Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

Moreno put down the report from the Forensic Laboratory.

‘We’ll get a more detailed report this evening,’ said Reinhart. ‘Meusse is pulling out all the stops. Shall we take a few hours off?’

By the time Moreno set off on foot for the swimming baths in Birkenweg, the snow had turned into rain. Dusk was beginning to descend over the town, even though it was only three o’clock, and she thought once again about what Reinhart had said about lighting a candle.

But when she saw the body of that unknown woman lying out at Korrim in her mind’s eye, it seemed to her that she preferred the darkness.

It was one of those days, she decided. A day that couldn’t cope with opening up properly. Or a day when she herself couldn’t cope with opening up properly. A day that could be survived best by keeping your senses and consciousness as much in the dark as possible, leaving only narrow cracks through which to communicate with reality.

One of those days. Or perhaps it was the time of year?

The life of an oyster, she thought as she opened the heavy entrance door of the swimming baths. I wonder what her name was. I wonder if she could have been me.

‘He’s in here with me,’ said Krause. ‘We’ve just got back.’

‘Who?’ asked Reinhart. ‘From where?’

‘Andreas Wollger,’ said Krause. ‘Her husband. Identification positive.’

Reinhart stared at the telephone. Then he stared at the clock. It was two minutes past eight, it was Monday morning.

‘Have you found the man who did it and not informed me?’

Krause coughed down the line.

‘Not the man who did it. Her husband. He’s here in my office, with Probationer Dobbermann. He’s not feeling very well — we’ve just been to the Forensic Laboratory and had a look at her. There’s no doubt. Her name’s Vera Miller.’

‘Vera Miller?’ said Reinhart. ‘Why are you only ringing now? How can you be certain that he wasn’t the man holding the iron?’

‘The iron?’ wondered Klause.

‘Or whatever the hell it was… How do you know he’s not the one?’

He could hear Krause shifting a piano over his office floor. Or perhaps it was just a sigh.

‘It’s only eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘Wollger turned up at a quarter to seven and we drove straight out to take a look at her. Does the chief inspector intend to come to my office and talk to him, or is he going to continue to interrogate me over the telephone? Besides, I’m pretty sure there was no iron involved.’

He’s getting cheeky, Reinhart thought after he’d hung up. Constable Krause.

The suggestion that Wollger wasn’t feeling very well was a perfectly correct observation on Krause’s part. When Reinhart entered the room he was sitting stiffly erect on a chair with his hands clenched in his lap. Staring straight ahead with a vacant expression on his face, with Probationer Elise Dobbermann standing by his side, looking as if she had no idea what to do next. She was wearing the latest — not especially inspired — uniform issued to women police officers. It occurred to Reinhart that he was glad he wasn’t a woman. At least, not a female police officer at uniform level.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Herr Wollger, I’m Chief Inspector Reinhart.’

He held out his hand. After a few seconds Wollger stood up and shook it. Then he sat down again and resumed staring into the void. Reinhart remained standing, looking at him: this didn’t seem to disturb Wollger. Quite a tall, well-built man, barely forty years old, in Reinhart’s judgement. Jeans, dark blue polo shirt, crumpled grey jacket. Rather a large head, beginning to go bald. Eyes pale behind metal-framed spectacles. Signs of weakness in his mouth and chin.

He didn’t do it, was Reinhart’s first reaction.

But one shouldn’t jump to conclusions, was his second.

‘Are you up to answering a few simple questions?’

‘Questions?’ said Wollger.

‘Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?’

Wollger shook his head.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Reinhart and took Probationer Dobbermann to one side. Lowered his voice and asked her about the situation in general. She replied in a whisper that Wollger had drunk some juice and half a cup of coffee at the Forensic Laboratory after having seen his wife’s dead body. But she hadn’t got many words out of him. Neither before nor after the identification. Neither her nor Krause. Reinhart nodded and asked her to go and fetch Dr Schenck from his office on the ground floor. Then he turned back to herr Wollger.

‘I’m afraid I need to gather some information. Then a doctor will come and make sure that you can have a good rest. Your name is Andreas Wollger, is that right?’

Wollger nodded.

‘I’d be grateful if you would answer in words.’

‘Yes, I’m Andreas Wollger.’

‘Your wife has been the victim of a terrible accident. You have just identified her as’ — he checked with his notebook — ‘Vera Miller. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s your address?’

‘Milkerweg 18.’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘No.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Three years.’

‘What’s your job?’

‘I’m unemployed.’

‘For how long?’

‘Six months.’

‘And before that?’

‘Zinder’s Industries. They closed down.’

Reinhart nodded and fumbled for his pipe and tobacco. Zinder’s used to make components for mobile phones, if he remembered rightly. Forced out of business by the Japanese. Or possibly the Koreans.

‘And your wife?’

‘Her job, do you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s a nurse.’

‘What were you doing last Saturday evening?’

‘I was having dinner with a good friend.’

‘Where?’

‘At the Mefisto restaurant.’

‘In Lofters Plejn?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was your wife with you?’

‘My wife was attending a course.’

‘What sort of a course?’

‘For nurses. She’s a nurse.’

‘At which hospital?’

‘Gemejnte.’

‘And the course was held in Gemejnte Hospital?’

‘No. It was in Aarlach.’

‘Aarlach?’ said Reinhart, making a note. ‘That’s a long way from here.’

Wollger said nothing.

‘So it was a course for nurses in Aarlach. When did she go there?’

‘On Saturday morning.’

‘When was she due back?’

‘On Sunday afternoon. As usual.’

‘As usual? What do you mean by that?’

Wollger took a deep breath.

‘She’s been attending that course for several Saturdays. It’s some kind of further education.’

‘Always in Aarlach?’

‘Always in Aarlach,’ said Wollger. ‘But she didn’t come home.’

‘I understand,’ said Reinhart. ‘And when she didn’t come home, you reported that to the police?’

‘She’s dead,’ said Wollger. ‘For Christ’s sake, Vera’s dead!’

His voice rose half an octave at the end of the sentence, and Reinhart realized that Wollger was close to breaking point.

‘How did she get there?’ he asked. ‘To Aarlach, I mean.’

‘By train,’ said Wollger. ‘She took the train, of course. For Christ’s sake, she’s dead: why are you sitting here asking me how she got to Aarlach?’

Reinhart waited for a few seconds.

‘Your wife has been murdered,’ he said. ‘Somebody killed her during the night between Saturday and Sunday. Have you any explanation for why her body was found here just outside Maardam when she was supposed to be a couple of hundred kilometres away from here?’

Wollger had no explanation. Instead, he slumped down on his chair, sunk his face into his hands and started sobbing, swaying backwards and forwards. There was a discreet knock on the door, and Dr Schenck’s curly grey locks came into view.