Hour of the Wolf

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 Munster returned from his duties in connection with the official inquiry: Munster 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 Grand.

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 facade 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 fiancee 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.

Instead he looked at his watch. It was almost six. The darkness that had begun to envelop the town seemed to him to be freezing cold and hostile. There was a strange smell of sulphur or phosphorus in the air. He didn’t recognize it, it somehow didn’t belong here. There was a temporary breathing space in the otherwise constant downpour, but of course rain was never far away at this time of year. He lit a cigarette. Lowered his gaze, preferring not to ask himself if it was due to shame or to something else… and having done so he noticed a cafe on the opposite corner of the square, and when he had finished his cigarette, that is where he headed. Sat down with a glass of dark beer at a table by one of the windows where it was impossible for anybody to see out or in. Rested his head on his hands and thought back over the day.

Today. The third day he had woken up in the knowledge that his son was dead.

First of all an hour at the antiquarian bookshop, where he explained the situation to Krantze and they rearranged their working hours. He didn’t dislike old Krantze, but they would never be more than business partners. Certainly not, but that’s just the way it was.

Then he paid another visit to the Forensic Laboratories, this time together with Renate and Jess. He had stayed outside the door when they went into the refrigerated room. You only need to look at a dead son once, he had told himself. And he still thought that, as he sat in the cafe and tasted the beer. Only once: there were images that time and forgetfulness would never retouch. Which never needed to be reawoken because they never slept. Jess had been in control of herself when they came out again — with a crumpled handkerchief in each hand, but controlled all the same.

Renate was just as numb and apathetic as she had been when she went in. He wondered what tablets she was on, and how many.

A few minutes’ conversation with Meusse as well. Neither of them had performed especially well. Meusse had looked as if he were about to burst into tears, and he didn’t usually behave like that.

Soon afterwards he had introduced Jess to Ulrike. It was a bright spot in all the darkness, a meeting that went exceptionally well. Only half an hour in the living room at Klagenburg with a glass of wine and a salad, but that was enough. What mattered was not the words themselves, as had been said before… But there was something between women that he would never understand. Between certain women. When they said their goodbyes out in the hall, he had felt almost like a stranger: he was able to smile in the midst of all the grief.

Then he had rung Marlene Frey and arranged a meeting. She had sounded pretty much in control of herself, and said he was welcome to call round any time after five o’clock. She would be at home, and was looking forward to speaking to him. There was something she wanted to say, she said.

Looking forward? Something she wanted to say?

And now he was sitting here with feet colder than his beer. Why?

He didn’t know. Knew only that it wouldn’t work today, and after he had finished his beer he asked if he could use the telephone. Stood there between the ladies and gents toilets surrounded by a faint smell of urine, and rang his dead son’s living fiancee to tell her that something had cropped up.

Would it be okay if he came tomorrow instead? Or the day after?

Yes, that was okay. But she had difficulty in hiding her disappointment.

So did he as he left Ockfener Plejn and started walking back home. Disappointment and shame.

I don’t understand myself any more, he thought. It’s not me that it’s all about. What am I scared of, what the hell is happening to me?

But he went straight home.

Reinhart was woken up by Winnifred whispering his name. And placing a cold hand on his stomach.

‘You’re supposed to be putting your daughter to bed, not yourself.’

He yawned, and tried to do some stretches for a couple of minutes. Then he eased himself cautiously out of Joanna’s narrow bed and out of the nursery. Flopped down on the sofa in the living room instead, where his wife was half-lying under a blanket at the other end.

‘Let’s hear it,’ she said.

He thought for a while.

‘Triple-headed and Satanic,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Would you like a glass of wine?’

‘I think so,’ said Winnifred. ‘As we know, the Devil is triple-headed in Dante already, so all is in order.’

‘In Dante’s time women who knew too much were burnt at the stake. Red or white?’

‘Red. No, it was later than Dante. Well?’

Reinhart got up and went into the kitchen. Poured out two glasses and came back. Lay down on the sofa again and started his narration. It took quite a while, and she didn’t interrupt him a single time.

‘And the three heads?’ she said when he’d finished.

Reinhart took a drink before answering.

‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘we haven’t the faintest idea who did it. That’s bad enough in routine cases.’

‘I’m familiar with that,’ said Winnifred.

‘In the second place it’s The Chief Inspector ’s son who’s the victim.’

‘Nasty,’ said Winnifred. ‘And the third?’

Reinhart paused once more to think.

‘In the third place, he was presumably mixed up in something. If we find a killer, we shall presumably also find that Erich Van Veeteren was mixed up in something illegal. Yet again. Despite what his girlfriend says… That’s unlikely to be something to warm the cockles of his father’s heart, don’t you think?’

‘I understand,’ said Winnifred, swirling her wine round in its glass. ‘Yes, it’s three-headed all right. But how certain is it that he was involved in something illegal? That doesn’t necessarily have to be the case, surely?’

‘Certain and certain,’ said Reinhart, tapping his forehead with his middle finger. ‘There are signals in here that can’t be ignored. Besides… besides, he’s asked to be left alone face to face with the murderer when we eventually find him. The Chief Inspector, that is. Hell’s bells… But I think I understand him.’

Winnifred thought for a moment.

‘It’s not a nice story,’ she said. ‘Could it be much worse, in fact? It sounds almost as if it’s been stage-managed in some way.’

‘That’s what he always says,’ said Reinhart.