Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

Fischer bit her lip, looked down at her hands which were clasped in her lap, and squirmed again.

‘I thought there was something going on,’ she said eventually. ‘Yes, when I look back now, I really did think so.’

‘You know that she was married?’ Jung asked.

‘Of course.’

‘But you don’t think it’s out of the question that… that she’d met a doctor at Rumford she’d fallen for?’

Fallen for? he thought. I’m talking like an actor in a B-movie. But so what?

‘I don’t know,’ she said with a shrug. ‘How the hell could I know that? It was just what she said… And the way she said it.’

‘And it never cropped up again?’ Moreno asked. ‘No more insinuations like that, for instance?’

‘No,’ said Fischer. ‘None at all. That’s why I said it was a throwaway remark.’

Jung thought for a while.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Many thanks for your cooperation. You can get on with your work now.’

Edita Fischer thanked them, and left. Jung stood up and walked twice around the room. Then sat down again.

‘Well,’ said Moreno. ‘That was that. What do you think?’

‘Think?’ said Jung. ‘I know what we have to do next, in any case. A hundred new doctors. We’ll have enough work to keep us going until Christmas… But I suppose we have to be grateful that we’re not left twiddling our thumbs.’

‘Thus spake a real police officer,’ said Moreno.

It was twenty minutes to three when he left the Spaarkasse branch in Keymer Plejn with almost a quarter of a million in his pockets. They’d looked a bit doubtful when he’d said that he wanted the whole amount in cash. It was a deal to buy a boat, he’d explained… An eccentric seller who insisted on having ready cash. Otherwise there would be no deal.

He wondered if they’d swallowed it. Maybe, maybe not. But it didn’t matter either way. The main thing was that he had the money. When it was time to pay off the loan, he would be nowhere near Maardam. Not even on the extreme edge of nearness. Exactly where in the world he would be, he didn’t know yet. There were only twelve hours to go before the money was due to be handed over, and he still didn’t have a strategy.

I’m too calm, he thought as he clambered into his car. I’ve taken too many pills, they’re making me dozy.

He took the usual route to Boorkhejm. The mild weather from yesterday was holding its own, and he drove unusually slowly since it had struck him that this might be the last time he would ever make this trip. Which he had made thousands of times… Yes, it must be thousands. It was nearly fifteen years since he’d moved into the modern terraced house with Marianne, and now he was going to leave it. It was high time, too.

It really was high time.

Perhaps it was the low speed and the feeling of making this journey for the last time that made him notice the scooter.

An ordinary, red scooter parked outside one of the doors to the block of flats just before the row of terraced houses where he lived. No more than twenty-five metres from his own house, in fact.

A red scooter.

The realization came to him in a flash. The scooter.

The scooter.

He parked on the drive to his garage as usual. Got out of the car and started walking slowly back along the street. Thoughts were exploding like fireworks inside his head, and he had to apply all his strength to prevent himself from stopping and staring at the vehicle, which was glittering in the pale sunshine.

He walked past it. Continued to the kiosk and bought a newspaper. Passed by the magical two-wheeler again and returned to his house. Glanced over his shoulder and discovered that he could in fact see it from where he was standing. On the drive, next to his car. He thought for a moment, then tried to see if he could see it just as well from inside the car.

He couldn’t, not really: but after backing out into the street, turning round and reversing up the drive, he found he had a perfectly good view from the driver’s seat. He remembered that he possessed a pair of binoculars, went in and fetched them.

Sat down in the car again, but before starting his surveillance in earnest he got out and made another trip to the kiosk. Bought two beers that he knew he would never drink, paused briefly outside the block of flats and memorized the registration number.

Then he sat down in the car with the binoculars. Sat there on guard for forty-five minutes and tried to think if there could be any doubt. To examine the conclusions he’d drawn in the space of only a few seconds, and which felt as definite as an axiom.

Everything fitted. A scooter had passed by that evening. It had been on the way to Boorkhejm. He had already worked out that the blackmailer must be somebody who recognized him, who knew who he was.. The answer was quite simply that it must be a neighbour. Not somebody he spoke to every day — in any case, the only people in that category were his neighbours on both sides: herr Landtberg and the Kluumes.

But somebody in the block of flats.

There were only three floors. There couldn’t be more than ten or a dozen flats. Three entrances. And a red scooter outside the door nearest to his own house.

It was as clear as day. Boorkhejm was not a large housing estate, and people knew one another. Or recognized one another, at least. He doubted if there were any other scooters around here. The fact that he’d never seen this one before — or at any rate not noticed it — must be due to the fact that the owner normally parked it at the rear of the building. He realized that his opponent must not be aware that his vehicle could give him away: if he was, it seemed implausible that he would be so careless today of all days, and leave it out in full view.

Today of all days. When there were only a few hours left.

He checked his watch. Just turned four. Eleven hours left.

He felt he had goose pimples on his arms.

Felt that a strategy was beginning to take form.

Three-quarters of an hour. That is how long he sat in the car, waiting and planning. Then the owner emerged. The owner of the red scooter. In the binoculars his face seemed to be only a few metres from his own. A cheerless, very ordinary face. About his own age. He recognized him.

A member of staff in the prosthesis workshops at the hospital. He seemed to recall having spoken to him once, but they never used to greet each other.

He couldn’t remember the man’s name. But that was irrelevant. His strategy evolved at record speed. The goose pimples were still there.

The dinner with Marlene Frey was quite a tense occasion to begin with. Van Veeteren noticed that she was on edge when he opened the door for her, and his clumsy attempts to make her feel welcome didn’t exactly improve matters.

Ulrike was perhaps a little more successful in this respect, but it was only when Marlene burst into tears halfway through the soup that the ice was well and truly broken.

‘Damn,’ she snivelled. ‘I thought I’d be able to cope, but I can’t. Please forgive me.’

While she was in the bathroom Van Veeteren drank two glasses of wine, and Ulrike observed him with a worried expression on her face.

‘I miss him so much,’ said Marlene when she came back. ‘I realize that you do as well, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I miss him so much, I’m scared I’m going out of my mind.’

She stared at Van Veeteren with her inadequately spruced-up eyes. Unable to think up anything better, he stared back at her — then walked round the table and gave her a big hug. It wasn’t easy as she was sitting down, but as he did so he felt something inside himself loosening its grip.

A clenched fist letting go. Releasing him. Remarkable, he thought.