Hour of the Wolf

11

The police’s appeal for help in the Dikken case was plastered all over the main newspapers in Maardam on Tuesday, exactly a week after the murder, and by five o’clock in the afternoon ten people had rung to say they had been at the Trattoria Commedia on the day in question. Jung and Rooth were delegated to look into the tip-offs, and eliminated six of them as ‘of secondary interest’ (Rooth’s term), as the timing didn’t fit in. The remaining four had evidently been in the restaurant during the period 17.00–18.30, and all four were kind enough to turn up at the police station during the evening to be interrogated.

The first was Rupert Pilzen, a fifty-eight-year-old bank manager who lived in Weimaar Alle in Dikken, and had slipped into the Commedia and sat in the bar for a while. A little whisky and a beer, that’s all. A quarter past five until a quarter to six, roughly speaking. While he waited for his wife to prepare the evening meal — he sometimes indulged in that pleasure after a hard day’s work, he explained. When he had time.

He lifted up his spectacles while he studied the photographs of Erich Van Veeteren carefully. Then stated that he had never seen the man before, neither at the Commedia nor anywhere else, and he looked ostentatiously at his glistening wristwatch. He had presumably planned to pay another well-deserved visit to the bar, which was now becoming less likely a possibility, Jung reckoned.

Was there anything else he had noticed that he thought could be of relevance to the case?

No.

Any faces he recalled?

No.

Had there been any other customers in the bar?

Pilzen furrowed his brow and retracted his double chins into deep folds. No, he had been alone there all the time. Oh, hang on, a woman had come in just before he left. Short hair, about forty, probably a feminist. She’d sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Quite a long way away from him. With a newspaper, he seemed to recall. That was all.

‘If there had been a second bar, she would no doubt have sat there instead,’ said Rooth when herr Pilzen had waddled out on his unsteady legs. ‘You fat slob.’

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘People get like that when they’ve too much money and no lofty interests. You’d become like that as well. If you had any money, that is.’

‘Go and fetch the next one,’ said Rooth.

The next one turned out to be a couple. Herr and fru Schwarz, who didn’t live in Dikken but had been visiting somebody they knew out there to discuss business. Exactly what was irrelevant. On the way back they had stopped off at the Commedia for a meal, a little luxury they granted themselves occasionally. Going out for a meal. Not just to Trattoria Commedia, but to restaurants in general. Especially now, when they had more or less retired. Yes indeed. Just once or twice a week.

They were both around sixty-five, and recognized Erich Van Veeteren immediately when Jung produced the photographs. He had been eating — a simple pasta dish, if fru Schwartz remembered rightly — at a table a few metres away from their own. They had ordered fish. Turbot, to be precise. Yes, the young man had been on his own. He had paid and left the restaurant at more or less the same time as they were being served their dessert. Shortly after six.

Were there any other guests while they were eating?

Just a young couple sitting further back in the restaurant section. They arrived shortly before six and probably ordered that same cheap pasta dish. Both of them. They were still there when herr and fru Schwartz had finished. Half past six or thereabouts.

Had they noticed anything else of interest?

No — such as?

Had they noticed any customers sitting in the bar?

No, they couldn’t see the bar from their table.

Was there anybody there when they passed through on the way out?

Maybe, they weren’t sure. Oh yes, a little man in a dark suit, that’s right. A bit dark-skinned, in fact. An Arab, perhaps. Or an Indian or something like that.

Rooth ground his teeth. Jung thanked them, and promised — in response to fru Schwartz’s pressing request — that they would make sure they had the murderer under lock and key in a trice.

Because it was terrible. In Dikken of all places. Did they recall that whore who was crucified there a few years ago?

Yes, they did — but thank you very much, they must now talk to the next representative of that great detective, the general public.

Her name was Lisen Berke. She was in her forties, and had been in the bar at the Trattoria Commedia between a quarter to six and half past, approximately. She declined to explain why she had gone there — she had the right to go for a drink wherever she liked if she felt like it, for God’s sake.

‘Of course you do,’ said Jung.

‘Or two,’ said Rooth. ‘Come to that.’

‘Do you recognize this person?’ Jung asked, showing her the photographs.

She studied them for three seconds then shook her head for four.

‘He was sitting at one of the tables in the restaurant, between-’

‘Is he the one who’s been killed?’ she interrupted.

‘Yes,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you see him?’

‘No. I was sitting reading my paper.’

‘I see,’ said Rooth.

‘You see?’ said Berke, eyeing Rooth over the top of her octagonal spectacles.

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘Were there any other customers in the bar?’

She dragged her eyes away from Rooth, and thought that one over.

‘Two, I think… Yes, first of all there was a fat managerial type hanging around, but he didn’t stay long. Then a very different type appeared. Long hair and beard. Dark glasses as well, I seem to remember… Looked like some kind of rock star. Macho, out and out. Depraved.’

‘Did you speak to him?’ Jung asked.

Lisen Berke snorted contemptuously.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘And he didn’t try to talk to you?’ said Rooth.

‘I was reading my newspaper.’

‘Quite right too,’ said Rooth. ‘You shouldn’t get involved with men you don’t know in bars.’

Jung gave him a withering look to shut him up. For Christ’s sake, he thought. Why don’t they send him on a diplomacy course?

Berke gritted her teeth and glared at Rooth as well, as if he were an unusually nasty piece of dog shit she had accidentally trodden on and which was difficult to scrape off the sole of her shoe. A male dog, needless to say. Rooth looked up at the ceiling.

‘How long did he stay?’ asked Jung. ‘This depraved rock musician.’

‘I don’t remember. Not all that long, I don’t think.’

‘What did he drink?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘But he left the bar before you did, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

Jung pondered.

‘Would you recognize him again?’

‘No. He didn’t have any features. Just a mass of hair and glasses.’

‘I understand,’ said Jung. ‘Many thanks, froken Berke: I’ll be getting back to you, if you don’t mind. You’ve been extremely helpful.’

‘What did you mean by that last remark?’ Rooth asked when they had closed the door after Lisen Berke. ‘“Extremely helpful”? What kind of crap is that?’

Jung sighed.

‘I was just trying to apply a bit of balsam after your charm offensive,’ he explained. ‘Besides, this character in the bar could well be of interest. We must ask if the barman remembers him as well.’

‘Once chance in ten,’ said Rooth. ‘But maybe those are the best odds we can hope for in this match.’

‘Have you anything else to suggest?’ asked Jung.

Rooth thought that one over.

‘If we drive out there, we can take the opportunity of having a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘So that we can work out a few new angles of approach and so on.’

‘Depraved?’ said Jung. ‘Is “depraved” the word she used?’

Ewa Moreno flopped down in the visitor’s chair in Reinhart’s office.

‘So you’re still at work, are you?’

Reinhart looked at the clock. Half past six. He wished it had been a bit less.

‘I need to summarize a few things. I didn’t get hold of froken Frey until quite late. How are things going for you?’

‘Not all that well,’ said Moreno with a sigh. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think the strategy we’re following is exactly top-notch.’

‘I know,’ said Reinhart. ‘But if you have a better one you should have come out with it before you crossed the threshold. Correct me if I’m wrong.’

‘Yep,’ said Moreno. ‘No doubt I should have done. But whatever: it’s pretty hard going. We’ve chatted to sixteen friends of Erich Van Veeteren so far… In accordance with the list of priorities his fiancee gave us. All of them here in Maardam — we’ve sent Bollmert out into the sticks, and he’s due back on Friday. Nobody has come up with anything of interest yet, and nobody seems to be hiding anything. Nothing to do with the case, that is.’

‘Alibis?’ said Reinhart.

‘How nice of you to ask,’ said Moreno. ‘You don’t exactly make yourself popular when you ask people to provide alibis — but then, maybe it isn’t our job to make ourselves popular, as The Chief Inspector used to say. Anyway, everything seems above board so far. We haven’t had a chance to check anything yet, of course — but I suppose that’s not the point?’

‘Not so long as we don’t suspect there’s something nasty hiding in the woodwork,’ said Reinhart. ‘I take it there are a few dodgy characters among these names?’

‘There are all sorts,’ said Moreno. ‘No doubt some of them are not exactly pleased at the fact that Marlene Frey handed the address book over to the enemy without further ado. But we are ignoring everything that has nothing to do with the case. As instructed.’

‘As instructed,’ agreed Reinhart. He leaned back in his desk chair and thought for a while with his hands clasped behind the back of his neck. ‘If you’d like to have a session with Marlene Frey instead, that’s fine by me,’ he said. ‘There are two things that have wounded her in life: police officers and men. At least you’re only half of that.’

Moreno nodded and said nothing for a while.

‘What do you think?’ she said eventually. ‘What do you think happened to Erich?’

Reinhart bit the stem of his pipe and scratched his temples.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea, that’s the worrying bit. We usually have some kind of suspicion of what’s going on… An indication, at least.’

‘But you haven’t a clue?’

‘No,’ said Reinhart. ‘Do you?’

Moreno shook her head.

‘Does Marlene Frey know something that she’s holding back?’ she asked.

Reinhart pondered again. Tried to replay the afternoon’s conversation for his inner ear.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Mind you, you might have a different impression — who knows what to make of female intuition?’

‘I know all about that,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you spoken to The Chief Inspector again?’

‘Not since yesterday,’ said Reinhart. ‘I might ring him this evening. It feels really uncomfortable, poking our noses into his son’s dealings. I mean, he hasn’t exactly been your blue-eyed innocent. It’s not nice, sifting through that dirty linen, and it can’t be much fun for him sitting at home mourning, and knowing what we’re up to. Holy shit, what a mess!’

‘Is it really all that dirty nowadays?’ Moreno asked. ‘His linen, I mean.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Reinhart, standing up. ‘It was a bit dirtier a few years ago at any rate. It’s possible that it’s exactly how she says it is, froken Frey — that they are following the straight and narrow nowadays. It’s just a pity that he didn’t get a bit further along that path. But then, you have to agree with Strindberg and feel sorry for the human race.’

He went over to the window. Prised apart a couple of the slats in the Venetian blind and looked out over the town and the dark sky.

‘How many of the people he met last week — who we know he met last week — have you been in contact with?’

‘Seven,’ said Moreno without hesitation. ‘And as many again tomorrow, if all goes to plan.’

‘All right,’ said Reinhart, letting go of the slats. ‘What we’re looking for is just the end of a thread that we can follow up. We’ll find one sooner or later, it’s just a question of being patient… That’s not exactly unusual, is it?’

‘Not unusual at all,’ agreed Moreno. ‘Although it would help if things started moving pretty soon. So that we get an indication, as we’ve said.’

‘Some hopes,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, that’ll do for today. I seem to remember that I have a family. At least, I had one this morning. How are things with you nowadays?’

‘I’m married to my work,’ said Moreno.

Reinhart looked at her with raised eyebrows.

‘You must file for a divorce,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘Can’t you see that he’s just exploiting you?’

On Thursday evening they made the first rather more formal attempt to sum up the state of the investigation. Five-and-a-half days had passed since Erich Van Veeteren’s body had been found in the bushes at the car park out at Dikken. Nine days since it had been put there — unless they were much mistaken. So it was high time. Even if they hadn’t discovered very much so far.

They started with the victim’s fiancee.

Marlene Frey had been pinned down several times by both Reinhart and Moreno — and been shown the greatest possible amount of consideration and respect, of course — and as far as both of them could judge, she had done everything in her power to supply them with information and assist the police in every way. There were no grounds at all for complaining about her willingness to cooperate. Especially if one took the circumstances into consideration, and they did just that.

The number of interviews with friends and acquaintances of the deceased had risen to the considerable total of seventy-two — a rather motley collection of interviews if one were to be honest, as one should, but with two constants common to all of them: nobody had been able to suggest anybody who might want to remove Erich Van Veeteren from the face of the earth, and nobody had the slightest idea about why he might have gone to Dikken that fateful Tuesday evening.

As for the evidence gathered from the Trattoria Commedia itself, Inspectors Jung and Rooth were able to report that it had increased — very slightly — in volume, and eventually it had been possible to suggest a lead: only one, but the first and only one so far in the investigation as a whole. The male person with long, dark hair and a beard who had been noticed by Lisen Berke in the bar shortly before six p.m. on the Tuesday evening in question had had his existence confirmed by two further witnesses: the barman Alois Kummer and the chef Lars Nielsen — both of them were a hundred per cent certain (two hundred per cent in toto, Rooth pointed out optimistically) that a person of that description had been seated at the bar in front of a beer for a few minutes at about the time stated.

As certain as amen in church and the whores in Zwille, as they generally say in Maardam.

The description was about all that could be wished for — at least, as far as agreement among the witnesses was concerned. Dark hair, dark beard, dark clothes and dark glasses. The chef also thought he recalled seeing a plastic carrier bag standing alongside the bar stool, but questions on that score produced only neutral shrugs from Kummer and Berke. So no confirmation, but then again, no denial either.

When Jung and Rooth had finished reporting on these vital facts — the only ray of hope after five days of arduous investigation in fact — Rooth felt the urge to stick his neck out.

‘It was the murderer sitting there, I’ll bet my bloody life on that. Remember that I was the one who recognized the fact first!’

Nobody was willing to express support for this prognosis as yet, but nevertheless it was decided to send out a description of the man and issue a Wanted notice.

In order to establish the facts, if nothing else.

And to be able to say they had made at least one decision during the day’s run-through.