Hour of the Wolf (17 page)

Reinhart nodded. Clambered down from the road, bent over the body and studied it for a few seconds.

‘Blood,’ said Joensuu without turning round. ‘There’s blood on the sheet. And on her head. Somebody’s clocked her one there.’

Reinhart stood up and clenched his fists in his pockets. The sheets – for there seemed to be two – were stained not only by soil and dirt: there was a series of stripes and drops of blood over one of her shoulders, and as Kellermann had said, her hair on the left side of her head and face was clogged with something that could hardly be anything else but blood.

Although he supposed it could possibly be brain substances.

Two more cars arrived. Reinhart greeted Intendent Schultze, who weighed 120 kilos and was acting head of the scene-of-crime team.

‘It’s snowing,’ he said grimly. ‘That’s a damned nuisance. We’ll have to set up a canopy.’

Reinhart stayed there for a while and watched Schultze’s assistants hammering thin metal poles into the soft ground, then stretching a thin sheet of canvas a metre over the body. He wished them good luck with their analyses and went to the bus. Told Kellermann to go and help Joensuu and to cordon off the scene of the crime.

And also to do whatever they could to assist Schultze and his men.

Moreno seemed to have already squeezed out of the bus driver and his passengers what little contribution they could make. They had travelled past in the bus, and one of them had happened to see the body, that was about it. After checking their names and addresses, Reinhart told them they could continue on their way. But a bit of a palaver ensued, since none of the women wished to continue to Keymer Church – the service was already under way – and eventually Vlaarmeier rolled over and agreed to turn the bus round and take them back to Kaustin instead.

The timetable had gone to pot ages ago anyway, and there were no other passengers to take into consideration. There never were on a Sunday.

Half an hour later Reinhart and Moreno also left the scene. They had with them a record of the first oral report from Schultze: the dead victim was a red-headed woman of average height, round about thirty-five years old. She had been killed by several blows to the side and back of the head, probably during the night or in the early hours of the morning. It couldn’t have been any later than four a.m. in view of the state of rigor mortis. She was completely naked, apart from the two sheets she had been wrapped up in, and it seemed highly likely that the body had been dumped on the verge from a car. Nothing that could be of value for the investigation had been found, but the scene-of-crime team were still creeping around and searching, and would continue to do so for several more hours yet.

Both underneath and around the canopy that had been set up.

Just as Reinhart and Moreno were clambering into their car, the green body bag was being lifted into another car for transport to the Forensic Laboratory in Maardam. No unauthorized spectators had turned up at the scene, and the few cars that had passed by during these godforsaken Sunday hours had been waved on authoritatively by Joensuu or Kellermann. Or both.

The snow continued to fall.

‘The first of Advent,’ said Reinhart. ‘It’s the first of Advent today. A nice setting. We ought to light a candle.’

Moreno nodded. The thought occurred to her that Good Friday and death on the cross might be more appropriate; but she said nothing. She turned her head and looked out over the barren landscape and the occasional large snowflakes drifting down over the dark soil. Grey. Only shades of grey for as far as the eye could see. And hardly any light. She’d intended to have a lie-in this morning. Then sit up in bed with a newspaper, and spend two hours over breakfast. Go for a swim in the afternoon.

Had intended. That’s not the way things turned out. She would have to spend the day working instead. All day, most probably: especially if they succeeded in identifying the dead woman. Interrogations and interviews with her nearest and dearest. Questions and answers. Tears and despair. It wasn’t especially difficult to see the whole thing in her mind’s eye. While Reinhart led the way over the narrow, wet road, muttering and cursing to himself, she began to hope that they wouldn’t find out who she was . . . That the anonymous dead woman would remain anonymous for a few more hours. A whole day, even. It was probably a thought that would make things easier for those nearest and dearest, whoever they might be; but hardly compatible with her work as a detective officer. It didn’t fit in with the long-established rule that the first few hours of an investigation were always the most important ones – fitted in better, much better, she had to admit, with a vague hope that she might be able to spend a few hours at the swimming baths in the afternoon despite everything.

It was wrong to falsify one’s motives, Moreno thought with a sigh. That had been one of
The Chief Inspector
’s favourite sayings, one she found it impossible to forget. Why is it that I always want to take a shower after looking at a dead body? she wondered out of the blue. Especially if it had been the body of a dead woman. Must have something to do with empathy . . .

‘I wonder why he left her there,’ said Reinhart, interrupting her train of thought. ‘In the middle of this flat plain. It would make more sense to have hidden her up in the forest instead.’

Moreno thought that one over.

‘Maybe he was in a hurry.’

‘Could be. In any case, there must surely be blood in his car. He must have had a car. If we can find it, there must be proof of his guilt there. What do you think?’

‘Nothing at all at the moment,’ said Moreno with a shrug.

‘We can always hope,’ said Reinhart. ‘Hope that her husband, or whoever it was that did it, has rung to confess. It seems to be . . . Yes, I have the feeling that he’s sitting in Krause’s office at this very moment.’

‘You think so?’ said Moreno.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Reinhart. ‘Sitting there, waiting for us. Hungover and half crazy . . . Saturday night, a bit too much to drink . . . A quarrel, some infidelity, and then he appears with the iron in his hand. Yes, the poor bastards. You have to feel sorry for the human race.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Moreno. ‘Perhaps we ought to light a candle.’

There was no killer waiting for them, either in Krause’s office or anywhere else in the police station. Nor did anybody report a missing woman with red toenails and red hair during the next few hours. At half past one Reinhart and Moreno received a set of photographs from the scene of the crime, and shortly afterwards came a rather more detailed report from the doctors and forensic officers.

The dead woman was 172 centimetres tall and weighed 62 kilos. She had dark red hair, both on her head and round her pudenda; she had never given birth, but she had partaken of sexual intercourse in close proximity to the murder.
Before the murder
, thought both Reinhart and Moreno without needing to discuss the matter. There was a lot of sperm in her vagina – another piece of certain proof for when they caught the perpetrator. Freeze the sperm and run a DNA test. Mind you, it didn’t necessarily follow that they were the same person of course – the man who had sex with her not long before she died, and the man who made sure that she did. Die. But of course it was highly likely that the two were identical. That was the view of both Reinhart and Moreno.

Healthy teeth and no obvious distinctive features. She had been killed by three heavy blows to the side of her head and one to the back of it. The relatively large amount of blood was due to the fact that one of the blows to the side of her head had split an artery in her temple. The location of the murder was unknown, but it was definitely not the place where she was found. The exact time of death could not yet be established for certain, but it appeared to be somewhere between two o’clock and four o’clock in the early hours of Sunday morning. No clothes or belongings had been discovered at the place where the body was found, nor any other objects. The alcohol content in the woman’s blood was 1.56 per thousand.

‘She was drunk, then,’ said Reinhart. ‘Let’s hope that made it less horrendous for her. Fucking hell.’

Moreno put down the report from the Forensic Laboratory.

‘We’ll get a more detailed report this evening,’ said Reinhart. ‘Meusse is pulling out all the stops. Shall we take a few hours off?’

By the time Moreno set off on foot for the swimming baths in Birkenweg, the snow had turned into rain. Dusk was beginning to descend over the town, even though it was only three o’clock, and she thought once again about what Reinhart had said about lighting a candle.

But when she saw the body of that unknown woman lying out at Korrim in her mind’s eye, it seemed to her that she preferred the darkness.

It was one of those days, she decided. A day that couldn’t cope with opening up properly. Or a day when she herself couldn’t cope with opening up properly. A day that could be survived best by keeping your senses and consciousness as much in the dark as possible, leaving only narrow cracks through which to communicate with reality.

One of those days. Or perhaps it was the time of year?

The life of an oyster, she thought as she opened the heavy entrance door of the swimming baths. I wonder what her name was. I wonder if she could have been me.

19

‘He’s in here with me,’ said Krause. ‘We’ve just got back.’

‘Who?’ asked Reinhart. ‘From where?’

‘Andreas Wollger,’ said Krause. ‘Her husband. Identification positive.’

Reinhart stared at the telephone. Then he stared at the clock. It was two minutes past eight, it was Monday morning.

‘Have you found the man who did it and not informed me?’

Krause coughed down the line.

‘Not the man who did it. Her husband. He’s here in my office, with Probationer Dobbermann. He’s not feeling very well – we’ve just been to the Forensic Laboratory and had a look at her. There’s no doubt. Her name’s Vera Miller.’

‘Vera Miller?’ said Reinhart. ‘Why are you only ringing now? How can you be certain that he wasn’t the man holding the iron?’

‘The iron?’ wondered Klause.

‘Or whatever the hell it was . . . How do you know he’s not the one?’

He could hear Krause shifting a piano over his office floor. Or perhaps it was just a sigh.

‘It’s only eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘Wollger turned up at a quarter to seven and we drove straight out to take a look at her. Does the chief inspector intend to come to my office and talk to him, or is he going to continue to interrogate me over the telephone? Besides, I’m pretty sure there was no iron involved.’

He’s getting cheeky, Reinhart thought after he’d hung up. Constable Krause.

The suggestion that Wollger wasn’t feeling very well was a perfectly correct observation on Krause’s part. When Reinhart entered the room he was sitting stiffly erect on a chair with his hands clenched in his lap. Staring straight ahead with a vacant expression on his face, with Probationer Elise Dobbermann standing by his side, looking as if she had no idea what to do next. She was wearing the latest – not especially inspired – uniform issued to women police officers. It occurred to Reinhart that he was glad he wasn’t a woman. At least, not a female police officer at uniform level.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Herr Wollger, I’m Chief Inspector Reinhart.’

He held out his hand. After a few seconds Wollger stood up and shook it. Then he sat down again and resumed staring into the void. Reinhart remained standing, looking at him: this didn’t seem to disturb Wollger. Quite a tall, well-built man, barely forty years old, in Reinhart’s judgement. Jeans, dark blue polo shirt, crumpled grey jacket. Rather a large head, beginning to go bald. Eyes pale behind metal-framed spectacles. Signs of weakness in his mouth and chin.

He didn’t do it, was Reinhart’s first reaction.

But one shouldn’t jump to conclusions, was his second.

‘Are you up to answering a few simple questions?’

‘Questions?’ said Wollger.

‘Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?’

Wollger shook his head.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Reinhart and took Probationer Dobbermann to one side. Lowered his voice and asked her about the situation in general. She replied in a whisper that Wollger had drunk some juice and half a cup of coffee at the Forensic Laboratory after having seen his wife’s dead body. But she hadn’t got many words out of him. Neither before nor after the identification. Neither her nor Krause. Reinhart nodded and asked her to go and fetch Dr Schenck from his office on the ground floor. Then he turned back to herr Wollger.

‘I’m afraid I need to gather some information. Then a doctor will come and make sure that you can have a good rest. Your name is Andreas Wollger, is that right?’

Wollger nodded.

‘I’d be grateful if you would answer in words.’

‘Yes, I’m Andreas Wollger.’

‘Your wife has been the victim of a terrible accident. You have just identified her as’ – he checked with his notebook – ‘Vera Miller. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s your address?’

‘Milkerweg 18.’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘No.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Three years.’

‘What’s your job?’

‘I’m unemployed.’

‘For how long?’

‘Six months.’

‘And before that?’

‘Zinder’s Industries. They closed down.’

Reinhart nodded and fumbled for his pipe and tobacco. Zinder’s used to make components for mobile phones, if he remembered rightly. Forced out of business by the Japanese. Or possibly the Koreans.

‘And your wife?’

‘Her job, do you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s a nurse.’

‘What were you doing last Saturday evening?’

‘I was having dinner with a good friend.’

‘Where?’

‘At the Mefisto restaurant.’

‘In Lofters Plejn?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was your wife with you?’

‘My wife was attending a course.’

‘What sort of a course?’

‘For nurses. She’s a nurse.’

‘At which hospital?’