The Strangler's Honeymoon (30 page)

‘Who’s Karen?’

‘A colleague of mine. We’re going to the Canaries after Christmas. Shit, shit, shit! What do we do now, then?’

Anna sighed.

‘Do whatever you like,’ she said. ‘I just think it would be silly to miss the opportunity. But if you don’t have time, you don’t have time. Can’t be helped. How are things with your pilot?’

Ester thought it over while gaping at the television screen: two police officers, one in a blue suit, the other in a crumpled tunic shirt and a yellow scarf, were sitting there, talking to the presenter.

‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘He’s out flying, but we have spoken on the telephone. I’m going to meet him next weekend.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Anna.

‘Yes, he sounded rather charming. But it’s going to be hard for me to fit Keefer’s in, I’m afraid. Can’t you think of some other way of solving the problem?’

Anna seemed to be thinking that over. She was drinking something as well: Ester could hear her swallowing with considerable difficulty.

‘I can’t think of anything else. Maybe we should just leave him to stew.’

Ester thought for a moment.

‘I’ll go and see him if I can fit it in,’ she said. ‘We haven’t yet fixed a time for our cinema jaunt, Karen and me. If I have time, I’ll call in. Okay? But I’m not promising anything.’

‘All right,’ said Anna. ‘Let’s leave it at that. No, I really must go to bed now – I haven’t the strength to carry on talking any longer. Give me a bell and let me know what happened – tomorrow, perhaps? By the way . . .’

‘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 problems. 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.’