Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

‘Where would it have taken place, then?’ said deBries, fingering his plaster in irritation.

‘The car park, it has to be the car park,’ said Moreno. ‘It’s also obvious that Erich must have identified Mr X. He recognized him when he came in and sat in the bar, then followed him out as had been agreed.’

‘Possible,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘Very possible. But that arrangement seems to me more like the meeting of a couple of secret agents than a drugs deal. But I agree with deBries in principle, and I also agree that it must have been Mr X who was delivering the stuff…’

‘… and that he didn’t have anything to deliver, in fact, but killed his contact man instead.’

There followed a few more seconds of silence. Reinhart closed his eyes and blew out smoke with full force.

‘But where exactly is this getting us?’ wondered Rooth. ‘And what the hell could it have been about if it wasn’t drugs? Is there anybody apart from me who votes for a postage stamp? One of those bloody misprinted ones that sell for eighteen million…’

‘A postage stamp?’ said deBries. ‘You’re out of your mind.’

Reinhart shrugged.

‘Could be anything,’ he said. ‘It could have been stolen goods.. Something that was dangerous but useful in the right hands… Or it could have been money, that’s surely the simplest explanation. One of them was going to pay the other for something or other. Something that needed a degree of discretion, as it were. But I don’t think we’re going to get much further than this at the moment. Maybe it’s time to change the perspective a bit. As long as we can’t work out what he was doing out there, we’re stymied and just marking time — I agree with Rooth on that score.’

‘So do I,’ said Rooth.

‘Okay, let me sum up where the brains trust has got to so far,’ said Moreno. ‘Erich knew that the contact person was Mr X when he arrived and sat down in the bar. And when he left he followed him out in order to collect something from him, and instead was given a blow to the side of his head and another to the back of it. Fatal. Have I got that right?’

‘I would think so,’ said Reinhart. ‘Any objections? No? Well, remember for Christ’s sake that this is no more than speculation. Right, let’s go over to the Western Front. We’ve got no end of information there. Marlene Frey and the address book. Who wants to start? DeBries has volunteered.’

It took an hour and twenty minutes to deal with the Western Front. A hundred and two interviews had taken place with people who had known Erich Van Veeteren in one context or another, according to the list in the black address book.

All of them had been duly recorded: deBries and Krause had spent all Wednesday afternoon and a good part of the night listening to every one of them. They had also produced a list of the people who had been in contact with Erich Van Veeteren during the weeks immediately before his death, a list so far comprising twenty-six names. But several further interviews were still outstanding, so the list could well expand before the end of the road was reached.

The result of all this was not too bad, from a quantitative point of view: but as they were not involved in a macro-sociological investigation, as deBries pointed out, the real result was very meagre indeed.

To be frank, so far — sixteen days after the murder and twelve since the body had been found — they had not succeeded in digging up anything looking remotely like a lead or a suspicion. Not with the best will in the world. It was enough to drive one up the wall. However, with the aid of the interviews and above all of Marlene Frey, they had begun to establish what her boyfriend had been up to during the last days of his life. It had been a very tiring process, and as far as being fruitful was concerned, it had not yet produced so much as a gooseberry. As Detective Inspector Rooth chose to put it.

Nobody seemed to have the slightest idea why Erich Van Veeteren had driven out to Dikken that fateful day.

Not his fiancee. Not the police. Not anybody else.

‘How reliable is Marlene Frey?’ asked Jung. ‘Bearing in mind drugs and all that stuff.’

‘I believe her,’ said Reinhart after a few moments’ thought. ‘It might be a misjudgement, of course, but I have the impression that she’s on our side one hundred per cent.’

‘It’s not really very odd if we don’t discover anything right away,’ said Moreno. ‘If we have in fact stumbled upon the killer somewhere among all these interviews, it would be a bit much to expect the person concerned to break down and confess simply because we’d switched on a tape recorder. Don’t you think?’

‘Why bother to do it, then?’ Rooth wanted to know. ‘Doesn’t the law say people must tell the police the truth?’

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘You haven’t seen the point of spending a dark night in front of a tape recorder trying to catch on to a murderer’s slight slip of the tongue… But perhaps you couldn’t be expected to? Anyway, let’s press on! What do you all think? There must surely be one of us — and for the moment I’m discounting Rooth’s postage stamp theory — one of us with an idea of some sort? We’re getting paid for doing this, for Christ’s sake. Or is it just as black in your bird-like brains as it is in mine?’

He looked round the table.

‘Pitch black,’ said deBries eventually. ‘My tape recordings are available to anybody who’s interested. It only takes eighteen hours to listen to them all. No doubt there’s one-tenth of a clue somewhere among them, but Krause and I have given up.’

‘I’ll pass for the time being,’ said Rooth.

‘It might be an idea to have another chat with one or two of those closest to him,’ suggested deBries. ‘With Erich’s best friends — there are three or four who knew him pretty well. Get them to speculate a bit, perhaps?’

‘Could be,’ said Reinhart with a sombre nod. ‘Why not? Does anybody else want to raise anything?’

Nobody did. Rooth sighed and Jung tried to conceal a yawn.

‘Why are you wearing a tie?’ Rooth asked. ‘Doesn’t your shirt have any buttons?’

‘Opera,’ said Jung. ‘Maureen has won two tickets at work. I won’t have time to go home and change, I’ll have to drive straight there after work.’

‘Make sure you don’t get dirty this afternoon, then,’ said Rooth.

Jung made no comment. Reinhart lit his pipe again.

‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re certainly not making any progress. But we’re bloody brilliant at being patient.’

‘How poor are they that have not patience,’ said Rooth.

‘Have you spoken to The Chief Inspector lately?’ asked Moreno.

‘Not for a few days,’ said Reinhart.

Van Veeteren took the tram out to Dikken. There was something about the car park there that prevented him from even thinking about taking the car.

Perhaps it was the risk that he would happen to park at the very spot where his son was killed.

It was just as empty and deserted as it usually was at this time of year, apparently. Only four cars, plus a chocked-up trailer from a long-distance lorry of which there was no trace. He didn’t know precisely where the body had been found — there were several hundred metres of undergrowth to choose from. He didn’t want to know anyway. What would have been the point?

He hurried across the empty space and into the Trattoria Commedia. The bar was immediately in front of the entrance door. Two elderly men in crumpled jackets were sitting there, drinking beer. The bartender was a young man in a yellow shirt, with a ponytail: he was busy, but nodded to Van Veeteren.

Van Veeteren nodded back and continued into the restaurant section. Three of the eighteen tables were occupied; he chose one with a good view of the bar and sat down.