‘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.’
‘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.’