Hour of the Wolf

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?’

‘Gemejnte.’

‘And the course was held in Gemejnte Hospital?’

‘No. It was in Aarlach.’

‘Aarlach?’ said Reinhart, making a note. ‘That’s a long way from here.’

Wollger said nothing.

‘So it was a course for nurses in Aarlach. When did she go there?’

‘On Saturday morning.’

‘When was she due back?’

‘On Sunday afternoon. As usual.’

‘As usual? What do you mean by that?’

Wollger took a deep breath.

‘She’s been attending that course for several Saturdays. It’s some kind of further education.’

‘Always in Aarlach?’

‘Always in Aarlach,’ said Wollger. ‘But she didn’t come home.’

‘I understand,’ said Reinhart. ‘And when she didn’t come home, you reported that to the police?’

‘She’s dead,’ said Wollger. ‘For Christ’s sake, Vera’s dead!’

His voice rose half an octave at the end of the sentence, and Reinhart realized that Wollger was close to breaking point.

‘How did she get there?’ he asked. ‘To Aarlach, I mean.’

‘By train,’ said Wollger. ‘She took the train, of course. For Christ’s sake, she’s dead: why are you sitting here asking me how she got to Aarlach?’

Reinhart waited for a few seconds.

‘Your wife has been murdered,’ he said. ‘Somebody killed her during the night between Saturday and Sunday. Have you any explanation for why her body was found here just outside Maardam when she was supposed to be a couple of hundred kilometres away from here?’

Wollger had no explanation. Instead, he slumped down on his chair, sunk his face into his hands and started sobbing, swaying backwards and forwards. There was a discreet knock on the door, and Dr Schenck’s curly grey locks came into view.

‘How’s it going?’

Reinhart sighed, and moved out of earshot of the man who had just become a widower.

‘As you might expect. I think you’d better take over. I don’t know who his next of kin is, but we’d better get somebody here PDQ. We need to talk to him, of course, the sooner the better. But that’s not possible the way things are at the moment.’

‘Okay,’ said Schenck. ‘I can see how things stand. Let’s see what I can do.’

‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart, leaving the room.

When he arrived at the Forensic Laboratory it was more or less lunchtime, so he suggested that they should nip over the road to Fix. Meusse had nothing against that: he took off his soiled white coat and exchanged it for the jacket he’d tossed onto his desk.

Fix bar was just over the street. It was quite full when they entered, but with the aid of a touch of diplomacy Reinhart managed to find a fairly secluded table. He asked Meusse if he would like something to eat, but the pathologist merely shook his bald head. That was not exactly unexpected. If you could believe the gossip it was years since any solid food had crossed his lips. Reinhart ordered two dark beers, sat down opposite him and waited.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘I gather you’ve come up with something.’

Meusse took a deep swig, and dried his lips carefully with his serviette.

‘It’s a circumstance.’

‘A circumstance?’ said Reinhart.

‘Precisely,’ said Meusse. ‘You are obviously paying attention.’

Reinhart let that pass.

‘It’s a decidedly uncertain observation. But I’d like you to bear it in mind.’

‘I see,’ said Reinhart.

‘It’s about those blows.’

‘Blows?’

‘The blows to the side and back of the head,’ said Meusse. ‘There is a concordance with The Chief Inspector ’s boy.’

It was a couple of moments before Reinhart realized that this expression referred to Erich Van Veeteren.

‘Hell’s bells!’ he said.

‘You can say that again,’ said Meusse, taking another drink of beer. ‘Don’t forget that it’s only a superficial observation.’

‘Of course not,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ve got quite a good memory. Are you suggesting that it could be the same person?’

‘Hmm,’ said Meusse.

‘That the same person killed both Erich Van Veeteren and this woman. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m not excluding the possibility,’ said Meusse after a pause for thought. ‘ That’s what I’m saying. If you listen carefully, I’ll explain… What we are dealing with is a somewhat unusual blow. There’s nothing to suggest that it couldn’t be the same weapon used in both cases, either. A length of iron pipe, for instance. Pretty heavy. I’ve got no comment to make about the blows to the side of the head, apart from the fact that the killer was right-handed. I’m basing the concordance on the blow to the back of the head. Broke the cervical spine in both cases. Hit more or less exactly the same place. Causing instant death. It could be a coincidence, of course, but I thought you ought to know.’

‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart.

He sat quietly for a while, trying to clarify the reasoning for himself by drawing a column of vertebrae in the notebook on the table in front of him. It wasn’t all that successful.

‘But there were several blows to the side of the head this time?’

Meusse nodded.

‘Three. Quite unnecessary. The blow to the back of the head would have been sufficient, but that assumes that the victim was the right way up… as it were.’

‘Would you say it was professional?’ Reinhart asked.

Meusse hesitated before answering.

‘Whoever delivered the blow must have known what to aim at, and what the result would be,’ he said. ‘Is that what you mean by professionalism?’

Reinhart shrugged.

‘There could well be two different killers,’ said Meusse. ‘Or there could well be just the one. I just wanted to keep you informed. Thanks for the beer.’

He emptied his glass and wiped his mouth again.

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Reinhart. ‘I want a judgement as well. Nobody could be better placed than you to give it. Are we in fact looking for the same killer? There’s no bloody point in summoning me here and then just offering me an either-or.’

Meusse contemplated his empty glass with a furrowed brow. Reinhart beckoned a waiter and ordered two more beers. When they had been delivered the little pathologist stroked the palm of his hand over his bald head and gazed out of the window for a while. He must have dreamt about becoming an actor, Reinhart thought. When he was young… Two or three hundred years or so ago.

‘I don’t want to pass a definite judgement,’ said Meusse eventually. ‘But I wouldn’t be sitting here telling you this if I didn’t have certain suspicions… Provided there’s nothing to prove that it’s not the case, of course.’

‘So highly probable?’ said Reinhart. ‘Is that your opinion?’

‘I just wanted to do my bit,’ said Meusse.

They sat for a while in silence, drinking their beer. Reinhart lit his pipe.

‘There are no connections between Vera Miller and Erich Van Veeteren. Not as far as we know, at least — but we haven’t been looking for any, of course.’

‘You only need one,’ said Meusse. ‘But that’s not my job.’

‘Absolutely right,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, thanks for this, we’ll see what we can make of it.’

‘Let’s do that,’ said Meusse, standing up. ‘Thanks for the beers.’