Hour of the Wolf (9 page)

When he got back home, there was a message from Ulrike on the kitchen table. It said that she loved him, and that she would be back by about nine o’clock. He made himself a wine toddy and sat down in the dark living room. Put a Penderecki CD on the hi-fi system, but switched it off after a couple of minutes.

Not words, he thought, and not music either. Erich is dead. Silence.

After three-quarters of an hour, Reinhart rang.

‘How are things?’ he asked.

‘What do you expect?’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Are you on your own?’

‘Just for the time being.’

There was a pause while Reinhart worked out what to say next.

‘Would you like to talk about it? We could meet briefly tomorrow.’

‘Maybe,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ll phone you in that case. Do you know who did it yet?’

‘We have no idea,’ said Reinhart.

‘I want you to find him,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘We shall find him . . . There was another thing as well.’

‘Another thing?’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Marlene Frey. His girlfriend. Have you met her?’

‘I’ve spoken to her on the telephone.’

‘She wants you to get in touch with her,’ said Reinhart.

‘I’ll do that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Of course. Can I ask you to do me a favour?’

‘I’m at your service.’

Van Veeteren hesitated for a few seconds.

‘When you’ve got him . . . When you’ve found the killer, that is . . . I’d like to meet him.’

‘Why?’ Reinhart asked.

‘Because that’s the way things work. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.’

‘All right,’ said Reinhart. ‘Of course. You will meet him face to face, I promise you that.’

‘The sooner, the better,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

‘Thank you. I have faith in you,’ said Van Veeteren.

10

‘I couldn’t care less what else you are busy with,’ said Reinhart. ‘I couldn’t care less if you have to work three hundred hours overtime a week. I couldn’t give a toss whatever you say or think – but this takes priority over everything else!
The Chief Inspector
’s son has been murdered: if somebody shoots the minister of home affairs or somebody rapes the Pope, those cases are mothballed until we’ve solved this one. Is that clear? Have you understood? Does anybody object? In which case he or she had better apply for a move somewhere else without more ado! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Off the record, that is.’

‘I agree,’ said Rooth.

Presumably everybody else did as well. At any rate, nobody spoke up. The atmosphere round the table was already stuffy. Reinhart had managed to cram four extra chairs into his office – there were plenty of larger rooms in the police station of course, but nowhere else where he could smoke to his heart’s content: since their daughter was born he had come to an agreement with his wife only to smoke outside their home.

Anyway, there were seven officers leading the investigation. Inspectors Moreno, Rooth and Jung. Constable Krause, just as young and promising as usual. Intendent deBries and a newly appointed Detective-Sergeant Bollmert, on loan from Aarlach until Intendent Münster returned from his duties in connection with the official inquiry: Münster was taking it easy after being stabbed in the kidney while on duty ten months ago. And working too many long hours.

Plus himself, of course: Chief Inspector Reinhart, as he now was. Although whenever anybody spoke about the chief inspector, they were never referring to him – unless Chief of Police Hiller was trying to be ironic, or even simply amusing.
The Chief Inspector
always meant Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, who had been in charge of the Maardam CID for fifteen years, and its leading light for twice as long as that. But for over two years now he had descended from the Judicial Parnassus in order to freewheel down the path to his retirement as part-owner and shop assistant in Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop in Kupinskis Gränd.

And good luck to him: nobody begrudged him the peace and quiet and the books, and nobody failed to miss him with a mixture of fear and trembling, respect and admiration.

And now he was once again involved in a case.
The Chief Inspector
. In the worst possible way . . . Not as a victim, but very nearly. His son had been murdered. Bloody hell! Reinhart thought. Bloody, fucking hell! Many times during his so-called career he had thought that things couldn’t get any worse, nothing could be worse than this. But what had happened now was indeed worse. More infernally awful that he could ever have imagined.

I must try to suppress my personal fury, he thought. Must try to keep it at arm’s length, otherwise it will only get in the way.

‘We must try to ignore the involvement of
The Chief Inspector
,’ he said. ‘The way in which we are personally involved in this case through him. We must go about things in exactly the same way as we would do in any other case . . . Although we can give it the highest priority, of course. We
must
solve it. Or there’ll be hell to pay. But we must be professional.’

He fumbled around and eventually produced the right sheet of paper from the piles on the table in front of him, and cleared his throat.

‘Erich Van Veeteren was killed by two blows to the head with a blunt instrument. Either of the two blows could have been fatal. Especially the second one, which hit the back of his head, Meusse says . . . He ascribes to it a touch of professionalism. The weapon seems to have been rather heavy . . . Made of metal and with no protruding edges – perhaps a piece of piping or something of the sort. We haven’t recovered it.’

‘A pity,’ said deBries. ‘It would have made things easier.’

Reinhart stared at him for a moment before continuing.

‘Time: Tuesday evening. In view of observations made in the Trattoria Commedia, probably shortly after 18.15. It seems that the killer struck in the car park, then dragged his victim into the bushes. The body lay there until Saturday, when we received a tip-off from a telephone caller. We can only guess what happened to whatever the victim had in his pockets. Either the murderer took them himself, or somebody else did. The somebody else could well be synonymous with our anonymous telephone caller. Clues? Leads? Motives? Not a thing! Any comments?’

‘Was there any trace of drugs in his clothes?’ wondered Sergeant Bollmert. Presumably in an attempt to make an impression, Reinhart thought. The ruddy-faced sergeant had only been in post in Maardam for a couple of weeks, and was especially keen to distinguish himself. That was nothing to hold against him, of course.

The fact that he had never met
The Chief Inspector
could perhaps also be seen as an advantage. Given the circumstances.

‘Not in his clothes,’ said Reinhart. ‘Not in his blood, not in his hair or nails. We can no doubt confirm that his girlfriend was telling the truth about that. It’s a pity he didn’t tell her what he was going to do out at Dikken, so that we could have had her word on that as well.’

‘The fact that he didn’t do so suggests that whatever he was going to do wasn’t entirely above board, don’t you think?’ said Rooth. ‘He said nothing about it to the girl, nor to Otto Meyer, whose boat he had been working on earlier that afternoon.’

‘Didn’t he even say he was going to Dikken?’ asked Moreno. ‘To that Meyer character, that is.’

‘Nope,’ said Jung. ‘Just that he’d have to leave at half past four as he had a little job to do.’

‘Job?’ said Reinhart. ‘Did he actually use that word?’

Jung nodded.

‘We pressed Meyer pretty hard on that point. Yes, he called it a “job”. No doubt about it. Anyway, he left the boathouse down at Greitzengraacht a few minutes after half past four. They’d been doing some sort of refurbishing work in the cabin, and the intention was that they’d continue this week. It’s a pretty smart boat, I have to say – eighteen metres, six bunks, teak panels, bar cupboard, the whole caboodle. Meyer’s a bloody crook, of course, but one of the socially acceptable kind, nothing for us.’

‘And he didn’t have anything more he could tell us?’ asked Reinhart.

‘Not a squeak,’ said Rooth.

Jung shrugged and looked apologetic. Reinhart sighed.

‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘Our case is about as substantial as a vegan on laxatives. Has anybody anything else to add?’

He knew the answer already, but looked round the room even so and tried to seem optimistic.

‘The address book,’ said deBries in the end.

‘Precisely,’ said Reinhart. ‘On the ball as usual. How’s it going?’

DeBries thrust his arms out wide and narrowly missed hitting Rooth on the chin.

‘No need to converse in semaphore, you bloody idiot,’ said Rooth.

Bollmert laughed nervously.

‘It’s going like clockwork,’ said deBries, unrepentant. ‘There are a hundred and forty-six private individuals listed in the book, and about fifty institutions or similar. Plus a dozen or so incomprehensible entries – crossings out, vague scribbles and suchlike. He’s evidently had the book for six or seven years, that’s what his girlfriend estimates anyway – although she’s only known him for three. She’s been able to identify thirty-five people so far: we’ll start checking tomorrow.’

‘Are there any people the pair of them knew who aren’t in the book?’ asked Jung.

DeBries shook his head.

‘Not really. He’s been pretty scrupulous, it seems. A bloke they met at a party only a few weeks ago is duly listed, for instance.’

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘So you reckon the murderer is in there somewhere, among all those names?’

‘If it was somebody he knew, there’s a pretty good chance.’

‘Good,’ said Reinhart. ‘You have Moreno, Krause and Sergeant Bollmert to help you – and make bloody sure you are careful and don’t miss anything. Meet ’em all face to face and record every single conversation. A bit of idle chatter on the phone isn’t good enough, remember that. Prepare a list of questions to ask them all, and show it to me first. What their alibi is for last Tuesday, and so on. No kid gloves, right? Is that clear? It’s all we’ve got to go on for the time being.’

‘Crystal clear,’ said deBries. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

‘That can be an advantage sometimes,’ muttered Reinhart. He lit his pipe and blew a few thick clouds of smoke over those present.

‘What about this girlfriend of his?’ said Jung. ‘Hadn’t we better have a session with her? About the last few days, what they were doing and so on?’

‘Of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll look after that. Rooth and Jung can go back to the restaurant again – that should suit Rooth down to the ground. We’ll have a press release tomorrow that will require every bastard who set foot in that restaurant to come forward. That always produces some kind of results . . . If you can’t fish deep down, you have to cast your nets out wide.’

‘Wise words,’ said Rooth. ‘Mind you, ugly fish swim deep, if I’m not much mistaken. Cod, for instance.’

‘True,’ said Bollmert, who was almost born on a trawler, but didn’t think that was something to bring up here and now.

‘What the hell have codfish got to do with this?’ wondered Reinhart.

There followed a few seconds of silence while the team leader exhaled more clouds of smoke and the others watched.

‘What do you think?’ said deBries eventually. ‘Surely we need to have some kind of theory as well? Why was he killed?’

Reinhart cleared his throat.

‘I’ll tell you that when I’ve mapped out this last week in rather more detail,’ he promised. ‘Young Van Veeteren was going to meet somebody out at Dikken. He was presumably going to earn a bit of pocket money as a result, and I don’t suppose he was going to sell Christmas magazines. That is what we have to sort out just now.’

‘And he was clobbered,’ said Rooth.

‘By whoever he was going to meet, or by somebody else.’

‘Could it be the geezer he borrowed the car from?’ wondered Bollmert.

‘I reckon we can count him out,’ said Reinhart after two seconds’ thought. ‘He’s in Holte jail, and as far as we know he and young Van Veeteren haven’t been in touch for several months. And he hasn’t been out on parole for ages either.’

‘What’s he in for?’ asked Rooth.

‘All kinds of things,’ said Reinhart. ‘Robbery and white slave trading, among other things. Illegal possession of weapons. Four years. Two-and-a-half left. More or less.’

‘Okay,’ said deBries. ‘We’ll count him out. Anything else? I’m hungry, I haven’t eaten since last week.’

‘Same here.’ said Rooth.

Reinhart laid his pipe in the ashtray.

‘Just one other thing,’ he said, in a serious tone of voice. ‘I spoke to
The Chief Inspector
yesterday evening and I promised him that we would solve this case. I hope you all understand how extraordinary this business is. I mean what I said at the start. We must sort it out.
Must!
Is that understood?’

He looked round.

‘We’re not idiots,’ said deBries. ‘As I said before.’

‘It’ll sort itself out,’ said Rooth.

It’s good to have a team with self-belief, Reinhart thought: but he didn’t say anything.

Van Veeteren paused in the south-west corner of the long, narrow square. Ockfener Plejn. Shuddered, dug his hands down deeper into his overcoat pockets. Looked around. Until Saturday he hadn’t known that this was where Erich lived – or had he in fact known in some subconscious way? They had met twice during the autumn: once at the beginning of September, and then again just over three weeks ago. Despite everything, he thought as he groped around after his cigarette roller, despite everything he had socialized a little with his son. Recently. He had received Erich in his home, and they had talked to each other like civilized human beings. That was definitely the case. Something was on its way: it wasn’t clear exactly what, something confused and obscure of course, but something nevertheless . . . Erich had talked about Marlene Frey as well, but only in terms of a nameless young woman, as far as he could remember, and of course he might well have mentioned where they lived as well – why not? It was just that he couldn’t remember.

So he lives here . . . Or lived here. Almost in the centre of the old town, in this run-down nineteenth-century block of flats whose dirty façade Van Veeteren was now staring at. On the second floor, almost at the top of the building. There was a faint light in the window overlooking the tiny balcony with its rusty iron railings. He knew that she was at home, and that she was expecting him: his dead son’s fiancée whom he had never met, and he also knew – suddenly but with overwhelming certainty – that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. That he wouldn’t be able to summon up the strength to ring the bell on that shabby front door with the paint flaking off. Not today.