Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

Having killed him is enough, he thought. That’s bad enough, I don’t need to invade his home as well.

That same evening he gave up all thought of playing the detective. He’d begun to realize that doing so could be dangerous: he might attract the attention of the police — they must be working all out to try to find the murderer of the young man. No, it would be better to wait, he decided. Wait for the further instructions that were a hundred per cent certain to arrive with Monday’s post.

Wait for that pale-blue letter, and then work out how to solve the problem on the basis of how the handover was supposed to take place this time.

Because that would have to take place, he reasoned. At a certain place and at a certain time there would have to be physical contact between himself and the blackmailer.

Or rather, between himself, the money and the blackmailer — there were three links in the chain, and of course it was probable that this time his opponent would be even more careful about his own safety than he had been on the previous occasion. Highly probable: he wasn’t dealing with an amateur, that was now crystal clear. But that opponent would have to acquire the money somehow or other, and in some way or other he would have to be outfoxed.

Only time would tell how this was to be done. Time and the next letter.

After visiting Ockfener Plejn he spent the whole evening in front of the television in the company of a new bottle of whisky, and when he retired shortly before midnight, both the bed and the bedroom were spinning round.

But that was the intention. He really must sleep through the hour of the wolf tonight at least. Thursday was his day off.

Thursday was the day when Vera Miller was due to phone him.

Three days without contact, that was what they had agreed. A short time that she would use to discuss matters with her husband. Tell him about their affair. Liberate herself.

It was seven p.m. when the call came, and he could still feel the effects of his excessive drinking the night before.

She sounded sad. That was unusual.

‘It’s so hard,’ she said.

She didn’t usually say that. He didn’t respond.

‘He’s going to take this very badly, I can see that.’

‘Haven’t you told him yet?’

She said nothing for a couple of seconds.

‘I’ve started,’ she said. ‘I’ve hinted at it… He knows what’s coming. He’s keeping out of the way. He’s gone out tonight, I’m sure he’s only done that because of this business… He’s running away from it.’

‘Come round to me.’

‘That’s not on,’ she said. ‘Andreas will be back home in a couple of hours. I have to treat him above board from now on. I’ll see you on Saturday, as we agreed.’

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘And I love you,’ she said.

‘You’re not changing your mind, I hope?’ he said.

‘You must give me time,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not changing my mind. But you can’t rush something like this.’

Time? he thought. Three days. Then it would be Monday. Just think if she knew…

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘The main thing is that things turn out as we’ve planned. And that I can see you on Saturday.’

‘I shall be attending my course on Saturday.’

‘Eh?’

She laughed.

‘My course. Come on, you know about that. It’s the fourth weekend in a row. I love that course.’

He thought about what she’d said with regard to treating Andreas above board, but he didn’t follow it up.

‘I love it as well,’ he mumbled instead. ‘I need you.’

‘You’ve got me,’ she said.

When they’d hung up he started crying. He remained seated in the armchair for quite some time, until it had passed over and he’d had a chance to think about when he had last wept.

He couldn’t remember.

He took two Sobran tablets instead.

‘We’re not exactly making progress,’ said Reinhart, eyeing the investigation team. Five of the original seven were left: Krause had been hijacked by Hiller, and Bollmert was still tracking down obscure candidates for interrogation in the provinces.

‘But on the other hand, we’re not going backwards,’ said Rooth. ‘What we knew a week ago we still know today.’

Reinhart ignored him.

‘Moreno,’ he said. ‘If you would be so kind as to summarize the situation, the rest of us can lean back and enjoy the sound of a beautiful voice for a change.’

‘Thank you,’ said Moreno. ‘Man’s ability to keep on inventing new compliments never ceases to amaze us females. However, let’s get to the point.’

Reinhart smiled slightly, but said nothing. She flicked through her notebook until she found a summary. Noted that Jung was wearing a tie for some inexplicable reason, and that deBries had a sticking plaster over the bridge of his nose. For some other inexplicable reason. She took a deep breath, and began.

‘What we know more or less for certain is as follows: Erich Van Veeteren was killed by a powerful blow to the temple and the back of his head with a blunt instrument shortly after six p.m. on Tuesday, the tenth of November. I won’t go into the weapon, which was presumably some kind of metal pipe. But as we haven’t found it, it is hardly of much importance at this stage. There were no witnesses to the actual attack: the car park was deserted, it was dusk, and the murderer had time to drag the body of his victim into the surrounding bushes. We have interviewed everybody who was in the Trattoria Commedia at — and before — the time of the murder. All but two, that is — the victim and the killer, assuming the latter had also been in there. Ten customers and four members of staff, at any rate: we’ve spoken to all of them. Nobody had anything of direct importance to tell us, apart from the fact that three of them saw a strange-looking character sitting in the bar for a short time. Between six and a quarter past, roughly speaking. We have a pretty detailed description of him, and it seems highly likely that he was disguised, with a wig, a beard and dark glasses. It also seems highly likely that he was the murderer.’

‘As I seem to recall somebody saying a week ago,’ said Rooth.

‘That’s true,’ said Moreno. ‘We advertised his description and a Wanted notice several days ago, but he hasn’t contacted us, so I suppose we can give a brownie point to Rooth. Anyway, none of the witnesses noticed any kind of contact between this Mr X and Erich Van Veeteren — who was sitting in the restaurant section, and left the premises shortly after Mr X. They might well have been in eye contact; Erich was sitting at a table with quite a good view of the bar.’

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘He sits there waiting for an hour. And when the man appears he does nothing, but the man follows him out into the car park, and kills him. There we have it in a nutshell. Can you tell me what the hell it’s all about?’

‘Drugs,’ said deBries after a while.

‘Any other suggestions?’ asked Reinhart.

‘I’m not convinced that deBries is right,’ said Jung. ‘But if we assume it was in fact a delivery of some kind of goods, there are two things I wonder. First of all: did they know each other? Did they both know who the contact person was that they would be meeting in the restaurant? Or was there just one of them who knew the other’s identity?’

‘Was that one or two wonderings?’ asked Rooth.

‘One,’ said Jung. ‘The other is: which of them was delivering, and which was receiving?’

Nobody spoke for a couple of seconds.

‘Another question, in that case,’ said deBries. ‘If it was a delivery, where did it take place?’

‘It wasn’t a delivery,’ said Rooth. ‘He murdered him instead.’