Hour of the Wolf

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 Munster. 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 Munster. ‘It’s been quite a while.’

‘Are you still in bed?’ Reinhart asked.

‘It’s Sunday,’ Munster 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.’

Munster 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 Munster. ‘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 Munster. ‘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.’

Munster 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.

Munster 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.’

Munster made no reply.

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

Munster 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 Munster. ‘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 Alle, 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, Munster 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 Munster? What the hell?’

‘Yes,’ Munster 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. Munster 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.