The Stranglers Honeymoon (31 page)

‘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 his 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.

Good God, he thought. Let’s hope she doesn’t wake up. She could be damaged for life.

He carefully manoeuvred the pram further in among the bookshelves, but realized that the space between them was too narrow to move it into the inner room, which would have made an excellent bedroom: the sheltered corner with maps and crime fiction would have to suffice. If any customers turned up and asked about crime novels, he could always tell them to go to hell. Or to come back on Monday. He fetched his cup of coffee and the Seneca. Sat down on the stair half a metre from the pram and looked at the clock. Five minutes had passed since Marlene had left. What had she said?

Three-quarters of an hour? An hour? He noticed that he had palpitations.

Calm down now, he told himself stoically. What’s the matter with me? It’s only a little baby.

Ten minutes later he had read page thirty-seven of the Lucilian letters no less than four times, Andrea had sighed deeply twice, but nothing else had changed.

The doorbell rang. He swore quietly to himself, and decided not to announce his presence in the shop. Why hadn’t he locked the door and pulled down the blind? And did people really have nothing better to do than to potter around in second-hand bookshops on a rainy afternoon like this one? If they really had to read, surely they could buy a new book or two rather than old ones?

‘Hello?’

It took him half a second to identify the voice.

Inspector Moreno.

He thought briefly. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a woman around. In case anything critical happened. Ewa Moreno had no children of her own, that was true: but then, she was a biological creature, was she not?

Very much biological, it struck him.

‘Yes.’

Her dark-haired head peered round the corner from biographies and miscellaneous.

‘Is that the
Chief Inspector
?’

He didn’t even bother to correct her.

‘It certainly is. Good morning, Inspector, but I think we need to talk rather more quietly. There’s somebody here trying to sleep.’

Moreno came up and looked down into the pram.

‘Good Lord, I didn’t know . . . Who is it?’

‘Andrea,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Who’s that?’

‘My granddaughter. Eighteen months old. An absolute treasure.’

Moreno smiled, then turned serious.

‘Granddaughter? How . . . I mean . . .’

‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Let’s move away a bit so that we don’t wake her up. Maybe I haven’t told you?’

They moved further into the room overlooking the street.

‘No,’ said Moreno. ‘You haven’t mentioned it.’

Van Veeteren took out his cigarette machine, but changed his mind. No doubt it was not good for Andrea to breathe in so much tobacco smoke at such a young age.

‘Yes, she’s Erich’s daughter,’ he said. ‘He managed to leave a trace of his presence on this earth before he died, despite everything. He never saw his daughter, unfortunately, but she’s the one lying over there. I’m babysitting, his mother will be coming to fetch her shortly . . .’

Moreno sat down at the low counter.

‘Good Lord,’ she said. ‘I had no idea. Nor does anybody else, I suspect. It must feel . . . well, how does it feel, in fact?’

Van Veeteren paused for a while before answering.

‘It’s a consolation,’ he said. ‘Of course it’s a consolation, curse it. Life is so damned strange, you don’t realize what’s important and what’s less important until long afterwards. If you’re unlucky, it’s too late when the penny drops, although . . .’

He paused, but Moreno simply nodded and waited for him to continue.

‘Naturally it’s not only your own life that needs to make sense – it never does, of course, and you have to make do with a certain degree of meaningfulness . . . No, the important thing is the bigger perspective, and that little lady in the pram is a part of something much, much bigger than anything an ancient second-hand bookseller could ever dream of . . . Hmm, I’m going gaga.’

Moreno looked at him, and he suddenly wished he was twenty-five years younger. Then he remembered Ulrike, and realized that being over sixty wasn’t such a bad thing either.

‘I’m touched,’ said Moreno. ‘Sorry to mention it, but it’s a fact.’

‘Hmm,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It suits you. But I have the impression you came here for some other purpose. Looking for some Saturday night reading, perhaps?’

Moreno laughed.

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But maybe I can sort that out while I’m here anyway. No, it’s the same old story, in fact. The Kammerle–Gassel case, as we call it, although it makes it sound like a make of motorbike . . . Or some disease or other. Anyway, I thought you might still be interested.’

‘I am,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Very much so.’

‘You weren’t watching the telly last night by any chance, were you?’

‘The telly?’ said Van Veeteren, raising an eyebrow. ‘No. Why should I do that?’

‘Some people do,’ said Moreno.

‘I’m not much of a one for popular entertainment. And I think our set is broken anyway – Ulrike said something about that the other day . . . What programme did you have in mind?’

‘A crime magazine programme. They discussed our case. Hiller was on, and Reinhart as well . . .’

‘Reinhart?’

‘Yes.’

‘The times are out of joint,’ said Van Veeteren.

Moreno pulled a face.

‘For sure,’ she said. ‘They usually are. Anyway, we thought a bit of publicity might help our investigation. It’s been pretty hard going, as you probably know . . .’

‘I’ve suspected as much,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You still have no idea about a possible murderer?’

‘No,’ said Moreno with a shrug. ‘That would be putting it too strongly. But we did get a few reactions to yesterday’s programme – you had a bit to do with that business of the priest, didn’t you?’

Van Veeteren placed a thoughtful hand under his chin and frowned.

‘Well, we’ve found out why he was at the Central Station at that time, for instance. He was going to meet a lover who was due on a train. You recall that Gassel was gay?’

‘I was the one who established that,’ said Van Veeteren modestly.

‘Ah, yes, of course. In any case, this lover turned up at the police station and gave us a detailed confession – that he was on the train, and why, that is.’

‘Really?’ said Van Veeteren, and thought for a moment. ‘And where does that get us?’

‘Not very far, I’m afraid,’ said Moreno. ‘But it’s another piece to add to the puzzle in any case. He had nothing new to tell us about Pastor Gassel. They hardly knew one another, he claimed. They used to meet and, you know, a few times a year, that’s all. It seems that some people are like that.’

‘Evidently,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Did anything else float up to the surface after the police force’s venture into the bottomless pit known as popular entertainment?’

‘A bit,’ said Moreno. ‘But not a lot. One witness claimed to have seen a man running over the tracks at the Central Station that evening. Very helpful to have kept quiet about that for two-and-a-half months, of course . . .’

‘Is he reliable?’

‘She,’ said Moreno. ‘It’s a she. A young woman. At least, that’s what both Reinhart and Krause say, I haven’t spoken to her myself. According to her, this man left the station area and ran off in a northerly direction, towards Zwille in other words; it’s quite easy to get away in that direction. The witness had just left the station building and only saw his back. From twenty metres away, probably more.’

‘In the dark?’ asked Van Veeteren.

‘Semi-dark, at least. There was a certain amount of light there. Not a lot to go on, of course; but I reckon that if anybody still doubted that Gassel was in fact murdered, they can forget that now.’

Van Veeteren contemplated his cigarette machine and scratched himself under his chin.

‘I’ve never doubted that,’ he said. ‘Anyway, a bit of new evidence is better than nothing. I’d better have a word with Ulrike about having the television set repaired. Is Reinhart thinking of doing any repeat performances?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Moreno. ‘To be honest. But we had another interesting tip.’

‘Go on.’

‘A waiter out at Czerpinski’s Mill. He says he served a meal to Monica Kammerle and an elderly man some time around the beginning of September.’

‘
Monica
Kammerle?’

‘Yes. The daughter, not her mother. When he says “elderly man” he means that he was significantly older than the girl. About forty, perhaps. He assumed at the time that it was a father and his daughter.’

‘Description?’

‘Unfortunately not. He can’t remember details. He’s not a hundred per cent sure it was Monica Kammerle either – unfortunately he was on holiday when the papers wrote about it that first time.’

‘Typical,’ said Van Veeteren.