Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

‘Alibis?’ said Reinhart.

‘How nice of you to ask,’ said Moreno. ‘You don’t exactly make yourself popular when you ask people to provide alibis — but then, maybe it isn’t our job to make ourselves popular, as The Chief Inspector used to say. Anyway, everything seems above board so far. We haven’t had a chance to check anything yet, of course — but I suppose that’s not the point?’

‘Not so long as we don’t suspect there’s something nasty hiding in the woodwork,’ said Reinhart. ‘I take it there are a few dodgy characters among these names?’

‘There are all sorts,’ said Moreno. ‘No doubt some of them are not exactly pleased at the fact that Marlene Frey handed the address book over to the enemy without further ado. But we are ignoring everything that has nothing to do with the case. As instructed.’

‘As instructed,’ agreed Reinhart. He leaned back in his desk chair and thought for a while with his hands clasped behind the back of his neck. ‘If you’d like to have a session with Marlene Frey instead, that’s fine by me,’ he said. ‘There are two things that have wounded her in life: police officers and men. At least you’re only half of that.’

Moreno nodded and said nothing for a while.

‘What do you think?’ she said eventually. ‘What do you think happened to Erich?’

Reinhart bit the stem of his pipe and scratched his temples.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea, that’s the worrying bit. We usually have some kind of suspicion of what’s going on… An indication, at least.’

‘But you haven’t a clue?’

‘No,’ said Reinhart. ‘Do you?’

Moreno shook her head.

‘Does Marlene Frey know something that she’s holding back?’ she asked.

Reinhart pondered again. Tried to replay the afternoon’s conversation for his inner ear.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Mind you, you might have a different impression — who knows what to make of female intuition?’

‘I know all about that,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you spoken to The Chief Inspector again?’

‘Not since yesterday,’ said Reinhart. ‘I might ring him this evening. It feels really uncomfortable, poking our noses into his son’s dealings. I mean, he hasn’t exactly been your blue-eyed innocent. It’s not nice, sifting through that dirty linen, and it can’t be much fun for him sitting at home mourning, and knowing what we’re up to. Holy shit, what a mess!’

‘Is it really all that dirty nowadays?’ Moreno asked. ‘His linen, I mean.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Reinhart, standing up. ‘It was a bit dirtier a few years ago at any rate. It’s possible that it’s exactly how she says it is, froken Frey — that they are following the straight and narrow nowadays. It’s just a pity that he didn’t get a bit further along that path. But then, you have to agree with Strindberg and feel sorry for the human race.’

He went over to the window. Prised apart a couple of the slats in the Venetian blind and looked out over the town and the dark sky.

‘How many of the people he met last week — who we know he met last week — have you been in contact with?’

‘Seven,’ said Moreno without hesitation. ‘And as many again tomorrow, if all goes to plan.’

‘All right,’ said Reinhart, letting go of the slats. ‘What we’re looking for is just the end of a thread that we can follow up. We’ll find one sooner or later, it’s just a question of being patient… That’s not exactly unusual, is it?’

‘Not unusual at all,’ agreed Moreno. ‘Although it would help if things started moving pretty soon. So that we get an indication, as we’ve said.’

‘Some hopes,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, that’ll do for today. I seem to remember that I have a family. At least, I had one this morning. How are things with you nowadays?’

‘I’m married to my work,’ said Moreno.

Reinhart looked at her with raised eyebrows.

‘You must file for a divorce,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘Can’t you see that he’s just exploiting you?’

On Thursday evening they made the first rather more formal attempt to sum up the state of the investigation. Five-and-a-half days had passed since Erich Van Veeteren’s body had been found in the bushes at the car park out at Dikken. Nine days since it had been put there — unless they were much mistaken. So it was high time. Even if they hadn’t discovered very much so far.

They started with the victim’s fiancee.

Marlene Frey had been pinned down several times by both Reinhart and Moreno — and been shown the greatest possible amount of consideration and respect, of course — and as far as both of them could judge, she had done everything in her power to supply them with information and assist the police in every way. There were no grounds at all for complaining about her willingness to cooperate. Especially if one took the circumstances into consideration, and they did just that.

The number of interviews with friends and acquaintances of the deceased had risen to the considerable total of seventy-two — a rather motley collection of interviews if one were to be honest, as one should, but with two constants common to all of them: nobody had been able to suggest anybody who might want to remove Erich Van Veeteren from the face of the earth, and nobody had the slightest idea about why he might have gone to Dikken that fateful Tuesday evening.

As for the evidence gathered from the Trattoria Commedia itself, Inspectors Jung and Rooth were able to report that it had increased — very slightly — in volume, and eventually it had been possible to suggest a lead: only one, but the first and only one so far in the investigation as a whole. The male person with long, dark hair and a beard who had been noticed by Lisen Berke in the bar shortly before six p.m. on the Tuesday evening in question had had his existence confirmed by two further witnesses: the barman Alois Kummer and the chef Lars Nielsen — both of them were a hundred per cent certain (two hundred per cent in toto, Rooth pointed out optimistically) that a person of that description had been seated at the bar in front of a beer for a few minutes at about the time stated.

As certain as amen in church and the whores in Zwille, as they generally say in Maardam.

The description was about all that could be wished for — at least, as far as agreement among the witnesses was concerned. Dark hair, dark beard, dark clothes and dark glasses. The chef also thought he recalled seeing a plastic carrier bag standing alongside the bar stool, but questions on that score produced only neutral shrugs from Kummer and Berke. So no confirmation, but then again, no denial either.

When Jung and Rooth had finished reporting on these vital facts — the only ray of hope after five days of arduous investigation in fact — Rooth felt the urge to stick his neck out.

‘It was the murderer sitting there, I’ll bet my bloody life on that. Remember that I was the one who recognized the fact first!’

Nobody was willing to express support for this prognosis as yet, but nevertheless it was decided to send out a description of the man and issue a Wanted notice.

In order to establish the facts, if nothing else.

And to be able to say they had made at least one decision during the day’s run-through.

He woke up shortly before dawn — in the hour of the wolf.

He did that occasionally. Nowadays.

Never when he had Vera Miller with him, or when she had just left or was soon due. Never then. As things had turned out, they met once a week and spent Saturday and Sunday together. It was in the intervening period when he missed her most that it usually happened. That he woke up in a cold sweat. In the hour of the wolf.