Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

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.’