The Stranglers Honeymoon

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If you do go there and discover that he looks awful, just turn round and leave the premises.’

  She coughed again. Ester laughed.

  ‘You bet I will!’ she said. ‘There must be a reason why he refuses to send you a photo.’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Anna. ‘But you never know.’

  She hung up. Ester remained seated on the sofa for a while, thinking. She felt for the remote control – the bit about the strangler had come to an end, and they were now discussing the drugs situation in big cities versus small towns and rural areas instead. She switched off. She finished off her gin and tonic, and decided that it was time to go to bed, even though it was nowhere near eleven o’clock yet.

  No, she thought. Red tie and red Eliot? I don’t fancy that at all.

  Karen deBuijk called in at her office on Friday morning, and in only a few minutes they drew up plans for that evening. It wasn’t all that complicated.

  First a drink at Ester’s at about seven o’clock, and perusal of what was on in the various cinemas. Then a film – probably at Cinetec or Plus 8, which had eighteen auditoriums between them. Then a bite to eat and a drink somewhere – and then they would see what was on offer after that. No point in cramping their style in advance, as it were.

  She had finished her weekly reports by soon after four o’clock. She left the administration block of the hospital and drove out to Merckx in order to do some well-organized shopping for a change. It took her an hour, and lowered her irritation threshold very considerably. But that’s life, she decided when she was finally able to clamber into her Peugeot in the gigantic parking area outside the shopping centre. I’m not made for supermarkets, and will just have to accept the fact.

  Were any human beings made for supermarkets?

  She switched on the car radio as she drove towards the town centre. A brief weather forecast informed her that it was plus two degrees, raining, and would continue to rain for the foreseeable future; and that a westerly wind was blowing at about ten metres per second.

  She thought about Anna, and it occurred to her that if you wanted to catch flu, Maardam at this time of year was the ideal place to be.

  Just how true this was became clear to her when Karen rang at a quarter to seven, and sounded as if she had lost three litres of blood and ended up under a refrigerator.

  ‘I’m ill,’ she groaned. ‘Can’t make it.’

  ‘You as well?’ said Ester.

  ‘As well?’ said Karen,

  ‘Huh, another friend of mine gave up the ghost yesterday. As it were. It’s on the rampage, this flu epidemic.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Karen, breathing heavily. ‘I could barely manage to walk up the stairs when I got home from work. It’s amazing how quickly it hits you . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Ester. ‘Go to bed. We can go to the pictures some other time.’

  ‘Too right,’ gasped Karen, and replaced the receiver.

  Or dropped it, according to what it sounded like.

  Now what? Ester Peerenkaas thought. What do I do now? All alone on a Friday evening, in the prime of life.

  She checked her watch, and it dawned on her that she would have plenty of time to wander down to Keefer’s restaurant.

  27

  Münster contemplated the man who had just sat down on the visitor chair.

  He was tall and thin. Round about thirty-five, by the look of him, with a narrow, horsey face on which he was trying to grow a sort of reddish-brown beard with limited success. His mouth was thin and indecisive, and his eyes were wandering incessantly behind a pair of metal-framed spectacles.

  ‘Your name?’ asked Münster.

  ‘I would prefer to remain anonymous,’ said the man.

  ‘Your name,’ said Münster again.

  ‘I . . . Mattias Kramer, but I’d prefer it if this . . . if it were possible to . . .’

  ‘To what?’ wondered Münster.

  ‘If this conversation could be treated with discretion. My situation is far from easy.’

  ‘I see,’ said Münster. ‘If you say a little about it, and why you have come here, we can see what we can do about it.’

  Kramer adjusted his spectacles, and swallowed.

  ‘Would you like something to drink? A cup of coffee, perhaps?’

  ‘No thank you. No, that’s not necessary. Can you promise me that what I say won’t be made public? It would be . . . It would be catastrophic for me if my wife got to hear about it.’

  Münster leaned back in his chair and allowed a few seconds to pass.

  ‘I can’t give you any guarantees,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand that. Our duty as a police force is to combat crime, and if you tell me anything that—’

  ‘It’s nothing criminal,’ interrupted Kramer fervently. ‘Certainly not. It’s a private situation, but it would ruin me if . . . well, if it became public knowledge.’

  ‘I see,’ said Münster. ‘Tell me why you have come to see me – I obviously have no desire to make life difficult for you.’

  Kramer cleared his throat and hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Tomas Gassel,’ he said eventually.

  It took a second or two for Münster to recognize the name.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Pastor Gassel, who had an accident in September.’

  ‘Of course. I know about that.’

  ‘I saw something about it on a television programme last night. I’ve been meaning to contact you several times during the autumn, but haven’t been able to raise enough courage. But when I saw the picture of him last night, and heard what they said, I realized that I really must talk to you.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Münster.

  ‘We had a relationship.’

  ‘A relationship?’

  ‘Yes. Tomas was homosexual, I don’t know if you are aware of that.’

  Münster nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We know about that. So you are also homosexual, are you?’

  ‘Bi,’ mumbled Kramer, looking down at the floor. ‘I’m bisexual. That’s much worse.’

  Münster waited. Found a blank page in his notebook and wrote down Mattias Kramer’s name. It was not exactly news that it was more difficult to be bisexual than homosexual, and the way his visitor looked just now confirmed the truth of the matter. He seemed to have no idea how to sit up straight on a chair, was shuffling around non-stop, and he was examining every inch of the floor as if he had dropped something and was desperate to find it.

  ‘I’m married and have a little daughter,’ he said in the end. ‘We live in Leerbach.’

  Münster made a note of that.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  Kramer pulled himself together and straightened his back.

  ‘My wife knows nothing about any of this,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know myself when we got married, it has just sort of crept up on me. I can’t do anything about it, it’s a sort of murky compulsive drive and there is no way I can protect myself from it.’

  ‘I can understand that it is difficult,’ said Münster. ‘So you had a secret relationship with Pastor Gassel?’

  Kramer sighed.

  ‘Yes. We have known each other for about a year – or had known each other, I suppose I ought to say. We met occasionally, and . . . well, it was sufficient for me if I could give vent to my feelings in this respect every other month or so. Or less than that – I don’t expect you to understand me, I’m just giving you the facts.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Münster.

  ‘Whenever I think about it, and about my family, I sometimes get the feeling that I want to put an end to it, once and for all, somehow or other. My only hope is that it will pass. I mean, it didn’t start until I was an adult, so perhaps there’s a chance . . .’

  He fell silent. Münster observed him for a while, thinking things over.

  ‘You don’t need to apologize any more,’ he said. ‘I understand your proble
ms. But perhaps you could explain how you are mixed up in the death of Tomas Gassel instead? That’s presumably why you’ve come here.’

  Kramer nodded several times and adjusted his spectacles again.

  ‘Of course. Sorry. I just wanted you to be clear about the background. Anyway, that evening . . .’

  ‘The second of October?’ asked Münster.

  ‘Yes, the evening he died. I was on my way to meet him. My wife thought I was attending a course, but that wasn’t the case. I was on that train to Maardam in order to meet him.’

  ‘The train that ran him over?’

  ‘Yes. It was horrendous. He was supposed to meet me at the station, and instead . . .’

  His voice started shaking. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.

  ‘Instead, he ended up on the tracks?’ said Münster.

  Kramer nodded and put the handkerchief away. Then he buried his head in his hands for a few seconds before straightening his back and taking a deep breath.

  ‘It was so horrendous,’ he said again. ‘I got off the train. I’d been in one of the rear coaches, and when I stepped down onto the platform and started walking towards the station building I realized immediately that something had happened. People were screaming and running around and bumping into one another . . . And a woman grabbed hold of my arm and wept and told me what had happened.’

  ‘How did you find out that it was Tomas Gassel who was the victim?’

  ‘It took a while. At first I was looking for him among all the crowds of people – he was supposed to be meeting me, after all. And in the end . . . in the end I saw him.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Yes, as they lifted him up off the track. What was left of him. For Christ’s sake . . .’

  Kramer blinked several times like an owl in the sunlight, then buried his head in his hands once more – and Münster could see from his shaking shoulders that he was crying.

  Poor bastard, he thought. How has he managed to survive, for Christ’s sake?

  But perhaps that was what bisexual people had to come to terms with? Surviving. Mind you, they were not the only category of human beings who had to do that.

  He waited until Kramer had pulled himself together. Asked again if he would like a cup of coffee, but received only a shake of the head in reply.

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  Kramer flung his hands out wide.

  ‘What could I do? At first I thought I was going out of my mind, but then all the shutters went up and I didn’t feel anything at all. I found a hotel and checked in for the night. Didn’t sleep a wink. The next day I went back home to Leerbach.’

  ‘And you never thought of getting in touch with us?’

  ‘Of course I did, as I said. I haven’t thought of anything else since it happened. All this horrendous autumn.’

  Münster thought for a while.

  ‘How did you get to know each other?’ he asked. ‘You and Pastor Gassel.’

  Kramer reduced his mouth to a narrow slit as he thought about his response.

  ‘At a club,’ he said. ‘Here in Maardam. There are clubs like that . . . for people like us.’

  His voice had a trace of desperate pride, and Münster could see that in spite of everything, he felt relieved. Coming to the police station and telling them what he knew had somehow endowed him with a degree of human dignity. But it was only a few seconds before he remembered the quandary he was in.

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’ he asked grimly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Münster asked.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ said Münster. ‘I have a few questions for you first. Despite the fact that you were in shock, did you have any thoughts about how your friend ended up on the track under the train?’

  Kramer shook his head.

  ‘No. I have no idea . . . But I saw what they were inferring on that television programme last night. That’s awful – can that really be what was behind it all?’

  ‘We’re far from certain about any such link,’ said Münster. ‘It’s just one of several possibilities.’

  ‘What are the others?’

  ‘Well, only two really,’ said Münster. ‘That he committed suicide. Or that he fell.’

  Kramer livened up.

  ‘He certainly didn’t commit suicide – he would never do that. He knew that I was on that train, he was a strong and considerate person who would never . . . No, it’s out of the question: he would never do anything like that.’

  ‘You are quite sure about that?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ said Kramer. ‘I’ve always taken it for granted that it was an accident . . . That he stumbled, or something of the sort.’

  ‘But did you have any other thoughts, after that television programme last night?’

  Kramer looked confused for a moment.

  ‘Well, yes . . . I suppose you could say that I did. But it sounds so incredible. Why should . . . ? Who would . . . ?’

  ‘He never said anything about feeling threatened, or anything like that?’

  ‘No, certainly not . . . But then we spoke so rarely. Only when we were arranging to meet.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the name Monica Kammerle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or Martina Kammerle?’

  ‘No, certainly not. But we didn’t see much of each other, you must understand that we didn’t have that kind of relationship.’

  ‘Okay, I do understand that,’ said Münster, ‘but I’m asking these questions so that we can exclude certain possibilities, that’s all.’

  ‘I see,’ said Kramer.

  ‘What about Benjamin Kerran?’ asked Münster.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Have you ever heard the name Benjamin Kerran?’

  ‘Never,’ said Kramer.

  Münster paused and leaned back on his chair, his arms crossed.

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’ asked Kramer again when the pause became too long.

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ said Münster. ‘You can go home, and we might get in touch again if we need any more information.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ protested Kramer, looking as if he were about to burst into tears. ‘You promised to be discreet. Can’t I ring you instead?’

  Münster nodded and produced a business card.

  ‘Fair enough. Give me a ring towards the end of next week. But I must ask you to provide me with your address and telephone number, just in case. But you don’t need to worry: I have no intention of making things difficult for you.’

  Kramer sighed in relief. Borrowed paper and pencil and wrote down his contact details.

  ‘Can I go now?’ he asked when he had done that.

  ‘Of course you may,’ said Münster. ‘But I would like to ask you a few questions that are really none of my business.’

  ‘Really?’ said Kramer, looking surprised. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Do you have any more lovers apart from that one? Male lovers, I mean.’

  Kramer stood up and looked as if he was wondering whether to be offended or not.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘And you haven’t acquired any more after Tomas Gassel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you haven’t been unfaithful to your wife since he died?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Kramer. ‘Why are you asking about that?’

  Münster thought for a moment.

  ‘I don’t really know, to be honest,’ he said. ‘Human interest, I suppose. And a certain degree of concern about your family. Anyway, thank you for coming to tell us about this, herr Kramer.’

  He held out his hand. Kramer grasped it with both his and shook it energetically, before hurrying out through the door. Münster leaned back on his chair.

  Huh, he thought. So now we know why the priest was at the station.

  But how does that help us?

  He spun round on hi
s desk chair and looked out of the window. Still no sign of any rain.

  28

  There was a ring on the door, and Van Veeteren woke up with a start.

  He realized he must have dozed off. Remarkable. On his knee was a newly arrived edition of Seneca, which he had been leafing through, and on the arm of his chair – in a special mahogany-lined inlay for this very purpose – was a half-empty cup of coffee. Two portions of coffee to one of Gingerboom’s, if he remembered rightly. Perhaps that was why he had fallen asleep.

  He stood up and looked at the clock: half past eleven, he could hardly have been asleep for more than ten minutes. At most. He went out into the shop: a woman with a pram was on her way in through the door, but it was only when she turned to look at him that it dawned on him who it was.

  Marlene Frey.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Thank God you’re in. I need your help.’

  ‘Really?’ said Van Veeteren, opening the rain canopy slightly and peering down at the baby. ‘Dobidobido, how’s Andrea today, then?’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ said Marlene. ‘But I hope you can keep an eye on her for a while. I have a job interview, and I don’t think it will give a very good impression if I go waltzing in with a baby. That little cow Christa announced a quarter of an hour ago that she was unavailable.’

  ‘Christa?’

  ‘The babysitter. You’re my only hope.’

  ‘Me?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Here?’

  ‘Now,’ said Marlene. ‘I’ve only got five minutes.’

  ‘But . . .’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘I’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour. She’s just eaten and fallen asleep, you don’t need to worry. An hour at most. You can take the blanket off her if you like, there are dry nappies in the basket under the pram if you need to . . . I’m off, see you soon!’

  ‘Bye,’ said Van Veeteren as Marlene rushed out into Kupinskis gränd.

  He looked at the pram, and looked at Seneca which he was still holding in his hand. Put Seneca down. Carefully removed the rain canopy from the pram, folded down the hood and rolled back the blanket. Andrea didn’t move a muscle, slept like a log with her dummy in one side of her mouth and a bubble of saliva in the other.