeteren decided provisionally that he was one of those unfortunate people who manage to grow old without looking old. Who have lived so carefully and with such respect for the rules of morality and virtue that time has not succeeded in leaving any traces on their bodies.

  He also wondered if he had ever come across this phenomenon outside the ranks of religious practitioners. Presumably not, he decided: it had to do with Sodom and Gomorrah, of course.

  ‘How long had he been working in your parish?’ he asked after his host had swallowed the biscuit and started looking round for another one.

  ‘Not all that long,’ said Brunner, withdrawing his hand. ‘Just over a year. This was his first post after qualifying – he had studied various other subjects before coming round to theology.’

  He made it sound like a mild but fully justified rebuke.

  ‘I see,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Were you on good terms with him?’

  ‘Of course. There are only three priests in this parish, and we must share out the chores fairly.’

  ‘Chores?’ Van Veeteren took the opportunity of remarking, and a faint glow spread over the vicar’s white-bread cheeks.

  ‘I was joking,’ he said. ‘Yes, we work together every day – or worked – me, Pastor Hartlew and Pastor Gassel. We devote ourselves to quite a lot of social work, which not everybody realizes. Hartlew has been with me since 1992, and Gassel joined us last year when the diocese finally agreed to establish a new living in the parish. I should point out that we take care of forty thousand souls, more than any other parish in Maardam.’

  A hard job, Van Veeteren thought, but refrained from expressing his admiration.

  ‘What was he like?’ he asked instead.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘When I ask what he was like, it means that I would like to know what he was like,’ Van Veeteren explained, tasting the coffee. As expected, and as usual, it was like dishwater. They base all their activities on the drinking of coffee, he thought, but even so they never learn how to make it properly.

  ‘I’m not really sure exactly what you want to know,’ said Brunner. ‘I gather he had been to see you, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘He had a few problems connected with his work.’

  ‘Problems? I don’t think I understand what you—’

  ‘That’s the impression I had. That something had happened in connection with his work.’

  The vicar flung his hands out wide.

  ‘What could that have been?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you. Could you do that again?’

  ‘What? What should I do again?’

  ‘Fling your hands out once again. Forgive me for saying so, but you look like an actor who is being forced to play the same scene for the twentieth time. No offence intended.’

  Brunner opened his mouth for two seconds, then closed it again. Van Veeteren took a biscuit, and congratulated himself on rather a successful opening move.

  ‘What is it you’re actually after?’ asked Brunner when he had recovered. ‘You don’t really have any authorization any more, am I right? You’ve left the police force, haven’t you?’

  ‘True,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Why do you ask? Have you something to hide?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that I think you are acting a bit aggressively. Why should I have anything to hide?’

  ‘God moves in a mysterious way,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But it is quite obvious to me that you are uncomfortable about this conversation. If you asked me to say what I think, I would say that you were not on very good terms with Pastor Gassel. Am I right?’

  Brunner had problems with the colour of his face again.

  ‘We respected each other,’ he said. ‘You must . . . you must understand that to a large extent the work of a parish priest is just like any other job. As vicar, I am of course in charge of everything when it comes to responsibilities and duties . . .’

  ‘So you had different views when it came to beliefs?’

  The vicar thought for a moment.

  ‘In one respect, yes.’

  ‘On something important?’

  Brunner stood up and started walking backwards and forwards around the room.

  ‘Why are you insisting on this?’ he asked after half a minute’s silence. ‘Is it so important for you?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Maybe, maybe not. But the fact is that Pastor Gassel came to me to confess, fundamentally speaking. One might have thought it would have been more natural for him to go to his own vicar. Or at any rate to somebody inside the church’s organization. Personally, I’m a defector, an agnostic detective chief inspector.’

  Brunner stopped.

  ‘What did he want?’ he asked.

  It seemed to occur to him almost immediately that he didn’t really have any right to ask such a question, and he sat down in the armchair again and sighed.

  ‘I never discovered what he wanted,’ explained Van Veeteren. ‘But I had hoped that you might be able to point me in the right direction.’

  ‘I see. Let me think for a moment.’

  Brunner clasped his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. Van Veeteren assumed that in this simple way he was obtaining permission to proceed from a higher authority, and wondered in passing if this might be one of the motives for all religious activities: the need to pass responsibility on to somebody else.

  The unwillingness to bear the burden.

  ‘All right,’ said Brunner in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, opening his eyes. ‘Yes, we had several differences of opinion, Pastor Gassel and I. You are right in that respect.’

  Van Veeteren looked up at the ceiling and gave silent thanks for the praise accorded to him.

  ‘What differences?’ he asked.

  ‘Pastor Gassel was homosexual.’

  ‘Really?’ said Van Veeteren.

  There followed a moment’s silence.

  ‘One can have different views on homosexuality,’ said Brunner.

  ‘Can one?’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘Personally I have a liberal attitude based on biological and Christian points of view.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ wondered Van Veeteren.

  ‘Nobody should be condemned because he – or she – has a deviant sexuality.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘But the person concerned must make the best of the situation. Acknowledging one’s homosexuality is of course a vital and necessary step
– Pastor Gassel and I were in complete agreement on that score. But we had different opinions when it came to the next step.’

  ‘Which is?’ wondered Van Veeteren.

  ‘Fighting against it, of course,’ said the vicar, sitting up straight. ‘There are natural circumstances, and unnatural circumstances, and in the church we must pray for and help those who find themselves in unnatural circumstances. For me, this has always been obvious and a guiding principle. One can perhaps understand individuals who are unable – who don’t have the strength – to fight against their illness: but when a priest doesn’t even understand the importance of fighting against it at all, well, he is on the wrong path. His own illness, and what is more . . . well, perhaps you can understand our different points of view now?’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘I think so. Did you notice anything unusual in Pastor Gassel’s behaviour shortly before his death?’

  The vicar shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not that I can recall, at least.’

  ‘Was he depressed?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Do you know if anything special happened during the autumn or the late summer that might have been traumatic for him?’

  ‘Traumatic? No, I’ve no idea of anything like that. But then we didn’t have the sort of relationship that would lead to him confiding in me, because . . . well, because of what we’ve just been talking about.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I assume you can’t comment on the likelihood of him committing suicide or that sort of thing?’

  ‘When it comes to matters of faith we are not as rigid as the Roman Catholics,’ said Brunner, clearing his throat. ‘Of course it is never right to take your own life: but it is not for us to judge a desperate person who turns to desperate measures . . .’

  ‘If we leave matters of faith to one side,’ said Van Veeteren, ‘would you say it was possible rather than out of the question that Gassel might have committed suicide?’

  The vicar pursed his lips and seemed to be thinking hard.

  ‘I really can’t say,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t think he would have done, of course, and know of nothing that would suggest he might have done. But on the other hand, I can’t exclude the possibility altogether.’

  ‘Do you know if he was in a relationship? Did he live with a partner, for instance?’

  The vicar blushed again.

  ‘A partner? No, certainly not . . . But I have no idea about . . . about that sort of thing.’

  ‘I see. Was it public knowledge in the parish – his deviant sexuality, as you called it?’

  ‘The fact that he was homosexual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope not. It would have come to my notice if it had been, and we had at least come to an agreement that he wouldn’t make a song and dance about it. It’s a very sensitive matter in connection with the teaching of confirmands, and of course it is the vicar who must accept ultimate responsibility. I hope you realize that all this hasn’t been exactly easy for me.’

  No, Van Veeteren thought. You poor thing – you manage to persuade the diocese to award you an extra post, and you end up with a clockwork orange. It must be a bit annoying, to be sure.

  But hardly so annoying that the vicar would feel it necessary to dispatch Gassel into the Twilight Zone by shoving him under a train? His face seemed to be too mild and innocent for anything like that.

  ‘So it was because of these little differences of opinion that he was unwilling to go and confess to you? Do you agree to that as a reasonable conclusion to draw?’

  Brunner thought for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the way things were, unfortunately. And I don’t think he would have turned to Pastor Hartlew either. As you know, confession is not a sacrament in our church, but of course there is always the possibility of getting things off one’s chest. In the knowledge that whatever one says will go no further. But I don’t understand why he turned to you, of all people.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Van Veeteren, who saw no point in mentioning Gassel’s Catholic aunt. ‘Does Pastor Hartlew share your views on homosexuality?’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘How was it you put it?’

  ‘Put what?’

  ‘Your views. “A liberal attitude based on biological and Christian points of view,” I think you said.’

  Brunner thought for five seconds

  ‘I don’t remember,’ he said in due course, with a tired shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Even if he didn’t want to talk to the vicar, surely it was quite a long step from that to going to talk to you?’ commented Ulrike Fremdli later that same day. ‘If you have any homosexual traits, you’ve been pretty successful in hiding them from me. But perhaps that wasn’t why he came to see you?’

  ‘Presumably not,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘No, I prefer women, full stop. But joking apart, it’s a hell of an odd coincidence, there’s no getting away from that. Gassel comes to me and asks for help, and a week or so later he’s run over by a train. If he really wanted to take his own life, surely he could have waited a couple of days and got off his chest whatever it was he wanted to say? Or left me out of it in the first place? And for Christ’s sake, you don’t just happen to fall off a railway platform by mistake.’

  ‘Was he drunk?’

  ‘Not even half a pint of beer in his blood, according to Moreno.’

  ‘And you had no indication of what it was all about? When he came to see you, I mean.’

  ‘Not as far as I remember,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘That’s what’s so damned annoying, the fact that I don’t remember. I think he said something about a woman . . . a woman who had confided in him, I assume. And he’d promised to say nothing about it, and above all not to go to the police. I had the impression that he was afraid something would happen: but that could be something that came to me with hindsight . . . There again, I’m pretty sure he did say something to that effect. Something would happen, if precautions were not taken . . . Bloody hell!’

  Ulrike lifted Stravinsky up from the sofa and started tickling him under his chin.

  ‘But he wasn’t the one who was in danger?’

  ‘Not as I understood it. I suppose we could find out if he’d noted down who had come to confess to him – but for Christ’s sake, I’m not in the police force any more, isn’t that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ulrike. ‘As far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Damn and blast, I don’t think I can just ignore this business.’

  Ulrike put Stravinsky down on the floor and leaned against him on the sofa. Sat quietly for a few seconds, stroking the veins on the back of his hand.

  ‘What alternatives do you have?’

  Van Veeteren sighed.

  ‘A few names, for instance,’ he said. ‘People who knew him. And also a nasty feeling that if I don’t continue to poke away at this business, nothing much will happen. It’s not good, wandering around with a dead priest on your conscience . . . Anyway, I suppose we can wait and see if anything occurs to me.’

  ‘I expect it will,’ said Ulrike. ‘If I know you right.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’ said Van Veeteren.

  MAARDAM

  NOVEMBER 2000

  12

  Sunday 5 November 2000, was the day when a sneeze threatened to ruin Egon Traut’s marriage.

  At least, that gloomy prospect hovered over him for several long hours in the evening, and there is after all a certain difference between a grim outlook and ruins.

  Egon Traut was a self-employed businessman. He had a firm making and selling display stands for opticians and shops selling spectacles. The factory was located in Chadow, where he also lived in a spacious, hacienda-inspired villa with his wife and five children, of whom two had flown the nest (for most of the time, at least), two were twins in their teens (and quite a handful), and the fifth (an afte
rthought called Arnold) suffered from Hörndli’s syndrome and was autistic.

  The firm was called GROTTENAU, an anagram of his own name, and at the end of the eighties and throughout the nineties it had slowly but surely increased its market share, at first in Chadow, then in the surrounding area, and eventually the whole country – to such an extent that by the beginning of the new millennium it claimed sixty per cent of the whole cake. In opticians’ circles F/B GROTTENAU was, if not a concept, then at least a name associated with expertise, quality and reliable delivery.

  Since 1996 Egon Traut had employed a staff of four. Three of them worked on the production of the display stands in Chadow’s new industrial estate, and the fourth dealt with the paperwork. The last was Betty Klingerweijk, who was exactly ten years younger than he was, and owned a pair of breasts that sometimes kept him awake at night, unable to expunge their image from his head.

  When he was lying in the matrimonial bed, that is. It sometimes happened that, instead, he was in the same bed as the aforementioned breasts, and on those (unfortunately all too sporadic) occasions, of course, he did not need to worry about expunging them from his head. On the contrary. Getting them into his head (via his mouth) was something he was only too happy to spend time and effort on. Betty Klingerweijk had been his lover for rather more than three years by this time, and she was the one who sneezed so unfortunately on this rainy November Sunday.

  It happened on the motorway between Linzhuisen and Maardam: they were on the way home from a three-day sales trip in the southern provinces, and Traut had just rung his wife on his mobile to ask her for some information.

  ‘What was that?’ asked his wife.

  ‘What was what?’ said Traut.

  ‘That noise. It sounded like somebody sneezing.’

  ‘Eh? . . . I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘You don’t have somebody in the car with you, do you?’

  ‘No. Why should I have?’

  ‘That’s a good question. It sounded like a woman sneezing in any case.’

  ‘How odd. Perhaps there was somebody on the line.’