Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

He drove to Zeeport, the little pub out at Egerstadt. Phoned Renate and explained that they would be a little late, then they spent the rest of the afternoon sitting opposite each other at one of the tables with a view over the dunes and the rain. And of the lead-grey sky that formed a sort of weighty dome over the windswept, barren stretch of coast. She insisted on keeping the fingers of one hand intertwined with his, even while they were eating; and like Ulrike Fremdli she seemed to have understood that what was needed was not words.

That it wasn’t about the two of them. That it was Erich, and what mattered was clinging on to him.

‘Have you seen him?’ she asked eventually.

Yes, he had been to the Forensic Science Clinic briefly on Sunday. He thought Jess should also go there. If she felt she wanted to. Possibly the next day — he would gladly go with her.

She also asked who had done it, and he explained that he didn’t know.

Why?

He didn’t know that either.

They left Egerstadt at half past five, and forty-five minutes later he dropped Jess off outside Renate’s house in Maalerweg, where she would be staying for the time being. Renate came out onto the steps and hugged her daughter, sobbing loudly; but Van Veeteren merely took Jess’s luggage out of the back seat, and arranged for the three of them to meet the following day. In the morning, so that perhaps they could go and take a look at Erich. Renate hadn’t got round to doing that either; or perhaps hadn’t had the strength.

When he got back home, there was a message from Ulrike on the kitchen table. It said that she loved him, and that she would be back by about nine o’clock. He made himself a wine toddy and sat down in the dark living room. Put a Penderecki CD on the hi-fi system, but switched it off after a couple of minutes.

Not words, he thought, and not music either. Erich is dead. Silence.

After three-quarters of an hour, Reinhart rang.

‘How are things?’ he asked.

‘What do you expect?’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Are you on your own?’

‘Just for the time being.’

There was a pause while Reinhart worked out what to say next.

‘Would you like to talk about it? We could meet briefly tomorrow.’

‘Maybe,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ll phone you in that case. Do you know who did it yet?’

‘We have no idea,’ said Reinhart.

‘I want you to find him,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘We shall find him… There was another thing as well.’

‘Another thing?’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Marlene Frey. His girlfriend. Have you met her?’

‘I’ve spoken to her on the telephone.’

‘She wants you to get in touch with her,’ said Reinhart.

‘I’ll do that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Of course. Can I ask you to do me a favour?’

‘I’m at your service.’

Van Veeteren hesitated for a few seconds.

‘When you’ve got him… When you’ve found the killer, that is.. I’d like to meet him.’

‘Why?’ Reinhart asked.

‘Because that’s the way things work. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.’

‘All right,’ said Reinhart. ‘Of course. You will meet him face to face, I promise you that.’

‘The sooner, the better,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

‘Thank you. I have faith in you,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘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?’