Hour of the Wolf (6 page)

Nobody had. It was a quarter past five on Saturday afternoon, and there were better times for small talk and speculations.

‘Okay, we’ll meet again for a couple of hours tomorrow morning,’ Reinhart reminded them. ‘If nothing else the fingerprints should be sorted out by then. Not that there’s likely to be any that will be of use to us. But let’s hope we get a bit more info from Meusse and the forensic boys in any case. By the way . . .’

He took the photographs out of the yellow folder once again and eyed them for a few seconds.

‘Does anybody think they recognize him?’

Jung and Rooth looked at the pictures and shook their heads. Moreno frowned for a moment, then sighed and shrugged.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘There might be something there I recognize, but I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘Okay,’ said Reinhart. ‘Let’s hope the penny drops. There’s no denying that it’s an advantage if you know who the victim is. That applies to all types of investigation. Here’s wishing all my colleagues a perfect Saturday evening.’

‘Thank you, and the same to you,’ said Moreno.

‘The first of many,’ said Rooth.

‘Can I offer you a beer?’ asked Rooth a quarter of an hour later. ‘I promise not to rape you or to make advances.’

Ewa Moreno smiled. They had just emerged from the main entrance of the police station, and the wind felt like an ice machine.

‘Sounds tempting,’ she said. ‘But I have a date with my bathtub and a third-rate novel – I’m afraid it’s binding.’

‘No hard feelings,’ Rooth assured her. ‘I also have a pretty good relationship with my bathtub. She’s as bad at the tango as I am, so I assume we’ll end up together again. It makes sense to make the best of what you’ve got.’

‘Wise words,’ said Moreno. ‘Here comes my bus.’

She waved goodbye and scampered over the parking area. Rooth checked his watch. He might just as well go back in and sleep in his office, he thought. Why the hell should anybody want to go wandering around out of doors at this time of year? Sheer madness.

Nevertheless, he started walking towards Grote Square and his tram stop, wondering how long it was since he’d last cleaned his bathtub properly.

Well, it certainly wasn’t yesterday, he decided.

7

The phone call came at 07.15 on Sunday morning, and it was Constable Krause who took it. He thought at first that it was a strange time to ring the police – especially as he began to suspect what it was all about and that she must have been holding back for at least four days – but then he gathered from her voice that she couldn’t have had very many hours’ sleep during that time. If any.

So perhaps it wasn’t all that odd.

‘My name’s Marlene Frey,’ she began. ‘I live in Ockfener Plejn, and I want to report a missing person.’

‘I have a pen in my hand,’ said Krause.

‘It was last Tuesday evening,’ explained Frey. ‘He said he was just going out to see to something. He promised he’d be back later in the evening, but I haven’t heard from him since and he doesn’t usually . . . It’s not like him to—’

‘Hang on a minute,’ interrupted Krause. ‘Could you please tell me who it is you are referring to? His name and appearance, what he was wearing, that sort of thing.’

She paused, as though she was composing herself. Then he heard her take a deep breath, heavy with anxiety.

‘Yes, of course, forgive me,’ she said. ‘I’m rather tired, I haven’t slept a wink . . . Not for several nights, I’m afraid.’

‘I understand,’ said Constable Krause, and then he received all the details he needed. It took two minutes at most, but after the call was completed Krause remained seated at his desk for five times as long, staring at the information he had written down and trying to make sense of it.

When he was forced to accept that this was not possible, he picked up the phone again and rang Chief Inspector Reinhart.

Synn put her hand over the receiver for a moment before handing it to Münster. Mouthed a name, but he couldn’t make it out. He forced himself up into a half-sitting position, and took the receiver.

‘Reinhart here. How are things?’

‘Thanks for asking,’ said Münster. ‘It’s been quite a while.’

‘Are you still in bed?’ Reinhart asked.

‘It’s Sunday,’ Münster pointed out. ‘It’s not even nine o’clock yet. What’s on your mind?’

‘Something bloody catastrophic has happened,’ said Reinhart. ‘I need your help.’

Münster thought for a couple of seconds.

‘Are you
that
short of staff?’ he asked. ‘I’m still tied up with that inquiry, have you forgotten that? I won’t be back at work until February at the earliest.’

‘I know,’ said Reinhart.

‘What’s it all about, then?’

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Chief Inspector Reinhart cleared his throat and explained what had happened.

‘Hell’s bells!’ said Münster. ‘I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour. Of course I shall help.’

‘Let’s take the long way there,’ said Reinhart. ‘I need a bit of time.’

‘So do I,’ said Münster. ‘How did it happen?’

‘A heavy blow to the head,’ said Reinhart. ‘Manslaughter or murder, probably the latter.’

‘When?’

‘Tuesday, it seems.’

‘Tuesday? It’s Sunday today.’

‘They only found him yesterday. He didn’t have any papers on him that could identify him. I thought I recognized him, but I’ve only ever seen him once or twice . . . Anyway, that woman rang this morning to report him missing. She’s already been to identify him. There’s no doubt about it, unfortunately.’

Münster said nothing, studied the movement of the windscreen wipers.

Oh hell! he thought. Why did something like this have to happen? What’s the point?

He knew they were futile questions, but the fact that they always cropped up might indicate something even so. Something to do with hope and positivism. A sort of refusal to surrender to the powers of darkness? Perhaps that was a way of looking at it, perhaps that was how one should interpret that eternal
why
.

‘Have you had much contact with him lately?’ Reinhart asked when they had crossed the river and started to approach the high-rise apartment buildings out at Leimaar.

Münster shrugged.

‘A bit,’ he said. ‘About once a month. We usually have a beer now and again.’

‘No badminton?’

‘Twice a year.’

Reinhart sighed deeply.

‘How is he?’

‘Not too bad, I think. So far. He’s found himself a woman as well.’

Reinhart nodded.

‘I’m grateful to you for agreeing to join me.’

Münster made no reply.

‘Bloody grateful,’ said Reinhart. ‘I don’t know if I’d be able to cope with it on my own.’

Münster took a deep breath.

‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer. Have you rung to check that he’s at home?’

Reinhart shook his head.

‘No. But he’s at home all right, I can feel it. This isn’t something we can avoid.’

‘No,’ said Münster. ‘We can’t. Nor can he.’

There was a shortage of parking places around Klagenburg. After circling the block a few times Reinhart finally found a space on the corner of Morgenstraat and Ruyder Allé, but they had to walk a couple of hundred metres through the rain before they were able to ring the bell on the door of number four.

At first there was no reaction from inside; but after a second more insistent ring, they could hear somebody coming down the stairs. Before the door opened, Münster noted that despite the wet conditions his mouth was absolutely dry, and he began to wonder if he would be in a fit state to force even a single word past his lips. The door opened slightly.

‘Good morning,’ said Reinhart. ‘May we come in?’

Van Veeteren was dressed in something dark blue and red that presumably was – or had been – a dressing gown, and something brown that was certainly a pair of slippers. He didn’t look as if he had just woken up, and was carrying a newspaper folded up under his arm.

‘Reinhart?’ he exclaimed in surprise, and opened the door wide. ‘And Münster? What the hell?’

‘Yes,’ Münster managed to utter, ‘you can say that again.’

‘Come in,’ said Van Veeteren, gesturing with the newspaper. ‘All this bloody rain is a pain. What’s the matter?’

‘Let’s sit down first,’ said Reinhart.

They all walked up the stairs, the visitors were ushered into the cosy-looking living room and flopped down into armchairs. Van Veeteren remained standing. Münster bit his lip and plucked up courage.

‘It’s your son,’ he said. ‘Erich. I’m sorry, but Reinhart says he’s been murdered.’

Looking back, he was convinced that he’d closed his eyes as he said that.

8

When Jung and Rooth parked outside the Trattoria Commedia at about two o’clock on Sunday afternoon it had stopped raining for the moment. Two forensic officers were still working on the abandoned Peugeot, supervised by Inspector le Houde: the car had been cordoned off by red-and-white police tape, as had the spot where the body was found some ten metres away. Plus a narrow corridor between the two. Rooth paused and scratched his head.

‘What do they think they’ll find in the car?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘He’d had it on loan for a few months from that jailbird mate of his – maybe he’s involved as well in some way?’

‘It can’t have been Elmer Kodowsky who bashed his head in,’ said Rooth. ‘He hasn’t been out on parole for eight weeks – it would be hard to get a better alibi than that.’

‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Jung. ‘Shall we go in and attack the barman then, or do you intend standing here and searching for nits a bit longer?’

‘I’ve finished now,’ said Rooth. ‘God, but I don’t like this bloody business. I don’t like it when crimes affect one of us. Somebody like VV should have the right to immunity, for fuck’s sake.’

‘I know,’ said Jung. ‘Don’t go on about it. Let’s go in and do our job, then we can go for a coffee somewhere.’

‘All right,’ said Rooth. ‘I’m with you there.’

The barman’s name was Alois Kummer, and he looked anything but happy.

He was young, suntanned and athletic-looking, so Jung didn’t really understand why. They sat down opposite him in the bar, which was deserted – as long as no customers turned up they might just as well sit here and talk. Both Jung and Rooth agreed on that, and apparently herr Kummer as well, as he made no objection.

‘So you were on duty last Tuesday evening, is that right?’ Jung began.

‘Only until nine o’clock,’ said Kummer.

‘Let’s concentrate on that time,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you have many customers?’

Kummer displayed his teeth. They looked strong and healthy, and presumably were expressing an ironic grin.

‘How many?’ asked Jung.

‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘At most. Can I get you anything?’

Jung shook his head. Rooth laid out the photographs on the counter.

‘What about this person?’ he asked. ‘Was he there? Don’t answer until you’re sure.’

The barman studied the pictures for ten seconds, pulling at his earring.

‘I believe so,’ he said.

‘You believe so?’ echoed Rooth, ‘Are you religious?’

‘I like it,’ said Kummer. ‘Yes, he was here. He sat eating at one of the tables through there. I didn’t pay much attention to him.’

‘At what time?” asked Jung.

‘Between five and six, or thereabouts . . . Yes, he left at about a quarter past six, just before Helene arrived.’

‘Helene?’ said Jung.

‘One of the girls in the kitchen.’

‘Have you got something going with her, then?’ Rooth wondered.

‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’ said Kummer, starting to look annoyed.

‘You never know,’ said Rooth. ‘Life is a tangle of remarkable connections.’

Jung coughed and changed the subject.

‘Was he alone, or was there anybody else with him?’ he asked.

‘He was on his own,’ said Kummer without hesitation.

‘All the time?’ Rooth asked.

‘All the time.’

‘How many diners did you have altogether? Between five and six o’clock, that is.’

Kummer thought for a moment.

‘Not many,’ he said. ‘Four or five, perhaps.’

‘It doesn’t seem to be high season just now, does it?’ said Rooth.

‘Would you like to play golf in weather like this?’ Kummer wondered.

‘Golf?’ said Rooth. ‘Isn’t that a sort of egg-rolling on a lawn?’

Kummer made no reply, but the tattoo on his forearm twitched.

‘He didn’t come over here to sit in the bar, then?’ said Jung, trying to get the interview back on course. ‘For a drink or whatever?’

Kummer shook his head.

‘How many were there in the bar?’

‘Two or three, perhaps . . . I don’t recall for certain. One or two customers popped in and only stayed for a couple of minutes, I think. As usual.’

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘When he left – this lone diner, that is – you didn’t notice if anybody followed him, did you? Very soon afterwards, I mean?’

‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘How the hell would I be able to remember that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jung. ‘But the fact is that he was killed out there in the car park only a few minutes after leaving here, so it would help us a lot if you could try to remember.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ Kummer assured them.

‘Excellent,’ said Rooth. ‘We don’t want to demand the impossible of you. Is there anything at all that evening that you recall? Something that was different, somehow or other? Or remarkable?’

Kummer pondered again.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘No, everything was as usual. It was pretty quiet.’

‘Had he ever been here before, this person?’ asked Jung, tapping his pen on the photographs.

‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘Not while I’ve been working here, at any rate.’

‘You seem to have a good memory for faces.’

‘I usually remember people I’ve met.’

‘How long have you been working here?’

‘Three months,’ said Kummer.

Rooth noticed a bowl of peanuts a bit further along the bar counter. He slid off his chair, and went to take a handful. The bartender observed him with a sceptical frown. Jung cleared his throat.