Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

‘Of course not,’ said Reinhart. ‘That’s something entirely different.’

‘I don’t see the logic,’ said Moreno.

‘Intuition,’ said Reinhart. ‘Healthy male intuition. Anyway, are we in agreement that he’s not the one who did it? Wollger, that is.’

‘I think so,’ said Moreno. ‘We’d better not eliminate the possibility altogether, though it seems highly unlikely. But what we can say about the link with Erich Van Veeteren… well, I haven’t a clue about that.’

While deBries and Rooth were talking to people who knew the Miller-Wollgers, Moreno had been concentrating on Marlene Frey and some of Erich Van Veeteren’s friends, but nobody had been able to supply any information that seemed remotely relevant.

Nobody had recognized Vera Miller from the photograph they had borrowed from Irene Vargas, and nobody could recall ever having heard her name before.

‘I don’t know where I stand on that either,’ said Reinhart, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘I have to admit that. I’ll be meeting The Chief Inspector tomorrow, and I think I’ll raise it with him… The possible link. That would mean we had something concrete to talk about. It gets so bloody depressing, just sitting there philosophizing about death.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘You’re very fond of theories,’ she said. ‘I mean, is it possible to find a motive for killing both Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller based on the assumption that they didn’t know one another? Can you think up a story that hangs together?’

‘A story…?’ said Reinhart, scratching his forehead with the stem of his pipe. ‘Without their knowing each other? Hmm, it could be as far-fetched as you like, and yet still be crystal clear if you could see the actual threads… Assuming of course that we’re not dealing with an out-and-out lunatic, because that would be a different kettle of fish altogether. Yes, of course I could think up a chain of events that hang together — I could churn out ten if you wanted me to. But where would that get us?’

Moreno smiled.

‘Do that,’ she said. ‘Spend the night thinking up ten threads linking the deaths of Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller. Then tell me about them tomorrow, and I promise I’ll pick out the right one.’

‘Good God,’ said Reinhart. ‘I have a lovely wife to devote the nights to. And a daughter with inflammation of the ear to see to when she hasn’t got any strength left. Are you still married to your work?’

‘It seems like it,’ said Moreno.

‘Seems like it? What the hell is that for an expression?’ He leaned forward over the table and stared at her with a vertical furrow between his eyebrows.

‘It’s something to do with Munster. Isn’t it?’

Inspector Moreno stared back at him for three seconds.

‘Go to hell,’ she said, and left the room.

‘Do you know what I am?’ said Rooth. ‘I’m the worst hunter in Europe.’

‘I’ve no reason to doubt that,’ said Jung. ‘Mind you, I didn’t know you did any hunting.’

‘Women,’ sighed Rooth. ‘I’m talking about women. Here’s me busy chasing after them for twenty years… twenty-five, in fact… And I haven’t captured a single one. What the hell am I supposed to do?’

Jung looked around the bar, which was full of men. They had just dropped in at the Oldener Maas in order to gild the day (Rooth’s term), and it didn’t appear to be especially good hunting ground.

‘You’ve got yours nailed down,’ said Rooth. ‘Maureen’s a bloody marvellous woman. If she throws you out I’d be only too happy to take over.’

‘I’ll tell her that,’ said Jung. ‘That should guarantee that she’ll hang on to me.’

‘Kiss my arse,’ said Rooth, and took a justifiable swig of his beer. ‘But perhaps it’s due to the ammunition.’

‘Ammunition?’ said Jung.

‘I’m beginning to think I’ve been using too big a calibre of buckshot all these years. I’m thinking about reading some poetry — what do you think about that?’

‘Good,’ said Jung. ‘Just the thing for a man like you. Can’t we talk about something else instead of women?’

Rooth assumed an expression of utter astonishment.

‘What the hell could that possibly be?’

Jung shrugged.

‘I don’t know. Work, perhaps?’

‘I prefer women,’ said Rooth with a sigh. ‘But since you ask so nicely…’

‘We could just sit and keep our traps shut,’ said Jung. ‘Perhaps the best choice.’

Rooth really did sit quietly for quite a while, digging deep into the bowl of peanuts and chewing away thoughtfully.

‘I’ve got a hypothesis,’ he said eventually.

‘A hypothesis?’ said Jung. ‘Not a theory?’

‘I don’t really know the difference between them,’ Rooth admitted. ‘Who cares, in any case?… Now listen to this…’

‘My ears can’t wait.’

‘Good,’ said Rooth. ‘But don’t keep interrupting me all the time. Anyway, this Vera Miller… If she was having an affair with another man, it would make sense if we found the bloke in question.’

‘You’re a genius,’ said Jung. ‘How do you do it, Constable?’

‘I haven’t finished yet. There’s no doubt it would make things easier if we knew where to look for him.’

Jung yawned.

‘This is where the hypothesis bursts out into full bloom,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s obvious that we’re looking for a doctor.’

‘A doctor? Why the hell…?’

‘It’s as clear as a summer’s day. She worked at a hospital. Sooner or later all nurses fall for a man in a white coat with knick-knacks round his neck. The stethoscope syndrome. It affects all the women who work in that line of business. We should be looking for Dr X, it’s as simple as that. At Gemejnte Hospital. Perhaps I should have studied medicine…’

Jung succeeded in grabbing the last of the peanuts.

‘How many are there? Doctors at the Gemejnte, I mean.’

‘God only knows,’ said Rooth. ‘A few hundred, I assume. But it must surely be somebody she came into contact with… In the line of work, as they say. On the same ward, or whatever. What do you think?’

Jung thought for a moment.

‘If we believe what Meusse has told us,’ he said, ‘how does this fit in with the postage stamp theory and the blackmailer theory?’

Rooth belched discreetly into his armpit.

‘My young friend,’ he said with a fatherly smile. ‘You can’t just mix theories up with hypotheses as the whim takes you — I thought you knew that. Was it the police college you attended, or the dog handlers’ college?’

‘Go and buy a couple of beers,’ said Jung. ‘But don’t mix them up.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Rooth, standing up.

He’s not as stupid as he looks, thought Jung when he was alone at the table.

Thank God for that.

Why do I do this? Moreno thought when she had come home.

She kicked off her shoes in irritation and threw her jacket into the basket chair.

Why do I tell Reinhart to go to hell and slam the door behind me? Am I becoming a man-hater? A bitch?

He was right, after all. Absolutely right. There had been something going with Munster — even if she couldn’t be more precise about it than Reinhart had been.

Only something. It had come to an end when Munster had been stabbed up in Frigge last January, and very nearly lost his life. Since then he had been in hospital for months, and was now mixed up in some dodgy inquiry at the ministry, filling in time until he was fit for battle again. That would be a few more months yet, if rumour was correct.

Hell and damnation, she thought. And when he’s back on duty, what then? Presumably in February. What would happen then?