Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

‘Let’s concentrate on that time,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you have many customers?’

Kummer displayed his teeth. They looked strong and healthy, and presumably were expressing an ironic grin.

‘How many?’ asked Jung.

‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘At most. Can I get you anything?’

Jung shook his head. Rooth laid out the photographs on the counter.

‘What about this person?’ he asked. ‘Was he there? Don’t answer until you’re sure.’

The barman studied the pictures for ten seconds, pulling at his earring.

‘I believe so,’ he said.

‘You believe so?’ echoed Rooth, ‘Are you religious?’

‘I like it,’ said Kummer. ‘Yes, he was here. He sat eating at one of the tables through there. I didn’t pay much attention to him.’

‘At what time?” asked Jung.

‘Between five and six, or thereabouts… Yes, he left at about a quarter past six, just before Helene arrived.’

‘Helene?’ said Jung.

‘One of the girls in the kitchen.’

‘Have you got something going with her, then?’ Rooth wondered.

‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’ said Kummer, starting to look annoyed.

‘You never know,’ said Rooth. ‘Life is a tangle of remarkable connections.’

Jung coughed and changed the subject.

‘Was he alone, or was there anybody else with him?’ he asked.

‘He was on his own,’ said Kummer without hesitation.

‘All the time?’ Rooth asked.

‘All the time.’

‘How many diners did you have altogether? Between five and six o’clock, that is.’

Kummer thought for a moment.

‘Not many,’ he said. ‘Four or five, perhaps.’

‘It doesn’t seem to be high season just now, does it?’ said Rooth.

‘Would you like to play golf in weather like this?’ Kummer wondered.

‘Golf?’ said Rooth. ‘Isn’t that a sort of egg-rolling on a lawn?’

Kummer made no reply, but the tattoo on his forearm twitched.

‘He didn’t come over here to sit in the bar, then?’ said Jung, trying to get the interview back on course. ‘For a drink or whatever?’

Kummer shook his head.

‘How many were there in the bar?’

‘Two or three, perhaps… I don’t recall for certain. One or two customers popped in and only stayed for a couple of minutes, I think. As usual.’

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘When he left — this lone diner, that is — you didn’t notice if anybody followed him, did you? Very soon afterwards, I mean?’

‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘How the hell would I be able to remember that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jung. ‘But the fact is that he was killed out there in the car park only a few minutes after leaving here, so it would help us a lot if you could try to remember.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ Kummer assured them.

‘Excellent,’ said Rooth. ‘We don’t want to demand the impossible of you. Is there anything at all that evening that you recall? Something that was different, somehow or other? Or remarkable?’

Kummer pondered again.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘No, everything was as usual. It was pretty quiet.’

‘Had he ever been here before, this person?’ asked Jung, tapping his pen on the photographs.

‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘Not while I’ve been working here, at any rate.’

‘You seem to have a good memory for faces.’

‘I usually remember people I’ve met.’

‘How long have you been working here?’

‘Three months,’ said Kummer.

Rooth noticed a bowl of peanuts a bit further along the bar counter. He slid off his chair, and went to take a handful. The bartender observed him with a sceptical frown. Jung cleared his throat.

‘That car,’ he said. ‘The Peugeot out there in the car park — that’s been there all the time since Tuesday, has it?’

‘They say so,’ said Kummer. ‘I never gave it a thought until today.’

‘You’re better at faces than at cars, is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ said Kummer.

‘What was the weather like last Tuesday evening?’

Kummer shrugged.

‘Overcast, I suppose. And windy. Mind you, the bar is indoors, as you may have noticed.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Rooth, taking the rest of the peanuts.

‘How do you get here?’ Jung asked. ‘Do you also use the car park? I mean, you don’t live in Dikken, do you?’

Kummer shook his head and displayed his teeth again.

‘I generally come by tram,’ he said. ‘I sometimes get a lift with Helene or one of the others. But none of the staff uses the car park. There are a few private parking places round the back.’

‘How many staff are there here?’ Rooth asked.

‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘But only three or four of us are on duty at any one time. As we’ve already said, it’s low season at this time of year.’

‘Yes, as we’ve already said,’ said Rooth, looking round the deserted bar. ‘So you don’t know who the murderer is, then?’

Kummer stood up straight.

‘What the hell do you mean? Of course I don’t bloody well know. It’s not our fault if somebody gets attacked in our car park.’

‘Of course not,’ said Rooth. ‘Anyway, thank you for your cooperation, but we’d better be moving on now. We might well be back.’

‘Why?’ asked Kummer.

‘Because that’s the way we work,’ said Jung.

‘Because we like peanuts,’ said Rooth.

Moreno and Reinhart went together to Ockfener Plejn on Sunday evening. It was only a few blocks from the police station, and despite the wind and the driving rain, they went on foot.

‘We need to give our minds a good soaking and blow away all the dust,’ explained Reinhart. ‘And it would be no bad thing if our internal and external landscapes were in harmony.’

‘How did he take it?’ Moreno asked.

Reinhart thought it over before answering.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll be damned if I know. But he didn’t have much to say for himself, that’s for sure. Mun-ster found it hard to cope. It’s such a bloody mess.’

‘Was he on his own?’

‘No, he had his new woman with him, thank God.’

‘Thank God for that,’ agreed Moreno. ‘Is she okay?’

‘I think so,’ said Reinhart.

They came to the old square, and located the property. One of a row of cramped houses with high, narrow gables: pretty run-down, filthy frontages and badly maintained window frames. A few steps led up to the front door, and Moreno pressed the bell push next to the handprinted name plate.

After half a minute and a second ring, Marlene Frey opened the door. Her face seemed to be a little swollen, and her eyes were about three times as red and tearful as they had been when Moreno interviewed her in her office at the police station that morning. Nevertheless, the frail-looking woman displayed signs of willpower and strength.

Moreno noted that she had changed her clothes as well. Only a different pair of jeans and a yellow jumper instead of a red one, it was true: but perhaps that indicated that she had begun to accept the situation. Understood that life must go on. Nor did she give the impression that she had been taking sedatives — although that was hard to judge, of course.

‘Hello again,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you managed to get any sleep?’

Marlene Frey shook her head.

Moreno introduced Reinhart, and they went up the stairs to the second floor.

Two small rooms and a cramped, chilly kitchen, that was all. Wine-red walls and a minimum of furniture, mainly big, colourful floor cushions to sit or lie down on. A few big, green plants and a couple of posters. In the bigger room two wicker chairs and a low stool stood in front of a calor gas stove. Marlene Frey sat down on the stool, and invited Moreno and Reinhart to sit on the wicker chairs.